Chapter Text
“There you go.” There’s a light slap as pictures are tossed across your desk. The thick bundle hits your keyboard, leaving a very compelling gjhkhi behind on your article about the city’s waste.
You glance up and cut Peter a glare. “Seriously?”
He grimaces slightly. “Sorry,” he mutters. He rocks back on his heels; the apology feels hollow as he grins and nods toward the pictures. “Got some pretty good ones last week.”
Your eyes narrow as you shrug. “Okay, go give them to Jonah, then.” You watch as his face falls and the tiniest inkling of guilt settles in you. “Oh, fine, Parker,” you huff, ignoring his smug smile as you reach for the pictures.
You lean back in your chair, making a show of looking through the photos so he’ll let you get back to your article. They are objectively amazing.
They're better shots of the web-slinging menace than any other photographer manages to get. Peter’s told you before that the majority of the time he’s standing on a fire escape or roof ledge when he sees Spider-Man.
But… you can almost see the individual threads of Spider-Man’s suit in some of these. “What sort of camera do you use?” you mutter, eyes narrowing as you bring the picture closer to your face. “I mean, it looks like you were a foot away from him here—”
“Oh, really, lemme see that real quick.” You let out a shocked noise as Peter snatches the picture from your hand.
“Parker,” you admonish, glaring up at him. His brows furrow as he stares down at the photo before he crumples it up and shoves it in his pocket. “What— that was the best one!”
“Nah,” he shakes his head, quickly taking the rest of the pictures from you. “Wasn’t even that good. I should go give these to Jonah now.” The words rush out of him in one jumbled sentence as he shoots you an awkward smile and practically runs away from your desk.
You push back in your chair, peering around your cubicle, and watch as he trips over a wastebasket in his haste to get away from you.
“Fuh-reak,” you mutter under your breath. Peter pauses, and you swear his shoulders tense for a moment before he goes into Jonah’s office.
Shaking your head, you let out a small sigh and force yourself to refocus on your article. But all you can really do is stare down at your keyboard, your mind still running circles around that interaction.
It’s not like any of your conversations with Peter are ever objectively “normal.” He’s really a ridiculous combination of being awkward and suave in a bullied-nerd-who-got-muscles sort of way. Which isn’t very smooth at all. But it’s a unique blend that is wholly Peter and annoyingly endearing.
Still…
You lift your head, glancing back into Jonah’s office. He’s going through the pictures now, the same look of confusion on his face as he glares at Peter. They really are good shots.
Bizarrely good.
Whatever…
You’re not going to figure out what Parker’s problem is today, and you really don’t have the time. Huffing, you force yourself to return to your computer and finish your article.
A knock sounds on your door, followed by a muffled voice: “Pizza time!” Your brows furrow as you glance over. Do they usually announce themselves?
Shaking your head, you get off your couch and jog toward the door. When you open it, the delivery man is ducking his head to the side, chin tucked down. Your eyes narrow as you glare at the side of his head. As much as it seems like he’s trying to hide his face from you, you recognize that messy hair anywhere.
“Parker?”
His shoulders jump, and he looks over at you, faux surprise dawning on his face. “Oh, hey you.” He glances up and down the hallway, his voice slightly pitchy. “Is this your place?”
You bite back a grin as you scoff at him. “You deliver pizzas now? I thought you were a photographer.”
His expression goes flat. “Do you know how expensive studios are in Queens?”
You purse your lips. “...Fair enough,” you mutter.
“Alright, well— oh shoot,” you pat your pockets. “I don’t have my wallet.” You begin to step back to grab it when Peter moves closer.
He props his hip against your doorframe, playing it casual. “Well, you could always pay another way.” Your eyes go wide, and you know that he doesn’t mean it that way, but that smirk on his face and his posture really aren’t helping him right now.
“Um…”
“Oh,” he moves away from your door immediately as he realizes how that sounded. “Oh no, that came out wrong. I meant like— a check or something, I don’t know.”
You can’t help but laugh at his expense. He smiles at that, cheeks slightly flushed. “Come in,” you tell him, opening your door wider. “I just gotta grab my purse.”
“Sounds good.” You should get an award for biting back another laugh at his strained voice. He lingers in your entranceway, rocking back on his heels. It’s like he’s never been in a girl’s apartment before.
That would actually explain a lot about him.
Shaking your head, you move over to your coffee table. Grabbing your purse, you turn just in time to see him putting the pizza on your counter. The collar of his jacket shifts, and you spot a purple bruise on his throat. Is that…
A hickey?
Parker has a girlfriend?
Your face falls. Oh. Parker has a girlfriend.
You’re slightly surprised. You figured he would have told you. You’re… proud of him? You don’t really know; you didn’t think he had it in him, honestly.
And you’re definitely not disappointed at all.
Definitely not.
Clearing your throat, you walk back over to him with the cash in your hand. “Uh, here.” You hold it out awkwardly, and he turns to you with a small smile. Just as he reaches for it, you jerk it back, eyes narrowing as you lean closer toward his throat.
He doesn’t back up, but you can see the surprise on his face as he stares down at you. “Um…”
That is not a hickey. Not unless his girlfriend knows how to unhinge her jaw.
“How did that happen?” you mutter, reaching up as if you might poke it. An unfortunate instinct of yours whenever someone around you has a bruise.
Peter jumps back, his hand coming up to clamp around his neck. “Um,” he offers you a bashful shrug. “A date.”
You do not like how that makes you feel. You really shouldn’t care if Peter goes on dates.
“Oh.” You nod your head, trying to play your reaction off. “Someone needs to teach her what hickeys are supposed to look like.”
His brows furrow, eyes widening before he rapidly shakes his head. “No, uh, not a date, date. I’m single. I’m not dating anyone.” There’s a heavy emphasis on anyone that makes you laugh. You try to ignore his answering smile. “I mean, like the fruit date.”
“Date the fruit?” Your eyes dip down to the giant bruise stretching along his throat. “Did that?”
“Yeah, I’m allergic.” He really doesn’t sound like he believes himself.
“I have never seen an allergic reaction like that,” you tell him, crossing your arms.
Offense breaks through his expression as he scoffs. “Are you saying my allergies aren’t valid?”
“What— No, Parker—” you throw your hands up with a huff. But he’s already backing away toward your door.
“Have a good night,” he calls, rushing out of your apartment. You chase him to the doorway, but he’s already booking it down the hall.
“The money!” You shout after him, waving the cash in the air.
“It’s on the house,” he calls over his shoulder, not even looking back at you.
You slump against your doorway with a disappointed sigh. “Weirdo,” you whisper. You grimace as he trips over someone’s package in the hall. Wincing, you shake your head, turning back to your apartment.
What the hell is his problem?
It’s really risky running any errands before you have to go into the office. New York, especially Queens, is an amazing magnet for trouble. Which means missing your Subway could be because you overslept or because some asshole decided making a robot with a brain was a good idea, and now it’s rampaging.
There are also the minor criminals who just like wreaking havoc in general.
So, after living here for as long as you have, you really should have known better than to try to go to the bank this morning. That should have just been an after-work activity.
But really, who robs a bank at eight in the morning? That’s just a ridiculous time to rob a bank, in your opinion.
Not that the man with the automatic pointing at your face really cares about your opinion.
Lying face-first on the floor, you have your hands crossed over the back of your head. You wonder if the cops are coming or if you’re going to have to rely on some masked freak to save you. Honestly, you’re getting sick of the vigilantism here. It just seems to encourage these jackasses.
“Everybody stay down!” one of them barks, combat boots pacing in front of you.
You risk a glance up and see that his back is to you. Uncrossing your hands, you check your watch.
Damn, Jameson is going to give you hell for this.
“Ooh, very original. Haven’t heard that one before.” Your entire body tenses as you look to your right. Christ.
There’s the weirdo in red and blue spandex.
The man in front of you whips around. The guy behind him raises his gun in alarm. There’s a strange thwip-ing noise, and then a web knocks the gun from his hand. Steps are rushing at you before you can really process what’s happening.
With a yelp, you’re dragged to your feet, your back pressed to the chest of the man behind you. Something cold and metal bites into your temple, and your entire body goes still. Your eyes lift, meeting the white lenses of Spider-Man's mask.
It would be ridiculous to say that masks can emote; objectively, they can’t. But you would swear there’s something strange that passes across his body language.
“Oh.” He clears his throat, casually leaning against the teller booth beside him. “Hey,” he nods.
Your lips part in surprise as the body of the man tenses behind you. Your brows furrow as you look up, but the guy holding you hostage seems just as confused. “Uh, hi... Gun.”
“What?”
“Gun,” you remind him, eyes attempting to point toward the muzzle pressed against your head.
He shrugs, “What gun?” Again, that thwip noise, and then you feel it. The weight that jerks away from your side. The gun drops to the floor and slides toward Spider-Man. The man behind you lets out a choked noise.
Before you can even blink, you’re being shoved forward as he makes a run for the back. You let out a little grunt, but there are arms wrapping around you before you can hit the floor. Your hands land on the strange, textured material of Spider-Man’s suit.
You tense as your palms squeeze his arms. For balance.
Although... he has surprisingly nice biceps.
That suit really doesn’t do him any favors; you thought he’d be scrawny, maybe gangly. You’re really thinking about this way too much.
“You good?”
You look up and find Spider-Man staring down at you. “Um, yeah,” you let out a strangled hum before forcing yourself to back off. “You should probably go get that guy,” you whisper.
“Right.” His hands awkwardly pat your shoulders as he steps back. “Right, yep.” He takes off running, but turns around before he gets out the door. “Stay!” He points at you before rushing off into the alley behind the bank.
You stand in the middle of the bank, the other hostages still on the ground around you. “What the hell?” You mutter, staring at the spot Spider-Man had been standing.
“It’s Queens,” an old man grunts beside you, slowly getting to his feet.
You guess that’s an explanation enough.
It takes about five minutes for you to hear the sirens come roaring down the street. You grimace as you think of how much longer being interviewed is going to take. You’re already over an hour late.
It’d be a wonder if Jameson didn’t just fire you on the spot.
Taking a quick look over your shoulder, you make sure no one is watching as you run through the back exit Spider-Man had taken. You keep a wary eye on the situation in the bank as you softly close the door behind you.
Glancing down at your watch, you let out another irritated huff. “God dammit.”
“Didn’t I tell you to stay?”
Your shoulders jerk as you look up. Spider-Man is perched on the fire escape above you. Looking to the left, you see the man who’d taken you hostage, webbed to the brick wall. There’s a fresh bruise on his cheek. You guess he put up a fight.
“Yeah,” you snip. “Like a dog, actually.”
There’s a muffled laugh behind the mask as he jumps down from the fire exit. You jerk back, but he lands gracefully on his feet. Crossing his arms, he leans against the dumpster beside you both.
Your nose wrinkles as you glance at the brown liquid dripping from the lid. He seems to notice at the same time as you, quickly pushing away and wiping at his suit.
“Are you always like this?” you ask.
His masked stare whips over to you. “What?”
“A mess,” you clarify, brushing past him. You pause slightly as you glance at the webbed assailant still on the wall. He lets out a muffled groan behind the sticky webbing on his mouth, his feet kicking futilely.
“Shouldn’t you be interviewing people?” Spider-Man calls out behind you. Your steps freeze as you frown.
Slowly, you turn back around to face him. “What?” Your voice is quiet as you give him a wary stare.
“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?” he points out, motioning toward the bank.
Unease tightens your chest as you take a careful step back. “How do you know that?”
“Uh,” he clears his throat and points at your chest. You follow his gaze and feel heat rush to your cheeks. Your hand clamps around your Daily Bugle ID. You’d forgotten you’d already put your lanyard on this morning.
“Right, sorry,” you mutter. You look back up at him, prepared to dismiss yourself and run to work. But then your eyes dart back over to the criminal, Spider-Man, and this very nicely isolated alleyway you’ve found yourself in.
Surely, Jameson would forgive a little lateness if you managed to get an exclusive with the neighborhood vigilante.
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing. Spider-Man tenses under your stare; you can see the way his shoulders go taut. “Uh, actually—”
He shakes his head, holding his hands up. “No. No, I don’t do interviews.”
“Seriously?” you huff. “I’m already going to be late. You’d be doing me a huge favor.”
There’s a brief pause as he stares over at you. “Was saving your life not enough of a favor?”
You cast your eyes toward the criminal before shaking your head. “Nah, come on, that type of thing is every day for you. Look, my boss is going to kill me—”
“You were held hostage!” he argues, voice taking on a slightly shrill pitch.
“Trust me, that means absolutely nothing to J. Jonah Jameson.”
Spider-Man pauses, and you swear you feel something like judgment in his stare. “Why’d you say his whole name?”
“Dude!” You snap. “Look, I am not going to be able to get to the subway in time and—”
“I can give you a ride.”
Your face falls, and he seems to stumble over himself. Like he hadn’t meant to say that. “What does that mean?”
You used to say that you would do anything for a good story. But you’re really starting to reconsider that ideology.
“Oh, my godohmygod!”
You’re going to look back on this and be embarrassed about the way you conducted yourself. But right now, your legs and arms are wrapped so tight around Spider-Man’s torso it’s a wonder he can still breathe. Your face is buried in his neck because if you open your eyes and see the city as a blur beneath you, you’re going to retch on him.
“It’s fun when you get used to it,” Spider-Man shouts over the wind rushing past you.
You feel the dip, your stomach flipping as he lets go of one web. And then you’re going right back up as he shoots another one. “Fun?” you screech, somehow climbing further up his body.
You hear a slight wheeze. “You— you’re crushing me.”
“Good,” you bite out, eyes clenched painfully tight. “This isn’t what I thought when you said ride.”
There’s a slight scoff. “It’s not like I’ve got a taxi cab.”
You groan, your chest tightening, stomach twisted into knots as you bite back your nausea. “Should have just taken one,” you mumble into his suit.
There is a very sarcastic and unappreciated “Well, you wanted an exclusive,” in your ear. And you would say something snarky back if you weren’t five seconds away from passing out. A noise leaves your throat.
You won’t admit that you whimpered.
But there’s no taking it back.
The arm around your waist squeezes a little tighter as you suck in a shaky breath. “Um, you’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
“Now he asks,” you snap.
“That’s on me,” Spider-Man concedes, and you can only hum. It’s a wonder that you haven’t managed to worm your way under his suit with how you’re clinging to him. “In my defense, you had a gun to your head ten minutes ago, and you were fine.”
“Oh,” you gasp; the audacity is enough to make you jerk back, glaring at his masked face. “That is so different.”
“Really?” He drawls, unimpressed. Your brows furrow in offended shock. But then there’s a slight jolt, and your stomach begins to settle as your center of gravity is restored. Surprised, you glance down to see you’re standing on a roof.
“Oh,” you mutter.
Spider-Man stands there with his arms hanging at his sides. “Um…”
You look back at him and realize you’re still completely wrapped around him. You try to jump back, your legs slipping from his waist. But you’re still nauseatingly shaky from the “ride” over. His hands reach out, taking hold of your elbows as you find your balance again.
“Right.” You look over at him, prepared to thank him. But the adrenaline of this morning is catching up to you. Your stomach twists dangerously, and you gasp, just barely turning away from him as your breakfast comes up.
“Oh!” he jerks back as you lean over, hands braced on your knees. Gloved hands move clumsily around your face, pulling your hair back before you throw up into it.
You’ll die of mortification later.
Right now, your hand is pressed to your stomach, your back bowing uncomfortably as the contents of your stomach are forced up.
On the roof.
Right by Spider-Man’s face.
You kind of want that gun back against your head.
It takes a minute for you to feel comfortable enough to nod. Slowly, his hands release your hair, backing off. “Oh my god,” you whisper, wiping your mouth. You can’t straighten up and look at the man behind you.
You really just can’t.
There is a brief, very awkward pat on your shoulder. “Feel better?”
“Mhm,” you hum, forcing yourself to stand up straight.
He lets out a low chuckle, and you grimace. “You really are afraid of heights.”
You swallow down the acid in your throat and turn toward him on shaky legs. “Deathly,” you admit. “Well, um, thank you,” you tell him awkwardly.
You’re trying really hard not to acknowledge the vomit beside you both, and you can tell he is too. The white lenses of his mask pointed very firmly at you.
“Anytime,” he tells you. Your brows furrow as he holds up two finger guns, pointing them at you. You glance back up at his mask, and his hands drop quickly to his sides. “Well, good luck with J. Jonah Jameson.”
“Thanks,” you mutter. “And, um, sorry.” He just nods, and you jump back with a gasp as he drops from the ledge of the roof.
Rushing back toward it, you peer over the edge. The seven-story drop swims as you stare down at it. You have to push back before you get sick again. And then you see him, swinging up around the side of the building, disappearing from view a minute later.
With a deep breath, you turn toward the door and try the handle. It doesn’t budge. With wide eyes, you stare down at the knob and tug at it harshly. “Shit,” you hiss.
Locked.
A loud and reluctant groan tears through your chest as you have no choice but to turn toward the fire escape instead. You keep your eyes firmly ahead of you as you go down the stairs. Your nails bite into your palms as you try not to look down.
As you try not to acknowledge that you are, once again, being forced to go up against your greatest enemy: heights.
It feels like an hour, but you know you’re being dramatic. It probably only takes two minutes for you to find your floor. You dip your head, glancing into the office. Most everyone is at their desks, with their backs to you.
You would knock, but the windows are heavily reinforced and thick. A precaution against all the constant attacks on New York’s infrastructure.
Then, you see a messy head of hair stepping out of the elevator. If you’re lucky, you might be able to catch his attention. You wave your hands desperately, trying to get Peter to notice you. “Come on, Parker,” you hiss.
His brows furrow and his head turns toward you. Your eyes go wide, your expression desperate as you motion him over. There is obvious disbelief on his face, and you can practically hear him laughing at you as he grins.
He reaches for the window latch, and then it slides open. “How—”
“No questions,” you mutter. “Get me off this,” you hiss, eagerly climbing off the fire escape. Peter’s hands drop to your waist; his touch is light as he guides you over the stacks of papers blocking the floor in front of the window.
You trip a little, palms wrapping around his arms as you catch yourself. He’s surprisingly sturdy under you— probably just his jacket. “Whew,” you let out a deep breath.
“You good?” Something about the way he says that makes your brows furrow. A little spark of familiarity. But you’re probably still disoriented from this morning.
You pat his shoulders as you back up. “Thanks for that, Parker.”
He shakes his head, gaze darting from you to the window. “How?”
“First, do you have gum or anything?” You ask, backing up and covering your mouth. His brows furrow. “I kind of threw up. On the roof.”
“What—”
“Gum, Parker, for everyone’s sake.” He lets out an indignant huff before patting his pockets. God finally seems to take some mercy on you today, as he finds a piece handing it over.
“Now, are you gonna tell me?”
You let out a rough sigh and lean back against the wall. “Okay, so I went to the bank this morning, and there was this whole robbery thing.” You wave your hand flippantly, despite the alarm on his face. “Anyway, guess who shows up?”
“The cops?” he tries, dry.
“No,” you glare over at him. “The spandex-ed weirdo himself, Spider-Man.”
“Weirdo?” he mutters, but you brush past that.
“Anyway, he comes in, saves me,” you admit, slightly reluctant. “And… Well, you know, he’s not really what I expected him to be like.”
“Oh?” Peter’s brows rise. He clears his throat, shifting slightly. “What was he like?”
“I mean,” you shrug. “He’s kind of just a guy.” Peter frowns at that. “Just a guy in a suit. But he was sort of funny,” you admit, smiling despite yourself.
“Hm, really?” Peter clears his throat. “Wouldn’t have thought that.”
Your eyes narrow over at him. “You’re being weird,” you tell him. His face falls at that as he watches you. “Anyway,” you shake your head; you should be used to Parker being weird by now. “I know that I’m kind of anti-vigilante, but… he was pretty nice. Especially after I almost threw up on him.”
You grimace thinking about it, and Peter laughs lightly. “Still doesn’t explain why you were on the fire escape.”
“He dropped me off on the roof, and the freaking door was locked,” you complain. “It’s bad enough he swung me through half the city; then I had to deal with the fire escape.”
He chuckles, “Really not a fan of heights, huh?”
Your lips turn down, head tilting as you take him in. “No,” you say slowly. You don’t know why that struck you as odd, but the cadence of his voice throws you off. “Um, anyway, you know your pictures don’t really do him justice.”
“He’s a masked vigilante; how could they?”
“Well… He’s,” you struggle for the word, hands fumbling in the air between you. “More muscle-y than you make him look.”
Peter's brows shoot up as he scoffs, leaning closer to you. “Muscle-y, huh?”
“Shut up, Parker,” you mutter, brushing past him as you move toward your desk. But he’s like a dog with a bone, eagerly catching up with you.
“No, no, I’d love to hear more about our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man’s muscles.” You let out an annoyed groan as you throw yourself into your chair. You cut him a glare, but he’s leaning against your cubicle, grinning.
“Look, my entire body was wrapped around him while he was swinging through Queens. I had no choice but to notice that he was… ripped.” Peter clears his throat, shuffling as you watch him actively bite back laughter. “Oh, screw you, Peter.”
“No, no, I’m sorry.” He holds his hands up, but you can hear the amusement in his tone. “It’s perfectly normal for you to have a little crush. He did save you—”
“Okay,” you stop him with an annoyed look. “I did not say I have a crush. Realizing that he has muscles is like noting that I have breasts.” His eyes widen at that, and you smirk. “It is a completely objective observation.”
“Right,” he clears his throat, voice slightly strangled. “Breasts, muscles, same thing.”
Your eyes narrow as you watch him flush. Deciding to spare him, you change the subject. “Anyway, why are you here? You never come in before noon.”
Peter’s eyes widen slightly as he backs away from your cubicle. “Oh, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck and lets out a breathy laugh. “Right, well, I was just in the neighborhood, you know? Um, I should actually give these to Jameson.”
Your brows furrow as he pats his pockets, his photos presumably inside. “I don’t get a sneak peek today?” you tease.
“Gotta keep you on your toes,” he tells you, brushing by.
“See ya, Parker,” you call over your shoulder, turning on your computer. He doesn’t say anything, and you shake your head with a small laugh. He is so awkward.
You can’t even say breasts around him.
Snorting, you force yourself to focus on your work.
“We need ideas, people! Something new, something fresh!” Jameson paces through the conference room, sleeves rolled up, cheeks flushed with anger. His perpetual state of being.
You’ve been quiet in this meeting. He’d already chewed you out enough for being late. You don’t feel like pitching an idea he hates and being on the receiving end of another rant.
“Well… I heard that Daredevil is being active in Hell’s Kitchen again.”
You grimace on behalf of your fellow victim as Jameson slowly turns. “Do you think that Daredevil is new?” He bites out, voice low and slow. You inch your chair to the right, trying to put space between you and the blast radius.
“This is what I’m talking about!” He shouts, slamming his hands down on the table. “You give me stories of vigilantes. The villains of the week. But there is nothing new! Nothing fresh! We need a different perspective.”
Your brows furrow as you stare down at the blank pages of your notebook. “I talked to Spider-Man,” you suddenly blurt out.
The room goes disturbingly quiet as all eyes turn toward you. You clear your throat, grimacing as Jameson faces you. “The webslinger?” he demands, and he says the name like it's a slur.
You start carefully, “I know that you don’t like him.” Jameson lets out a sharp scoff, but you keep going. “But I had a personal interaction with him after the bank robbery this morning. We tell stories about vigilantes, yeah, and we get second-hand accounts. But we’ve never had a one-on-one interview.”
“And how do you suggest we get one?” Another reporter asks, shooting you an unimpressed look. “Let you get taken hostage again?”
Jameson tilts his head, considering. “No,” he finally bites out. “No, too costly.” You scoff; he doesn’t even care about the fact that you would be in a hostage situation.
“Well, I mean, there is one person who seems to have direct access to him.” The room is quiet again, and you let out a rough sigh. “Seriously, guys? Parker,” you remind them.
“Think about the angles he gets on some of those shots. I know what he says: right time and right place. But that’s a lot of coincidences and a lot of luck for a guy like Peter Parker.”
One of the other journalists lets out a sharp scoff. “Even if he does have an inside look at Spider-Man, why would he tell any of us? Clearly, he doesn’t trust anyone here. I mean, what are you gonna do, date Parker to get the scoop?”
Your heart skips a beat at the thought.
Dating Parker… That really doesn’t sound that bad.
But then guilt is immediately shriveling up in your chest. Dating him with an ulterior motive, however, does sound bad.
“Can you imagine?” Someone laughs.
“I’m pretty sure he’s still a virgin.” There’s a sharp snort, and then the whole room is chuckling at Peter’s expense. You grimace, shifting uncomfortably in your chair.
“He’s not that bad,” you defend weakly.
The laughter slows, and you can feel the stares burning into the side of your head. “Christ, don’t tell me you’re into him?”
“I really don’t think that’s anyone’s business,” you snap, your voice leaving no room for argument as you cut the other man a glare. “And I think you’re conducting yourself in an incredibly unprofessional manner.”
The quiet is awkward now, tense because you’ve rained on their parade. Whatever, they’re a bunch of assholes anyway. Most journalists are… with a few exceptions.
Jameson hasn’t taken his eyes off you, and it has you shifting in your chair, struggling to avoid his intense stare.
“Alright, everyone out!” He barks. When they don’t move, he waves his hands. Suddenly, they’re scrambling to their feet, grabbing their notebooks.
You try to do the same, but then he calls your name. “You stay,” he tells you.
Someone brushes past you, whispering, “Ooooh.”
Children.
With a rough sigh, you pull out a chair and take a seat again. Jameson stands above you, arms crossed as his glare sharpens. “You had a good point.”
“Sorry?” you mutter, nails idly drumming against your notebook.
“About Parker. He’s annoying, so I try not to interact with him much. But you’re right, he does have good access to Spider-Man. As much as I despise the web-slinging menace, what other newspaper can say they get exclusive interviews with him?”
His brows raise as he lets out a low chuckle. Dread settles in your gut as you watch him concoct a plan in his head. “Alright, I want you to see what Parker has on him.”
“How would I do that?” you scoff.
He tilts his head with a patronizing look. “Get close to him,” he tells you, his tone condescending. “However you have to.”
Your brows furrow as you stare at him. Silence lingers between you before you whisper, “Are you telling me to date him?”
“What? No!” He throws his hands up. “That would be unethical,” he scolds, jabbing his finger toward your face. “I cannot tell you to do that. I can, however, encourage you to do whatever it takes to get this article. If that has something to do with enticing Parker… Well, that’s your choice.”
“Sir,” you start, letting out an awkward laugh as your fingers dig into the papers of your notebook. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.”
Jameson rolls his eyes. “Then get comfortable with this: Your articles have been lacking recently. You’re hardly contributing to the paper anymore. Now, you’re showing up to work late. Either you get me something good, or you’re done,” he snaps.
Your breathing picks up as your eyes widen, your stare burning into the table. “Understood?” Slowly, you nod your head. “Alright, out,” he snaps. You’re in a daze as you push away from the table, blindly making your way to your desk and falling into your chair.
Can he do that?
Probably not. But who’s going to stop him?
You spin your pen between your fingers, staring blankly at the computer in front of you. It’s not like dating Peter would be a punishment. You like him.
You have since you first met him. He was cute and awkward, holding the elevator open for you because you were nearly late on your first day.
And then, just the way he talked to you made you feel better. Less stressed. Less worried.
You would jump at the chance to date him if you were given the opportunity. So it’s not like you would be forcing yourself.
Then why does this feel so wrong?
You reach blindly for your phone, and you don’t even think as you dial his number. It rings twice before he picks up. “Hey, what’s up?” he sounds slightly breathless, but you ignore that.
“Do you want to get drinks with me tonight?” You don’t even mean it as a date. But Parker is about the only friend that you have, and you need a moment away from the office, your apartment… just everything.
He goes quiet for a moment before letting out a strange-sounding noise. “Yeah— Yes. I do. That sounds… nice.”
“Right,” you drawl, frowning as he fumbles through his answer. “There’s a bar a block from the Bugle. Josie’s. Meet me there?”
“Yeah, okay.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you chew your nail, your foot tapping beneath your desk as anxiety curls tighter in your chest. “Are you okay?” he asks, and his voice is so soft it just makes you feel worse.
“Yeah,” you blurt out; your tone is hardly believable. “Yeah, I just, uh, need a break, I guess.”
“...Alright,” he finally agrees. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Bye.” You grimace as you hang up.
You have never, in your life, had a more awkward call. And you know it was all you. What Jameson said to you, the entire meeting— it’s just eating away at you.
You did not mean that as a date.
You are not using Peter Parker.
But he’s your friend, and you just want to talk to your friend right now.
Feeling eyes burning into you, you turn. Jameson’s standing a few feet from your desk. He nods his head once before returning to his office. You wait until his door is closed to let out a low groan, your head falling against your desk.
You already have a beer in front of you, your elbows sticking to the bar as your head hangs between your shoulders. It’s just a shitty little dive bar, hardly an intimate environment. But the lights are dim, and the music is being played softly. You glance around the bar and grimace.
You are not using Peter Parker.
You scrub your hands down your face with a low groan, letting yourself fall back against the chair. The bell rings above the door, and you tilt your head slightly. Peter walks through, eyes scanning the room. You can see the way they light up when they land on you, and feel a smile growing in response.
He walks over to you, and your eyes narrow as you notice his hair. It’s messy; it always is, but this feels more like a… choice? Shaking your head, you stand up. You don’t typically hug Parker. You’re not really physically affectionate.
But you just really need some comfort for a moment. So you open up your arms and watch as he freezes, eyes widening slightly. Then he steps into it. But his hands hover awkwardly at your sides while you wrap yours around his shoulders.
“Hi,” you mutter into his shirt. He smells nicer than usual.
He lets out a small laugh, and you feel his arms finally move. They wrap lightly around your waist, pulling you further into his chest. “Hey.” You swallow when you realize that this has probably lasted too long.
Stepping back, you offer an awkward smile, not able to meet his eyes.
What the fuck was that?
“You smell nice,” you blurt out, forcing yourself back into your seat. He slides onto the stool beside you as the blood drains from your face.
What the fuck was that? Jesus Christ, why did you say that?
Peter clears his throat and shrugs. “Just trying a new cologne.”
“Oh,” you mumble, turning toward the bar as you stare down at the counter. This has already gone so wrong in ten different ways. This was a horrible idea—
“Hey.” His hand lands softly on your shoulder, and you jump. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
You hate how perceptive he is sometimes. “It’s nothing, just Jameson being an ass as usual.” You let out a self-deprecating laugh and shrug. “It’s fine.”
He doesn’t seem to believe you, head tilting as his eyes narrow. “What’s up?”
You bite your lip. You could tell him. You probably should, because if you don’t get the story, Jameson will send someone else after him. But you invited Peter here as a friend, and you don’t want him to spend the rest of the night thinking about ulterior motives.
“Nothing, really. Just chewed me out for being late today,” not a complete lie. He did chew you out. “I just called you because… I don’t know,” your gaze darts to the side. “I guess you’re the person I want to talk to after a bad day.”
Your chest tightens at the admission, and you freeze up. That was too much.
“Yeah?” You can hear his smile without even looking at him.
You pinch the bridge of your nose and groan, sneaking a look at him. “Shut up,” you mutter, no bite to the words.
“What?” he laughs and holds his hands up. “I didn’t say anything.”
You shake your head and reach for your beer. “Yeah, I did. Like an idiot.” Peter goes quiet, and you frown, looking over at him. He’s staring down at the bar, brows furrowed, and you can practically see the cogs in his head turning.
“It’s not stupid,” he tells you. He lifts his head, and you suck in a sharp breath at the look in his eyes. “I mean, I always want to call you when I’ve had a bad day. I just— I never thought you felt the same.”
You put your beer down, frowning. “Peter, we’re friends. Of course you can call me,” you scold. You reach over, nudging his shoulder. “What are you talking about?”
He rolls his eyes and shoots you a flat look. “You call me Parker, and you give me hell constantly. About literally anything I do.” You shift uncomfortably in your seat; something like guilt settles against your chest. “How was I supposed to know how you felt?”
“I mean—” You shrug, clueless, as you shake your head. How does he think you feel?
What do you want him to think you feel?
“It’s embarrassing to admit this. I mean, I’m an adult.” You suck in a deep breath and force yourself to meet his eyes. “You’re my only friend, Peter. So, I’m sorry if sometimes I’m… a bitch.”
“What?” His eyes fly open, and he shakes his head vigorously. “No! No, that is not how I meant that,” he desperately clarifies.
“I wasn’t— you’re not a bitch. Don’t say that,” he admonishes. You let out a startled laugh at the horror in his expression.
“Sorry,” you tease. You can’t help but smile as you watch him come down from the panic. “Do you want to clarify, maybe?”
He gives you a flat look that has you snickering at his expense. A small smile tugs at his lips as he shakes his head. “I just meant I didn’t think you felt like this,” he says, motioning between you, and you frown.
Slowly, Peter leans back from you, his eyes narrowing. “Wait.” He swallows roughly as he stares at you. “Oh, this isn’t a date, is it?”
Your stomach drops as you look at him. Your hand jerks at the question, accidentally sending your beer toppling. Peter reaches out, catching it before it can spill on your purse. You whip back toward him.
Incredible reflexes for a man who trips on anything within a two-mile radius of him.
“Um, did you think it was?”
He grimaces and can’t meet your eye. “Will you believe me if I say no?” His voice comes out as a squeak.
“No.” He nods, and the pained expression on his face has you stumbling. “No, I mean I wouldn’t believe you,” you clarify. “You really can’t lie,” you laugh.
“You don’t even know,” he mutters. He won’t look at you now. His stare is firmly on the wall to his left, as if he doesn’t look, it won’t matter.
“Do you want it to be one?” you ask, and you really hate the way your voice cracks around the question. You are suddenly parched, your throat incredibly dry as you clear it.
He turns and gives you a tired look. “I feel like that’s pretty clear,” he points out. You frown, brows furrowing as you stare down at your hands.
“Hey.” He reaches out and covers your hand with his. “You’re my friend, always. Just forget it, okay?”
Peter gives you a smile, but you can see the way it’s already beginning to fall. “Peter,” you say his name, your voice soft.
“No, don’t even worry about it,” he dismisses with a choked laugh that sounds hollow.
Your knee bounces as you feel something buzzing beneath your skin. Giddiness, exhilaration. You have liked him since the day you met him, and now he’s saying he wants to go on a date with you.
“I like you too,” you blurt out, the blood draining from your face the moment the confession escapes you.
You shove aside the guilt that bubbles up your throat because you’re not lying. You do like Peter, and you do want to go on a date with him. One meeting with your asshole of a boss isn’t going to change that.
He freezes, and you wait, shoulders practically touching your ears as you try to manage your breathing. “You—” he shakes his head. “You don’t have to lie. I’m still going to be your friend.”
You roll your eyes with an angry huff. “Screw you, Parker,” you mutter, glaring at him.
His face twitches before he shoots you an astonished look. “Screw me,” he demands, not even realizing how that sounds. “What— What did I do?”
“Well, you’re not listening for one,” you tell him, voice sharper now. “I just told you that you’re the only person I want to call when I have a bad day. Hell, you’re the only person I ever really want to talk to. I tolerate everyone else. But you— you are special to me, and you don’t get to accuse me of lying.”
You clear your throat, glancing around as you realize your little outburst has drawn eyes. Peter’s just watching you with a slightly miffed, slightly astonished expression.
“So, no, I didn’t mean to call you for a date. But we both like each other, so…” You shrug, hating how incredibly juvenile this is beginning to sound.
“So…” he teases, leaning in closer to you. You huff, shooting him a glare you barely mean. “Do you wanna get out of here?” he suddenly asks.
You frown. “And go where?”
“Somewhere I can buy you some food, so this is an actual date,” he tells you. And he’s so confident, so sure of himself, that you’re taken aback for a moment.
“You asking me out, Parker?” you tease, already grabbing your purse.
He stands from his seat and shrugs, casually leaning against the bar. “Are you saying yes?”
“Yeah, you dork,” you snort at his affronted look. “I’m saying yes.” He rolls his eyes at you, and you bite back a smile. He nods you forward as he holds the bar door open for you. You let out a shaky breath as you pass by him.
There’s a nauseating swirl of emotions in your stomach that you can’t quite identify.
“Can I ask you something?” You glance over at Peter, and he nods, taking a bite of his pizza. “Is that the pizza place you deliver for?”
He freezes, and you raise your brows. Your eyes narrow as you smirk. “Parker, did you just use your employee discount on our first date?” you scoff, your tone full of faux outrage.
“No,” he chokes on a piece of pepperoni, and you can’t help but laugh at him. “I didn’t ask them to apply it,” he defends, holding up a finger toward you.
You laugh as you walk beside him. “Oh, okay. So you didn’t get a discount, then?” you tease, shooting him a wry look.
He purses his lips. “I didn’t say that.”
“God,” you laugh, shoving lightly at his shoulder. He stumbles a bit, nearly losing his slice. “You really are a dork.”
“Are you this mean to all your dates?” he demands, but you see the smile he’s holding back.
You just shrug. “I don’t really date,” you tell him honestly. You both cross the street, heading toward the park. A nice scenic route— as long as you don’t get mugged.
“Really?” He seems surprised as he looks over at you.
“Yeah, I don’t know.” You shrug. “I never seem to have the time for it. Or… I just don’t like the guy enough.”
Your eyes go wide as you realize how callous that sounded. “But I like you. Enough, I mean.” You grimace, frowning. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” Peter spares you further fumbling as he laughs. You roll your eyes at yourself with a heavy sigh. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you are…” he falls short, and you catch him staring at you like he doesn’t know how to continue.
You’re finding yourself stumbling a bit, too. It’s fine teasing Parker. It’s a lot different when you realize that you’re flirting with Peter. The distinction matters a lot, apparently.
“You’re incredibly attractive,” he lands on, smiling as you glance at him. “I love when I get to bug you at the office,” he taunts, nudging you slightly with his elbow. “It’s just surprising that you don’t go out.”
“Alright.” You hold your hand up. “I didn’t say I don't get asked out. I just said that you are an… exception,” you decide, smiling at him. “An incredibly attractive exception,” you amend. His cheeks are pink now; could be from the cold or you.
You finish your pizza and toss your napkin in a nearby trash can. Peter does the same, and you both continue down the park’s path. The conversation settles into quiet, but you don’t rush to fill it. It’s not the type that feels suffocating.
Your gaze lands on the flowers along the path, dimly lit up by the distant streetlamps and moon. It’s a surprisingly clear sight tonight. Usually it’s too smoggy to really see the stars. But you’re not going to call that fate or romantic because that would be—
Your thoughts go quiet as Peter’s hand brushes against yours. It’s just a light touch, barely there. Probably from how close you’re walking. But then his pinky hooks around yours.
“So, when you do date,” he starts, but all you can think about is his touch. “What do you typically do?”
“Uh… what?” You mutter, frowning as you look over at him. He lets out a short laugh, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His palm slips around yours, fingers lacing together.
Jesus, you’re going to have a heart attack.
It takes everything in you not to press your hand to your chest to try and calm the frantic pulse inside.
“What do you usually do for dates?” He asks, his tone annoyingly smug.
You blink, forcing your eyes off your face as he squeezes your hand. “Quit it,” you hiss.
“Quit what?”
“Peter,” you groan, glaring at him. He laughs, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. You don't want him to. You just want him to stop enjoying how much he’s flustering you.
“I don’t know. I guess I'll go to a restaurant. A movie if I don’t really want to talk to them.”
“Why would you go on a date with someone you don’t want to talk to?” He sounds genuinely perplexed. You smirk as you look over at him.
Your turn, Parker. “Well… Peter, when two adults are incredibly attracted to each other—”
“Got it,” he cuts you off, letting out a strange noise. “That’s not really my thing,” he tells you. There’s something soft about his tone. Maybe he wants you to realize he doesn’t play around.
“It’s not mine, either,” you assure him. “That’s why I don’t do it anymore. I kind of realized that if I really care about someone, I can’t just settle for something temporary. I want something real,” you admit, your voice going soft.
“Right,” he squeezes your hand again. “We shouldn’t have any problems, then.” You lean into him, ducking your face so he can’t see your smile. His hand slips from yours as he wraps his arm around your shoulders, keeping you tucked to his side.
*************
“What’s up with him?” Peter asks, nodding over your shoulder.
You turn and feel your stomach drop. Jonah is staring at you through the window of his office. He’s not trying at subtlety, either. His glare is fully boring into you and Peter like he’s trying to mind-meld and see if you’ve figured out any secrets.
“He’s just a strange, strange man,” you dismiss. Shaking your head, you turn back toward Peter. “Do I get to see the pictures today?” You deflect.
His eyes narrow with something mischievous. “I guess I’ll let you.”
“Oh, thank you for your benevolence, Parker.” You hold out your hand expectantly. He tugs the bundle out of his jacket with a laugh and hands it over. You smile, but it feels weak as you flip through the images.
You can’t focus on much else except the sick feeling in your stomach. Jonah’s stare still weighs heavily on your shoulders as your fingers shake around the photos. You’re not truly paying attention to the pictures, but something sends an alarm off in your head.
Backtracking, you check out the last photo. “Peter.”
“Hm?” he hums, still watching you.
“You’re joking, right?” You turn to him with a flat stare as you hold the picture up. It’s an angle staring down at Spider-Man while he climbs up the side of a skyscraper.
Peter looks between you and the picture, worrying his lip between his teeth. “What’s up?”
“Parker,” you warn, letting out a disbelieving scoff. “How the hell do you explain getting this angle?”
He shrugs. “I have a good zoom lens.”
“Fuck off, Parker,” you hiss, glancing around the office to make sure no one can hear you. He lets out a sharp bark of laughter at you.
“Geez,” he mutters.
“So, you’re telling me you just happened to be on the right roof, on the right ledge, just in time to see Spider-Man come crawling up.”
Peter pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks down at you. “Yeah,” he drawls. “That’s what I’m telling you. Is there some reason you don’t believe me?”
You open your mouth and then swiftly clamp it shut. You don’t need to be giving him the third degree. And he’s right; he hasn’t given you any reason not to believe him.
Besides, you’re not using him for his connection to Spider-Man, so what does it matter?
“No.” You pass the pictures back to him. “Sorry,” you mutter. Peter hesitates beside you for a moment, like there’s something else he wants to say. “You should go give those to Jonah. Before he actually burns holes into our heads.”
“Right.” He backs away. There’s a moment when he pauses, lingering behind you, and you think he might say something else. But then he’s moving, heading into Jonah’s office like you told him to.
Your heart rate kicks up as you peer around your cubicle. You watch Peter pass the pictures over; your stare is fixed, intent on Jonah.
He wouldn’t say anything, would he?
Jonah glances over at you and his eyes narrow. Then he waves his hand, and Peter’s walking out. You jerk forward, staring at your computer as you clear your throat.
“Hey,” Peter comes up behind you. He doesn’t lean on the cubicle wall like he typically does. Instead, he’s crouching, smiling up at you. “Would you want to go out with me tonight? I've got some friends I think you might like.”
You laugh, playing off your anxiety. “We’re already meeting friends?”
“Well, you’re meeting mine,” he corrects with a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes at him. “You only have one, remember?” he teases.
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off. “He’s a real pain in the ass, too.” Your gaze darts back to his, and you soften slightly. “Yeah, that sounds nice,” you tell him.
“Great.” He leans forward, and you have no time to brace for impact as he kisses your cheek. “I’ll meet you here.” He backs off and heads back to the elevator like he hasn’t just factory reset your brain. You can hear him chuckling to himself as the doors close.
“Ass,” you mutter, but there’s heat burning beneath your skin as you smile.
This is a lot, right?
It’s confusing because you’ve been friends with Peter for a long time. But even then, you never met his friends. And now you’re dating, and he wants you to meet them. You can’t tell if that comes from a place of: Oh, she’s lonely; I’ll let her meet my friends.
Or—
I really like her; I want to see what my friends think of her.
Are you overthinking this?
It’d be really nice if there was a handbook for dummies dating their best friend— only friend.
Is this too fast to be meeting the important people in each other's lives?
God, you wish that you had something you could use to read Peter’s mind. Because it feels way too pathetic to ask what the reason is for him wanting to do this tonight.
It can’t be pity. Oh my god, is it pity?
“Hey.” You yelp, jumping as you whirl around. Peter stands behind you, hands raised as he watches you with wide eyes. “I— Sorry,” he blurts out.
“Jesus, Peter, you scared the shit out of me,” you tell him, pressing your hand to your chest. He lets out a small laugh that he clearly tried to suppress. You shoot him a flat look that only makes him laugh harder.
“You looked pretty deep in thought there,” he tells you, still grinning. “I’m not sure your mind can handle the sudden influx of use.”
You roll your eyes, swatting his shoulder. “Cheap shot, Parker,” you mutter. He catches your hand in his and tugs you closer. All thoughts are replaced by a buzzing noise that really does make you feel dumb as you meet his eye.
“Ready to go?” he mutters, but he’s staring at your lips the same way you’re staring at his.
“Yeah— Yep,” you collect yourself, pushing back from him. You shake your head when you hear him snickering behind you and tug on his hand. “Don’t get a big head,” you grumble, glaring over at him.
“What?” he shrugs. “I think it’s cute that you can’t think around me.”
“Please, Peter,” you scoff. “If anyone can’t think, it’s you.” You poke your finger into his chest for emphasis. “I’ve been flirting with you since the day I met you, and I was the one who asked you out.”
His face falls as he lets out an affronted noise. “Okay, one, you didn’t ask me out. You didn’t even think it was a date,” he accuses, his voice taking on that slightly pitchy tone he gets when he’s flustered. It makes you smile. “Two, I asked you out to pizza.”
“Yeah,” you snort. “To use your employee discount.” He lets out a disgruntled groan, and you can’t help but laugh at him. You tug at his hand and press your lips to his cheek. It’s quick, fleeting, but you see the way his cheeks flush. “Who’s stupid now?” you whisper, raising your brows.
You pause on the sidewalk as his mouth opens and closes. It takes a minute before he shakes his head and nudges you along. “I didn’t call you stupid,” he tells you.
“It was implied,” you accuse.
The ridiculous argument can go no further as you both come up to the bar. He lets go of your hand to open the door for you, and suddenly all the anxiety from before comes crashing down. He lets out a little grunt as you stop in front of him, hands landing on your shoulders to stop himself from crashing into you.
You swallow roughly, hands wringing your coat as you suck in a deep breath. “Everything okay?” He asks, peering around to meet your eyes.
“Yep, mhm, lead the way, Parker.” You offer him a shaky smile, and he frowns.
After a minute, he nods, directing you toward the back of the bar. The booth is in one of the darker corners. It’s slightly quieter over here, which makes you feel marginally better. But the sports playing on TV and the loud jeering of the other people are still prominent.
He stops you in front of a table with two people. Two— he really cannot judge you for having one friend.
“Harry,” Peter introduces, motioning toward the man on the left side of the table. You offer a small wave in greeting as he smiles back. “And Gwen.”
Your gaze shifts to the blonde with green eyes and a charming smile—
Fuck. Of course he has a pretty female friend.
“Hey,” she greets. You can only offer a smile that’s really just your lips pressed together as you try not to voice aloud how badly you want to go home.
“You must be the journalist Peter won’t shut up about.” She casts a knowing glance at the man behind you.
His hands freeze around your shoulders as a slow smile pulls at your lips. “Oh,” you whisper, turning to look at him. “The journalist, huh?”
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” he denies. There’s a gentle nudge on your lower back, and you find yourself moving toward the side of the booth Gwen is in. She slides over, making room for you as Peter sits with Harry.
“So, has he told you my name? Or am I just ‘the’ reporter?” you ask, shooting Peter a teasing look. He lets out a heavy sigh, his knee bouncing beneath the table.
“We know your name,” Harry drawls, snorting into his beer. “We know—” he lets out a low grunt, and your brows furrow as he glares over at Peter, rubbing his side.
“Drinks, anyone?” Peter rushes out, already getting to his feet. He doesn’t give anyone a chance to answer before he’s scampering off to the bar.
“Weirdo,” you mutter, shaking your head.
You can feel someone’s stare and turn; Gwen is watching you, eyes narrowed. “I gotta ask: Peter told us that he asked you out. I feel like he’s lying,” she tells you.
You smile. “Uh, it was kind of messy, honestly. I asked him out to drinks, and he thought it was a date, but it wasn’t. Then he asked me out. I’m taking credit for that, though.”
“Fair enough,” she laughs. “I knew he didn’t just ask you,” she mutters to herself. You shift back in the seat, hands resting in your lap as you stare down at the table. They’re both silent as you wonder if it’s actually awkward or if you’re projecting.
Gwen looks over at you again, and you tense. “You really like him?” she asks. And it doesn’t sound like someone interrogating you about your intentions. She seems genuinely surprised.
“Yeah,” you let out a short laugh, gaze darting between her and Harry.
“It’s just— Peter is Peter, you know?” Harry shoots you a look like there’s a joke you’re meant to be in on. When you shake your head, he lets out a small laugh. “The way he described you, we thought you might actually be bullying him.”
“Bully—” Your jaw drops as you lean forward. “I was flirting with him,” you defend.
They glance at each other before laughing. Gwen stares over at you, silent for a moment, before laughing again. “Oh, you’re serious?”
You throw your hands up. “What the hell did he say to you guys about me?”
“He told us that you told him he looked like someone’s fifth-grade history teacher once.”
Your eyes narrow before you remember that. “Oh, well,” you shrug. “I mean, he did. But I meant that in a good way. Like— hey, you’re a dork, but you’re attractive.”
Gwen’s lips tremble as she holds back another bout of laughter. “And when you told him he had the energy of an untouched virgin?”
“Please.” You roll your eyes. “The man blushes if I say the word breasts around him.”
“What?” You whip around to see Peter standing behind you with four beers. He’s staring down at you, and then his eyes are darting between you and his friends. “What did you people say to her?”
“Apparently I’m a bully, Parker.” You lean on the table as he takes his seat. “What were you saying about me?”
“Nothing,” he defends, but his voice is pitchy, and his cheeks are beginning to flush.
“Just that you have such pretty eyes,” Gwen taunts, smiling over at him. “And he loves when you leave your hair down because—”
“Okay,” Peter stops her, shooting her a sharp look. “We’re adults. This is incredibly immature.” You smile, laughing a little at the bashful look on his face.
“Breasts,” Harry suddenly tells him. He lets out a loud bark of laughter when Peter tenses, eyes glaring down at the table. You stare at Peter for a beat before shooting Harry a knowing look.
Gwen’s eyes dart up and down his form as she shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him like this since high school,” she tells you. There’s a little piece of you that preens at that. You know that Peter isn’t a virgin. He’s cocky enough to know how to fluster you.
But he also seems to know what he’s doing one second and then completely changes tracks when he realizes that you’re actually into it.
“Hey,” Peter starts, a strained smile on his face. “How about… we stop talking about me?”
You feel a little bad for him. You didn’t mean to meet his friends and tag-team him. But it does make you feel a little better after your spiral earlier.
“Alright,” you tell him. Beneath the table, your foot lightly nudges his ankle. “What do you guys do for work?” you ask.
Peter’s shoulders slump, and then you feel his foot hook around yours, pulling your leg a little closer. You shoot him a small smile as you turn your attention back to Gwen.
The conversation flows for a little while as you get to know them. They’re nice when they’re not giving Peter hell. And the longer you talk to Gwen, the less worried you are. She’s gorgeous, charming, and incredibly intelligent. She also seems like Peter isn’t a road she wants to go down.
Some of the things she says seem like intimate knowledge, but not anything that makes your hackles rise. At one point, her napkin slips beneath the table, and when she bends down to fetch it, she pops back up with a teasing grin.
“Footsie, really?” she taunts, glancing over at Peter. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you clear your throat. “I hated it when you did that when we dated.”
Your smile falls as you go still. Peter freezes in front of you, beer halfway to his lips as he shoots Gwen a wide-eyed stare. Harry glances between you both and lets out a short laugh. “You didn’t know?”
You can feel Peter begin to retract beneath the table. Both your legs shoot out, wrapping around his ankle and tugging as you glare at him. “No, I didn’t.”
He grimaces as you kick at his ankle. “It didn’t come up,” he defends.
Gwen glances between you both. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t—”
“Whatever.” You shake your head and wave her off. “It’s not that big of a deal. I mean, how long did you even date for? Was it, like, a fling or something?”
Harry lets out a sharp breath, suddenly finding the wall behind you incredibly interesting. Your stare darts between them all as Gwen’s nose wrinkles. You look over at Peter and see his knuckles have gone white around the bottle.
“Not a fling,” you mutter, nodding your head. Your feet release him beneath the table, and you back up. His gaze shoots up to yours, something panicked in his expression.
“It was just high school,” he rushes out. Then he grimaces and adds, “And college.”
Your eyes go wide as you scoff. “Look, I don’t care that you two dated. But that’s a long time, Parker—” You catch yourself as you realize his friends are still watching. This is the first time you’re meeting them. You cannot let them think you’re some jealous, crazy girlfriend.
“It’s fine,” you squeak, smiling and throwing up your hands. “People date.”
Gwen’s brows furrow as she lets out a small laugh. “I’m really not into him,” she reassures.
“I have no doubts about that,” you tell her flatly. You ignore the offended noise Peter lets out at that. “I feel like, though, letting me know that one of the friends I’m meeting is his long-term ex-girlfriend would have been helpful.”
“Fair,” Gwen agrees.
“Gwen,” Peter blurts, tone accusatory.
She shakes her head. “What? You should have told her,” she argues.
“She never asked,” he says, gesturing toward you. Harry grimaces, shaking his head as he takes another sip of his beer. Gwen’s face falls flat as she stares over at him. You suck in a sharp breath, and Peter holds up a hand. “That came out wrong.”
“Yeah, I bet,” you mutter. You turn toward Gwen. “Was he this bad with women when you two were dating?”
“Hey—”
Gwen looks over at her, tilting her head. “Worse,” she tells you.
“Okay, guys, really—”
“Wow,” you let out a low whistle. “Can’t imagine that.” She laughs at that, and you smile when you look over to see Peter’s crestfallen expression. “At ease, Parker,” you taunt, kicking him under the table. He glares, but his foot is hooking around your ankle once more.
Harry decides it’s a good time to regale you with a clearly humiliating memory of Peter from high school.
“I like your friends,” you tell him as he’s walking you home.
“I’m sure,” Peter grumbles. “They spent the whole night teaming up on me.”
“They were not,” you admonish, squeezing his hand. “Okay,” you amend. “That one story Harry told me was slightly humiliating.” Peter grimaces, and you smile.
“But everything else was… nice. I mean, I know we’re friends, but I’m honestly starting to feel like I don’t actually know that much about you.”
Peter slowly comes to a stop, and you frown, turning around to face him. “You know about me,” he tells you. Something about the cadence of his tone has an alarm going off in your head. But you don’t know what it's for.
“I mean, I know you, but now I have actual dirt on you.”
He hesitates another moment before letting out an amused huff. “I can take you out of the Bugle. But I can’t take the Bugle out of you.”
You let out a bark of laughter. “You realize how horrible that sounds?”
“Yeah, I hear it now,” he admits. You shake your head as you lead him toward your apartment. It’s cramped, and the walls are too thin, but it’s certainly the nicest place you're able to afford on a journalist’s salary.
You both slow as you approach the stoop. You fiddle with your keys. “Well, this is me,” you tell him, your voice quiet.
Peter lets out a small laugh as you both linger by your door. “Well, goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight,” you whisper, but neither of you makes the move to leave. His eyes drift to your lips as you take a step closer. One of his hands comes up, slow and hesitant, as it finds your waist. You find yourself sinking into his touch, drawn in by his warmth.
“Peter,” you whisper, glancing up at him. “Are you going to kiss me?”
He gives you a soft smile as his head dips down. His lips press hesitantly against yours at first, testing the waters. You let your eyes fall shut, arms winding around his shoulders as you lean further into him. His other hand comes up, palm cupping your cheek as you tilt your head.
Your lips part as you deepen the kiss, relishing the groan he lets out. His hands tighten around you. His grip is a lot stronger than you’d been expecting.
It’s steady… comforting. You drag your touch up into his hair, ruffling the messy strands like you’ve wanted to since the day you met him.
He makes a soft noise against your mouth that has you smiling. You pull back, slightly breathless as you stare at him. He’s grinning too, lips swollen from the kiss. You dart forward and give him a quick peck before slowly sinking back.
He seems reluctant as his hands slowly loosen around you. “Helluva goodnight, Peter,” you tell him.
Peter laughs, and you nearly have another retort ready. Something to make you feel what just happened a little less. But he dips forward, mouth pressed softly to yours as you let out a small gasp. “Goodnight,” he mutters against your lips, pulling back with a smug look. He begins down the stairs, and you grin.
“You play dirty, Parker,” you call after him. You shake your head as you walk into your building, the feeling of his hands still pressed into your skin.
It is pure happenstance that you stumble onto Spider-Man.
There’s a little old lady screaming from an alleyway, and you go running. But when you get there, Spider-Man is already handing her back her purse. There’s a man webbed to the wall. And the lady pats his masked cheek.
“What a nice boy,” she coos before walking off.
You let out a small snort at the cartoonish scene. Spider-Man’s head whips toward you, and you wave. “What’s up, Webber?”
“Webber?” You’re so sure he’s making a face under that mask. “That’s not my name,” he insists, pointing a gloved finger at you. The mugger beside him lets out a low groan, and his hand shoots out, a web covering the other man’s mouth.
Your brows raise. “Neither is Spider-Man,” you remind him.
He sucks in a sharp breath, arms crossed as he stares at you. Those white lenses seem far too emotive for a mask. “You seem like you’re in a better mood,” he tells you. “Less combative.”
“Oh, so you remember me?” Your brows furrow. “I figured you saved so many people that you wouldn’t.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You left a memorable impression.”
Heat rushes to your face as you remember the very end of that encounter. How you’d nearly vomited on him.
“Oh,” you press your hand to your face. “Jesus, I'd nearly forgotten. I really am sorry about that,” you tell him. “I didn’t mean to throw up… near you.”
He lets out a laugh that has your eyes narrowing. It almost reminds you of someone. “Wasn’t the vomit,” he tells you. “It’s kind of hard to forget a pretty girl like you.”
“Girl?” you mutter. Then your brain hones in on the bit that matters. “Pretty,” you drawl, raising your brows.
Spider-Man throws his hands up. “What, I’m not allowed to give compliments now?”
You laugh despite yourself. “I appreciate it, but I’m a taken woman, Spider-Man.”
“Oh?” He reaches out to lean against the wall, but his hand slips before he rights himself. “A shame,” he mutters.
Something fires off in your brain. This is your chance to talk to him, to get your exclusive. Without using Peter for it. Except… you’re going to have to use Peter. It’s not the same thing, though.
“Actually, you might know him,” you tell him, taking a step closer. His body goes taut as he tilts his head.
“What?” he asks, his tone taking on a slightly higher pitch. He shakes his head as he backs off. You frown at that. Is he trying to get away from you? “Why would you think that?”
You open your mouth and freeze, glancing over to the webbed criminal. Maybe name-dropping your boyfriend as Spider-Man’s accomplice in the middle of the street isn’t a good idea. “Uh, is there somewhere more private we could talk? Just for a minute.”
“There is. You’re not gonna like it,” he tells you. Your face falls as he glances up at the roof of the building beside you.
“God dammit,” you hiss.
“I do have a city to protect,” Spider-Man tells you, glancing down at a wrist that clearly doesn’t have a watch on it. You just hold up your hand.
You’re balled up on the roof, your back to the ledge while you work on getting your breath steady. You cannot stand up and look over the edge. So you stay down and address him from there.
“Peter Parker,” you tell him. Spider-Man’s whole body goes still, and then he steps back from you. “My boyfriend,” you clarify, frowning at his reaction. “I said you might know him, remember?”
“Oh,” Spider-Man lets out a strange laugh and nods his head. “Right, yeah, forgot about that while you were trying to strangle me on the way up here.” He pauses. “Boyfriend?”
You purse your lips and shoot him a flat look. “Look… It’s just a little odd to me how Peter always manages to get such great pictures of you. I mean, you’d think you were the one holding the camera, honestly.”
“Mm,” he hums, sitting on the ledge of the roof. He immediately jumps up, pacing in front of you instead. “Right, right. Don’t know him,” he tells you, throwing his hands up as he shrugs.
Slowly, your hand drags along the ledge as you force yourself to stand. Your skin crawls at the feeling of the breeze behind you, but you refuse to look. “I was just hoping that maybe we could talk—”
His head whips to the left, his muscles tensing. You frown, stopping yourself as you watch him. “I’m sorry.” He glances over his shoulder at you as he runs to the other side of the roof. “But I really have to go.”
“Wait—”
Annnnnd he’s already swinging away.
You hear the sirens a minute later. His super senses must have picked up the commotion before you, you guess. Doesn’t change the fact that this is the second time he’s left you on a roof without a way down. You let out a loud sigh as you realize you’re going to have to clamber down someone’s fire escape again.
God, if you do not get your shit together, you are so getting fired.
“Okay!” You clap your hands, pacing your apartment as you talk to yourself. “There is a way to get this exclusive without exploiting my relationship with Peter.”
You turn toward your empty corkboard and the even more empty notebook on your desk. “But how?” You pick up your pen, idly spinning it between your fingers. But no easy fixes come to mind.
You let out a low groan, sinking back onto your couch as you stare at the blank space where an article should be forming. Jameson didn’t give you a timeline for when he wants this new, exclusive insider. But each day you can feel his patience wearing thin.
He hasn’t said anything outright, but the incredibly malicious glares do enough of the work.
Your phone rings on your desk, and you frown, reaching for it. “Hello?”
“The Bulletin got an exclusive with Daredevil!” J. Jonah Jameson shouts into your ear. You flinch, jerking your phone back. “An exclusive!” He reiterates, his voice somehow louder this time.
“Um, sir, I—”
“I don’t care!” He doesn’t even know what you were going to say. “An exclusive clearly isn’t good enough anymore. Anyone can get one now.”
They really can’t.
“I want something else. Something better.”
Your stomach twists as you feel your pulse begin pounding. “Sir…”
“I want Spider-Man’s identity,” he hisses. Blood rushes through your ears as the pen you’d been holding slips from your fingers and clatters to the floor.
“Hello?” He lets out a disgruntled noise. “Did I mute myself again? HELLO!”
You nearly drop your phone as you extend your arm all the way away from your face. “I can hear you, sir!” you shout back.
“Well?” he demands.
“Sir, you are asking me to unmask Spider-Man,” you scoff. “Spider-Man! We can’t even get more than a picture of him.”
“No, we can’t. But someone else can.” Your throat tightens as you suck in a shaky breath. “I’m sure that your boyfriend has some idea of who he is. He’s got the inside scoop on him, after all.”
“He’s my boyfriend. He is not an informant,” you snap.
“You’re either a girlfriend or a journalist. Pick,” he hangs up before you can say anything else. You let out a strangled noise as you throw your phone onto your couch.
“Fuck,” you hiss, dragging your hands down your face. Your eyes blur, and you let out a pathetic sniffle. Before you’re allowed to fall too deep into wallowing self-pity, there’s a loud slam in your bedroom that has you screaming.
Your shoulders jump as you stare toward your closed bedroom door. It sounded like something hit your window. Running forward, you throw your door open and can’t quite comprehend the sight you’re seeing right now.
Spider-Man is draped across your fire escape, his suit tattered and torn. You step closer, letting out a small gasp when you see the blood seeping through the red and blue threads. “Holy shit,” you mutter, rushing toward your window, you throw it open.
“Spider-Man.”
“Oh, hey,” he lets out a pained groan as he gives you a wave. “This is your place, huh?”
You shake your head wordlessly as you take his arm and help him through your window. He lets out another grunt of pain as you put his arm around your shoulder, pulling him into the living room.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Couch.” You glance over at the bloody cuts. “I don’t want you staining my sheets.”
He lets out a small laugh that has him groaning, his hand coming up to clutch his ribs. His mask is still fully intact somehow. Despite all of the severe damage to the rest of him. “Come on,” you mutter, guiding him down onto the cushions.
You step back and grimace at the pathetic sight of the vigilante in front of you. “Stay,” you order, pointing your finger at him. He throws you a weak thumbs-up as you rush off to your bathroom. You collect your pathetic assortment of first-aid supplies and go running back into your living room.
He’s limp against your couch when you return and you panic. You drop the supplies, stepping closer to him. He doesn’t even move an inch. His mask doesn’t tilt toward you—
His mask
It is right there. Inches from your fingers. And he’s injured, maybe even knocked out. How easy would it be to just slip it off? Save your career, not have to ruin your relationship?
“Hey, Webber,” you call, gently nudging his shoulder. He twitches, startling back into consciousness. His head whips toward you, and you raise your brows. “Don’t die, please.”
He snorts, shifting uncomfortably. “No promises,” he groans. You bite your lip, shooting him a wary look before kneeling beside him.
Your fingers prod gently around the wounds, and you see his gloved hands digging into your couch. You’re actively ignoring the sound of the fabric ripping beneath his grip.
“So,” you start pouring alcohol on a piece of gauze. “Just a coincidence that you landed at my window, right?” you ask, glancing up at those white lenses. They’re already pointing down at you.
You wait until he speaks to press the gauze to his wound, hoping he’s distracted enough. “Mhm,” he lets out a strangled hum. “Lucky me, huh?”
You let out a sharp huff. “Don’t say that yet. I’m pretty sure that needs stitches,” you tell him, pointing toward the large gash going up the side of his ribs. You pause, hands falling to your lap. “I’m assuming that the hospital isn’t an option.”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “No hospital. Usually I have someone for this. But she’s out of town right now.”
“She, huh?” you ask, reaching for another piece of gauze. You clamp your hand around his knee, trying to keep his leg steady as you clean out a cut on his thigh. “Would she be upset that you’re going around flirting with ‘pretty girls’ and leaving them on roofs?”
You shoot him a wry look as he tenses beneath your touch. “I am sorry about that,” he mutters.
“Don’t be,” you tell him. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to use my beginner’s sewing kit on you. We’ll call it even.”
“Yipee,” he mutters sarcastically.
“You didn’t answer my question,” you remind him. You part his legs and kneel between them, tilting your head as you examine a gash on his chest.
“Um…” his hands are up at his sides, and that mask is pointed straight down at you. You frown until you realize the position you just put yourself in.
“Head out of the gutter,” you tell him shortly.
“Sorry,” he whispers.
“This is…” You trail off, eyes narrowing as you watch one of his wounds slowly begin to close. It’s a minor one, like something ricocheted and just nicked him. But as you reach up, wiping away the blood, the cut is gone completely. “That’s amazing,” you whisper.
“Yes, well,” his voice is smug as he lets out a haughty noise. “They don’t call me the amazing Spider-Man for nothing.”
Your face falls as your hands go still on his chest. “For both our sakes, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” you tell him. He just nods as you get to your feet. “Okay, stitches, right,” you rush over to your desk.
You show little care as you empty your drawers, tossing random bits and bobs to the floor as you look for the kit. “I actually think I might have a first-aid thing somewhere in here,” you mutter to yourself.
You let out a triumphant noise as you tug it out, presenting it to him. “You’re going to walk me through this, right?”
“Yeah,” he groans, motioning you over. You kneel beside him once more, and he shifts his legs so you have better access to the wound on his side. “It should close up in a few hours. I just need something to stop the bleeding,” he explains.
“Okay.” Your hands tremble slightly as you open the first aid kit, grabbing the suturing needle from within.
“Pretty lucky you got that,” he mumbles.
“Plot convenience,” you tell him, shrugging. He snorts and then immediately lets out a long groan of— borderline —anguish. “Don’t laugh,” you admonish, grimacing as you watch him curl slightly into himself.
“Don’t be funny,” he bites back.
You shake your head, picking up your needle once more. Your hands are trembling as you lift it toward him. “Help me out here.” You don’t realize how tight your chest has gotten until a gloved hand is wrapping around your own. Blood smears across your skin, but you’re more focused on how familiar the touch is.
“First,” he whispers. “You need to stop shaking.”
You let out a watery laugh as you glare up at him. “Are you aware of the position you’re putting me in right now?”
His hand squeezes around yours, and you force yourself to take a deep breath. “It’s okay,” he tells you, his voice soft. Like you’re the one bleeding out.
“I heal fast. If you mess up… I should be fine.”
“Should be?” Your voice cracks as you look back up at his mask.
“Come on,” he urges, bringing your hand up to his side. You’re still shaking, the needle trembling violently in your grasp. You let out a sharp huff, pressing your hand slightly against his side to steady it.
“There you go,” he mutters, his voice soft and warm. You’re ashamed of the effect it has on you.
You swear he sounds familiar.
“Okay, have you ever sewed anything?” You give him a jerky nod. “Basically the same thing. It’s just flesh.”
“Don’t say it like that,” you whisper. You swallow roughly as you push the edges of his wound together. “I’m sorry,” you weakly offer. “I don’t have anything to numb it.”
“No, no,” he rushes out, his voice pinched as you hear him rip another hole in your couch. “You’re doing great.”
“I haven’t started.”
“Maybe you should,” he groans. You nod your head and bite your lip. You tilt your head away from him. Maybe if you pretend you’re sewing up a hole in your clothes rather than someone’s body, you’ll be able to do this.
You push the needle through his skin and try not to gag. “Tie a knot,” he reminds you. You glance up at him before attempting to tie the knot. Your fingers slip from the blood coating them, but you manage. Slowly, maybe too slowly from the noises he’s making, you manage to stitch him back together.
It’s incredibly crooked and will probably leave an ugly scar, but he’s no longer bleeding out on your couch. You tie the knot on the last section and then cut the thread. Spider-Man has gone limp against your cushion.
You reach up, and he jolts, his hand shooting up to wrap around your wrist. You jump, but his grip doesn’t hurt. It’s firm, and there’s a feeling of deja vu. Possibly from the first time you met him.
“I wasn’t taking it off,” you tell him, eyes searching his mask. But there’s no face, no expression that will tell you anything.
“Sorry,” he slowly puts your wrist down. “Instinct,” he explains.
You sink back onto your heels and nod. “I kind of just wanted to make sure you were still breathing,” you joke, but it falls flat. “Uh, I know you heal fast, but if you need to stay here for a few hours and recover, you can.”
He lets out a low groan as he sits up. You stand, hands braced in case he falls over. “You’re nice,” he tells you, out of breath already. “Really nice,” he adds as you slowly help him stand.
“Your boyfriend is a lucky man.”
Your brows furrow at that, suspicion ticking at the back of your mind. You shake it off as you help him move away from the couch. “Are you sure you should leave?”
He reaches out, circling his right arm, the side without stitches. “Should be able to swing fine with this one,” he mutters. He starts moving toward your bedroom, and you frown.
“Where are you going?”
He pauses. “Window.” He points toward it like it should be obvious.
You move toward the back of your living room and pull back your curtains. “You could use my patio if you want,” you tell him, already opening the door for him.
“Oh, yeah, that would be better.” He limps toward you, and you follow him out. He climbs onto your railing, the movements jerky and far less graceful than you’ve grown used to with him.
“Hey, Webber,” you call out. He turns toward you, and you offer a weak smile. “Be careful.”
“Always am,” and just like the first time you met, he shoots you a finger gun, and then he’s falling off your patio. You see a web shoot out, and then Spider-Man is swinging away from your building.
Your face falls as you watch him disappear.
“Idiot,” you hiss. You had the chance. He was right there; you could have just pulled the mask off. Instead, you just… let him go.
Sometimes it really sucks to be a good person.
You haven’t seen Peter for a few days. He’d told you that he was sick and didn’t want to risk it getting to you. But he hadn’t sounded particularly bedridden. Still, you have enough going on that you really couldn’t afford to give it much thought.
You’re pacing your apartment, whispering to yourself and occasionally darting to write notes in your notebook. They’re just general observations. Notes you’ve made while attempting to connect Peter and Spider-Man’s relationship.
You’re not going to use him for information. But there has to be something in the way they work together that will tell you who Spider-Man is.
Of course, every time you circle back to that thought, you pause. What are the consequences of exposing this vigilante?
Everyone would know his name. They would know who his family is. Who his friends are. That’s basically like putting a bullseye on each person he loves and daring someone to shoot. Even if you did manage to do this for Jameson— how would you actually live with yourself afterward?
Would Peter even want to be with the woman who exposed Spider-Man— his friend?
You jump as your phone rings, abandoning your notes and reaching for it. “Hello?”
“Hey, pretty girl,” a familiar voice greets you on the other end.
“Peter,” you greet. But you’re not smiling; your mind is wrapped around the way he said pretty girl. A new endearment you haven’t heard from him before. “How’re you feeling?”
“A lot better,” he tells you. “I was thinking of getting some takeout tonight, taking it easy. You want to join me?”
“Yeah,” you tell him, tossing your pen onto your desk. “That sounds really nice, actually.”
“Your place?”
“Uh,” you trail off as you glance around your apartment.
Well, it’s hard to pick just one reason he can’t come over. The most glaringly obvious are the holes and bloodstains in your couch that you have no way of explaining. You also don’t really want him seeing the corkboard with pictures he’s taken of Spider-Man and news clippings of his past saves.
You’ve delved so far into crazy that you’ve even got red string darting across the photos and clippings.
“My place is kind of a wreck right now,” you tell him. Not a lie. “How about yours?”
“Sounds good,” he tells you. You smile as you hang up, but it falls as quickly as it came. You glance over to the corkboard and feel guilt sour your stomach.
You smooth out your dress and then grimace. Dress… should you have worn pants? It’s your first time going to his place, so you’d dressed up just a bit. But maybe this will look like you’re trying too hard.
Rolling your eyes, you shake your head and raise your hand to knock on the door. It swings open just as you move, and your knuckles make an unfortunate collision with Peter’s forehead.
“Oh,” you gasp, jerking back while he lets out a slightly pained hiss. “How’d you even know I was here?”
He opens his door wider, and you step in. “Heard you walking up.” Your brows furrow as you glance over at the carpeted floor of his hall.
How?
He shakes his head with a small laugh and lets the door swing closed. “Try again?” he teases.
You grin and move toward him, letting out a surprised noise as his hands take your waist, tugging you closer. “Hi, Peter,” you whisper.
“Hi.” His gaze drifts to your lips, and he waits for you to move. Your hands ball in his shirt, pulling him in as you let your lips leisurely move against his own. It’s relaxed, soft, really exactly what you needed after your downward mental spiral.
You’re the first to pull back; you always are. Apparently, you need to breathe more than he does. “Miss me?” you tease, slowly stepping away. His hands linger a moment before dropping.
“Am I not allowed to?” You feel your face heat up at that, and he gives you a soft smile. “Let me get the food,” he tells you. You watch as he moves toward his small kitchenette.
You weren’t expecting anything grand. He’s a freelance photographer who works on the side as a pizza delivery man. But it’s still bigger than what you’d been expecting when he’d said “studio.”
He’s got a large window that his bed is pressed up against. A door that leads to his bathroom. A smaller couch and coffee table in front of his TV. It’s spaced apart pretty well; it doesn’t feel crowded.
Maybe you’re nosy, or maybe you’re just a good journalist, but you find yourself moving through his space. Looking to see what else you can find out about your boyfriend. You see a desk tucked away at the back of the apartment and move toward it.
His camera sits on the edge, and you tilt your head with a frown. Honestly, you had been expecting something gigantic. With all the times he’s talked about his “amazing” zoom lens, you were expecting an attachment as big as your arm. But this is…
You pick up the camera and feel something coil tight in your chest. This is practically vintage. Something a high schooler would buy, not a professional photographer. You hear the clinking of glass plates and make sure his back is still turned as you reach for a pile of photographs pushed to the side.
Your stomach twists into knots as you look through them. More impossible shots.
But there’s one of Spider-Man swinging that would have had to be taken in mid-air. Your breath comes faster as you slam the pictures down, diverting your attention to anything else.
“What’s this?” you croak, pointing toward a strange painting on his wall.
He glances over his shoulder and smiles. “Oh, that? Gwen got it for me. She was in Paris last week.”
Your face creases in confusion. “She was out of town,” you whisper to yourself. But he hums his agreement.
He shouldn’t have heard that.
It’s a vigilante’s voice you hear in your head— Usually I have someone for this. But she’s out of town right now.
Well, if Peter really does know Spider-Man. Then Spider-Man might know Gwen. Maybe they’re mutual friends.
Harry? You consider. He’s a man; he’s friends with both Gwen and Peter. But no, that’s not right; he’s too scrawny and too short. But who else are Peter and Gwen friends with—
“Hungry?”
You jump, ripped from your thoughts as Peter comes out with the plates. “Christ, Parker, how much did you order?” you ask, your voice strained as you glance over at the towering pile of food.
“Enough,” he tells you. You force yourself to move, trying not to be stiff as you take a seat beside him on the couch. It’s small enough already, but you’re practically plastering yourself to the armrest to keep some distance.
You’re tempted to put your fingers to your pulse; you’re sure your heart is racing abnormally fast. Peter goes still for a moment and glances over at you. But then he reaches for your plate and passes it to you. Your eyes narrow, your mind lingering on the strange behavior.
“Are you alright?” he suddenly asks.
“What?” Your voice is pitchy as you cross your legs. “Why wouldn’t I be?” you laugh, and then immediately stuff your face with an egg roll so he can’t ask you any more questions.
He frowns. “You just seem… on edge.” His eyes dart down to your ass, which is, quite literally, perched on the edge of his couch.
“Oh,” you let out a choked laugh and push back against the cushion. But you don’t move to fill the space between you. “Right. Well, it’s my first time over here. Am I not allowed to be a little nervous?”
He hesitates before nodding. “Right,” he agrees, his expression still suspicious. You can’t even explain why you’ve gotten so nervous. Maybe it really is just being in his space for the first time. Or maybe it's what you found on his desk.
You both turn forward, eating in uncomfortable silence. You just keep stuffing food in your mouth, desperate to have any excuse not to talk. “Okay,” you jump as Peter puts his plate down.
“What?” you mutter around a mouthful of noodles. Grimacing, you put your own plate down, covering your mouth as you force yourself to swallow the rest of it. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” He scoffs. “You’re jumpy and erratic and… you’re not even sitting next to me. Did I do something?”
Your eyes go wide as you stare over at him. Guilt and dread have become an uncomfortably familiar companion since you started dating Peter. They’re with you again now, settling heavily on your chest.
“No,” you tell him, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s me; it’s not you.” You rest your elbows on your knees, letting your head fall into your hands as you sigh. “Peter, we need to talk.”
“Oh my god.” He gets to his feet, and you frown at the unusual reaction. But then he’s pacing in front of the coffee table, running his hands through his hair, only making it messier.
“Peter—”
“You’re breaking up with me,” he announces, pausing his pacing just long enough to send you a desperate look. “Holy shit,” he whispers.
“What?” you squawk. You’ll admit it; you sound like a bird as you stare up at him. “Peter, where the hell—”
He’s really not fond of letting you finish your sentences as he walks back toward you. Your eyes only grow wider as he drops to his knees beside you. His hands find yours, and his grip is tight… familiar.
“Sweetheart, whatever I did—” You reach forward and pinch his lips. You can feel him try to frown against your hand, but you shake your head.
“I am not breaking up with you, you nutcase,” you laugh. You let go of his lips and shake your head, astonished. “How did you get to that? Really quickly, too, by the way.”
His face falls as he glances suspiciously at you. “You’re not breaking up with me?”
You can’t help but laugh at his expense. Your hand moves, drifting to cup his cheek as you shake your head. “No,” you whisper. You tug him forward, and he leans into you easily. His hands drop yours, landing lightly on your thighs as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss just a little.
You try to pull back, but his hands are balling up your dress. You’re not even sure how he does it. Somehow he slips up from the floor and onto the couch, taking you with him and settling you across his lap.
It’s insanely quick and bizarrely flexible. But you’re here now, pulling back with a surprised noise as you stare down at the new position.
“Sorry,” he whispers, lips an inch from yours. You shake your head.
“I’m sorry I’m acting weird,” you tell him. You shift, legs spreading further across his thighs as you get comfortable. He tugs you back a bit, frowning as he looks up at you. Your hands are still cupping his jaw, breath still heavy.
“Why are you acting weird?” he asks. But really, all you can feel is his hand on your hip, the other on your thigh. They’re warm and heavy. Firm.
And you’ve felt that firm grip once before, but Peter’s face is blending with a masked one, and you have to force yourself to shake off the thoughts.
“I had a really bizarre week,” you tell him. “Something happened, and I’ve just been kind of frazzled, I guess.” You swear he looks guilty for a second.
“What happened?”
You lick your lips, and he tracks the movement. How do you tell him that Spider-Man was bleeding out on your couch? If he and Spider-Man are friends, does he already know?
Do you want him to know?
“Um,” you offer him a weak smile and shrug. “Nothing,” you tell him, darting forward and kissing him again, trying to dodge the question. But he pulls back, squeezing your hip as he frowns.
“You’re avoiding the question,” he tells you.
You let out an irritated huff as you let yourself fully settle against his lap. A jolt runs through you as you unintentionally rock your hips against his. You both freeze, eyes wide.
“Sorry,” you mutter, shifting a little. His hands tighten around you, and you let out a squeak.
“Stop moving,” he tells you, voice tense.
Your eyes narrow, and you see an escape. An emergency hatch to get yourself out of this tangled web you’ve found yourself in. Pun not intended.
And it’s shitty of you. It really is. But you need him to stop asking questions.
“Why?” you ask, your voice innocent as you shake your head. “I’m just trying to get comfortable, Parker,” you tell him, moving again. But you don’t inch back; your hips roll against his, and he straightens up quick, letting out a slight groan.
Your lips purse as you bite back a smirk. “Something wrong, Peter?” you ask. Your hands drop from his jaw to his shoulders. You brace yourself on them, lift your hips, then settle firmly back into his lap. You can’t help the slight gasp you let out as you feel the problem you’ve just created for him.
“Oh,” you mutter.
His eyes narrow, hands flexing around your legs. “Really?” he asks, raising his brows. “This is what you’re doing?”
You lean closer to him, stopping just before your lips brush his. “What am I doing?” you taunt. You’re kissing him before he can speak. Your hands ball into his shirt, and you start moving against him, finding a steady rhythm as heat begins to pool in your stomach.
It takes a moment before his hands move, his palm dragging your dress up as his touch settles on the curve of your ass. “Are you sure about this?” he whispers, pulling back.
“Mhm,” you hum, not trusting your voice as you kiss him again. Your tongue drags across the seam of his lips, and you moan as he lets you deepen the kiss. His hands press you down, guiding you as a shaky breath slips from you.
Your hand slips down his torso, and you pause, lips still locked with him, hips moving steadily against his own. But….
You’ve never been with Peter like this before. So the feeling of his abdomen shouldn’t be familiar to you. The curve of muscle beneath his T-shirt should be a strange new land you’re discovering.
Jesus, that sounds stupid.
Still— you shouldn't recognize him beneath your hands.
Why does it feel like you’ve been here before?
You try to ignore it, try to let yourself get lost in the moment as you fumble with the button of his jeans. He lifts his hips, jolting you and earning a shocked noise from you. He laughs lightly as he helps you slip his pants down. Just enough.
His own fingers find the edge of your underwear, slipping beneath the hem before shooting you another questioning look. You nod; you can’t talk. You can’t handle another check-in.
It just reminds you of how good he is and how everything that’s led you up to this moment is beginning to feel like manipulation.
You did not turn yourself into a honeypot.
Right?
Forget it, ignore it, you repeat. You let your hand move, also choosing to ignore his abs. Even though you don’t really understand how Peter has abs.
Your fingers slip into his boxers, and he lets out a rough groan at the touch of your cold fingers. “Sorry,” you mutter, trying not to laugh.
“It’s fine,” he whispers, shaking his head. He drags you closer, hand cupping your neck. You inch your hips back enough to be able to wrap your hand around the length of him. It just makes him jolt again.
It feels like a tug of war. Who can get the other more flustered?
Really, it feels like your whole relationship has.
You work on finding a steady rhythm, hand pumping up and down. And then you feel his fingers slipping into your underwear. It’s almost embarrassing how wet you already are. Probably just from when he kissed you at the door.
He lets out a small noise, and you don’t let him pull away because you know if you did, he’d have a taunt on his tongue. Ready to point out who’s the desperate one here.
His finger slips inside you, and a low, shaky moan comes out as you pull back, eyes falling shut. “You okay?” he asks, and he’s not teasing. You grab his wrist, stopping him while you catch your breath. He waits, patient.
You feel like you don’t deserve it.
“Yeah,” you tell him. He waits before his hands begin to move. Slowly, the tension in your body starts to change. The nervous, jittery energy that's been buzzing beneath your skin all night is turning into something else.
But then he stops, pulling back, and you let out an offended noise.
“Not here,” is all he says. His hand slips from your underwear as his hands grab the back of your thighs. You let out a gasp as he lifts you from the couch, legs tight around his waist.
He should not be able to do that. Not so effortlessly. Peter is… he’s Peter. He doesn’t work out enough to be able to just pick you up like you don’t weigh anything.
He lays you gently against his bed. You’re already moving, pulling impatiently at his T-shirt. He lets out a low laugh, slipping it off. You slide the straps of your dress off your arms, let it pool around your waist as you stare at his extremely muscular torso.
There’s a slight bruise on the right side of his ribs. You reach toward it, frowning. But he grabs your jaw, pulling you into another kiss. It almost feels like a distraction.
But then he’s pushing you back, sliding your dress off your legs, his fingers hooking in your underwear as he draws them down.
You move up the bed as he climbs over you, his jeans pushed down just enough to free himself. You grin, eagerly tugging him forward, your thighs bracketing his hips. “Don’t ask,” you tell him, your hand in his hair as you drag him into another kiss.
He lets out a surprised noise. But then he’s opening your legs, lifting your hips as he positions himself. Your brows furrow as your arms slowly wrap around his shoulders. He slides inside you, and you should relish that shaky noise he lets out.
But then you shift, almost clinically, as you wrap your legs around his waist. You should be here with him. But the moment is falling away. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pull him tight against your chest, and squeeze your legs around his waist.
You’ve been here before.
*************
“I’m sorry that I once told you that you have the energy of an untouched virgin.”
Peter lets out a shocked laugh, glancing over at you. You’re lying on his chest; his arm is around your shoulders. And you’ve spent the last hour fighting off nausea. You knew this body before you were supposed to.
Because someone who was more muscular than you thought they’d be had swung you through Queens. Had abandoned you on two different roofs.
And now you’re 90% sure that he’s lying beneath you.
But you don’t know that Peter is Spider-Man. You don’t know that he’s the one who held you.
You only know that Peter felt familiar to you before he should have. But you’re also stressed out of your mind and have been having increasingly more bizarre run-ins with Spider-Man.
Maybe you’re confused. This could all just be one anxious misunderstanding.
Your hand slides down his torso as you shift, trying to get more comfortable. You freeze as you feel something rough and raised beneath your fingers. “What’s—”
Peter flips you over, and then he’s climbing across you. You stare up at the ceiling in shock. He’d done that so fast. “Water?” he asks, grabbing his shirt and throwing on his boxers. Again, bizarrely fast.
“Uh, sure,” you agree, sitting up. You pull the sheets with you, covering your bare chest. You grit your teeth, trying not to watch him. But you can see him moving in the reflection of his window. He’s pouring water, but you catch the way he keeps looking over his shoulder at you.
If he hadn’t moved so quickly, you would have sworn that you’d felt a scar.
A scar in the same spot where you’d recently sewn up a masked web-slinger.
Peter returns, holding the glass to you like a peace offering. You smile, but it falls. You only manage a sip before you put it on his nightstand. Standing, you keep the sheet around you as you go around, picking up your clothes.
He takes a seat on the edge of his bed, watching, looking increasingly concerned. “What’re you doing?” he asks quietly. “I can give you some extra clothes,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat.
“No, um,” you motion for him to turn, and he does. Quickly, you drop the sheet, pulling your dress and underwear back on. “I think I should go home, actually. I’m just feeling really sick.”
“I— I have medicine,” he rushes out, standing. “Pepto-Bismol,” he tries, but you can hear the desperation through the humor.
“Peter,” you whisper. Neither of you speaks. You just stare up at him, trying very hard not to let him see what you’re feeling.
You don’t honestly know what you’re feeling. Anger, confusion—
You’re kind of fucking heartbroken. Because if what you think is true, Peter has been lying to you since the day he met you. And you can handle a lot, but such blatant lying— looking you in the eye and feeding you bullshit every time you got too close…
No, you’re having a very hard time trying to stomach that.
“I need to go home,” you tell him quietly. “I just, uh, I need to get my head on straight right now.”
“I thought you were feeling sick,” he whispers. You can see it: the way his face is falling, the slightly glassy look in his eyes. You can’t be here right now.
“Good night, Parker,” you tell him, your tone closed off as you rush toward his front door. You hear him call your name, but the door slams behind you. You take off at a run, feet pounding down his stairs as you try to run away from what just happened.
Maybe you should have taken his mask off when you had the chance.
Writing—
Writing helps you get your shit together. So you write down everything that happened tonight in your notebook. Not the sex. But the evidence. The hints that the mask has been staring you in the face the entire time, and you were too stubborn to look.
His strength, speed, strange agility…
The scar.
Spider-Man’s injury would have closed by now. He’d told you that it only took a few hours for it to heal. It makes sense that the tissue would still be rough and raised. It’s still fresh, but it closed far too fast for a normal person.
Worst of all is that you knew the feeling of Peter before you even realized it. Which means that he knew you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his shoulders— Just like when he’d first taken you for a ride.
Maybe you should have made him put you in doggy. You wouldn’t be feeling jackshit right now.
You throw down your notebook with a rough noise. Your vision grows watery as you stare up at the corkboard of evidence. Something hot and angry floods your chest, and you reach up. Just as you’re about to rip it all off the wall, there’s a knock at your door.
You tense, knowing who it is immediately. Closing your eyes, you let out a heavy breath. You force yourself to release the board as you move toward your door.
“Parker,” you greet, giving him a flat look.
He winces. “Stop calling me that,” he pleads. You look him over; his clothes are disheveled, hair messy— like he just took off a mask.
“Got here pretty fast,” you bite out.
His expression shifts into something knowing, and you bite your tongue. “Can I come in?”
You lick your lips, debating. You could just close the door on him, leave him outside to suffer. But you wouldn’t have opened it in the first place if a part of you didn’t have something to prove. “Sure,” you mutter, moving aside.
He nods, walking into your living room. You let the door close, but your hand lingers on the knob as you try to calm yourself.
“Whoa,” Peter lets out a low whistle.
You frown, turning toward him. It’s only then that you remember the actual state of your apartment. The blood-stained, torn-up couch, the corkboard full of evidence, your notebook—
Your heart stops as Peter notices it at the same time as you. His head tilts, scanning the words hastily scribbled down. “Right, so, what do you want?” You rush out. You walk toward him, reaching for the notebook.
But he’s picking it up off the table before you can even bend over. “Known associate, Peter Parker,” he reads out, shooting you a wary look. “Suspected: Gwen Stacy, Harry Osbourne…” he trails off as the notebook hangs by his side.
“What’s this?” he asks quietly.
Your pulse is pounding against your neck, but you can’t let him act like he has the moral high ground here. “Research,” you tell him. “I, uh, was just trying to do some research.”
He bites his lip and glances down at the notebook, then back at you again. “Okay, um, sweetheart, are you stalking me?”
“What?” you demand, shaking your head as you glare at him. “What the hell, Parker? No.”
He holds up the notebook, pointing toward it accusingly. “Why are my friends' names in here? And my height, my weight. What else am I supposed to think?”
“Oh,” you groan, skirting around him and moving toward the board. That does, objectively, look really bad.
“It’s fucking research, like I said.”
“That’s really not making me feel any better.”
“God,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. He looks concerned as he steps forward, but you jerk back, glaring at him. You move closer to your patio, trying to put some space between you. You ignore the wounded look he gives you.
“Okay, I know how this looks. What I’m about to say is not going to sound much better.” His lips purse as he glances between you, the notebook, and then the red-stringed corkboard. “I was researching Spider-Man, okay. Jameson wanted me to get an exclusive with him, so I was… I was trying to figure out who was close to him.”
The notebook falls from his hand, and you flinch as it hits the floor. “So… you were using me to get to Spider-Man?”
“No,” you snap. “And don’t look at me like that, Parker. I have been into you since I first met you. And then Jameson had that stupid exclusive interview idea. Everyone in the office knows that you’re close to him, because how the hell else do you explain those pictures? But I did not date you because I wanted some stupid story. I want— I wanted you.”
His expression drops; you can see the heartbreak in his eyes. The same type that’s mirrored in your own. You take another step back, closer to the patio now. “I found him on my own, Parker.”
You suck in a shaky breath. “I found him on my own, and it had nothing to do with you. And you know what? I could have taken his mask off. He was on my couch,” you tell him, jabbing toward it. “He was bleeding and knocked out. I could have taken it off,” you let out a watery laugh.
Turning, you open the patio door. “What’re you doing?” he asks. You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, and he freezes behind you.
“I didn’t unmask him. And I was never going to.” You step out onto the patio. “So don’t stand in my living room and look heartbroken. Because there’s one of us here who actually respects the other person’s trust, and it’s not you, Parker.”
His hands reach out, eyes going wide as you grab the railing. Your heart is throbbing against your ribs as the cold metal bites into your palm. “Whatever you think you’re going to prove—”
“I know what I’m going to prove,” you tell him, swinging one leg over the edge and then the other.
“Okay, come on.” He moves toward you, and you jerk back, letting your arms extend. Your body dangles dangerously over the edge, and you let out a panicked gasp.
Don’t look down don’t look downdontlookdown
Your eyes narrow as he risks a small step forward. God, I really hope I don’t fucking die right now.
You push back from the railing with a yelp. Peter shouts your name, and you shut your eyes, bracing as you feel the wind pushing against your back.
And then—
It just stops; you let out a short, heaving breath and look up. Peter is leaning over your railing, face furious. A thick string of webbing stretches from beneath his sleeve to your dress. He’s pulling you up quickly, and you grab his arms the second you’re touching the railing again.
He doesn’t say anything as he drags you over the edge. The second your feet are steady, you shove him back. “I can’t believe you,” he breathes out. His eyes are red, and his expression is angry in a way he’s never been with you. It’s panicked and hurt.
You’re shaking as you stand across from him, trying to remain steady after you just launched yourself from your patio. “How could you do that? What if you were wrong? What if I didn’t have my webs?”
You bite your tongue as his voice rises in pitch. Sucking in a sharp breath, you force back your tears. You refuse to let that be how this plays out.
“But you did. Because you swung here. And you know how I know? Your hair— I always thought your messy hair was just cute. But no, it’s because of the mask, isn’t it?”
He glances around, and you realize you’re still on the patio. Without him saying anything, you move back inside. Your legs are trembling as you drop yourself onto your couch. You can hear the door shut across from you. Peter just stares.
“It’s the lying, Peter.” You bite your lip and glance over at him. His chest is still heaving, his face still just as panicked. “Every day since I’ve met you. How do you get those pictures, Parker? Oh,” you mock his tone with a patronizing smile. “It’s just my lens. Whenever I saw you with that mask, you were lying to me. Who’s Peter Parker? I’ve never heard of him,” you mimic, thinking back to that day on the roof.
“That’s unfair,” he whispers, glaring down at you. “You know what I do every day. No one can know who I am!” He shouts. “Knowing who I am just puts you in danger. It puts your life at risk. I’m not going to apologize for protecting you,” he snaps.
You cross your arms, leaning back against the cushions. “Gwen knows.” Your voice is quiet, soft, as you watch the realization dawn on his face. “She’s the one who stitches you up, right?” He can’t say anything to that, and you roll your eyes.
“I get it, whatever. You dated in high school and college. She’s your friend. But I don’t really give a damn about that. I care about how easily you can lie to my face. I have always thought you were a shit liar, Parker. But no, you’re just so good at manipulating me— I only know you’re lying when you want me to. Right?”
His face falls as he walks toward you. “What do you want from me?” he asks. His voice cracks as he stares down at you. “I’m sorry. I am sorry I lied to you, sweetheart. I really am. But if you had known, you wouldn’t be safe.”
You scoff at that. “That’s such bull, Peter. You interacted with me as Spider-Man. You swung me through the city. People at the bank saw you choosing me.” He shakes his head, but you can’t look at him. “I stitched you up,” you whisper.
“You didn’t just talk to me as Spider-Man. You were injured and hurt, and you came to me. I helped Spider-Man, and I didn’t even know that it was my boyfriend bleeding out on my couch. I’m not entitled to your secret identity, Peter. But knowing how easy it was for you to lie to me, as a friend— my only friend,” your voice cracks, and you grimace.
Peter slowly sinks to his knees, reaching for your hands. You jerk back. “You were so much more important to me than I was to you,” you tell him.
“Don’t say that,” he tells you, his voice firm as he watches you. “You don’t get to just decide that. And— I mean, you were using me, too. You name-dropped me to Spider-Man for your interview. Jameson was going to have you unmask me—”
“But I didn’t,” you snap. “What the hell kind of argument is that? I actually had the opportunity to do it, right here,” you point to the bloodstained cushion beside you. “And I didn’t. But you did lie to me, Peter. Nothing else that you say really matters. I understand why you did it. I understand that your intentions were good. But I fell for it, which means I can’t trust what you say because I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.”
Your face falls as your brain finally catches up. “Wait.” You push off the couch, and he watches you. “How did you know Jameson wanted me to unmask you?”
“You said it earlier.” He’s quick, earnest.
Believable.
“No. I said that I could have unmasked you. Are you—” You let out a shocked laugh. “Jesus, it’s just instinct to you, isn’t it?”
He sinks back against the couch, defeated. “When I landed on your fire escape, I could hear him on the phone. I gave you the chance, acted like I was asleep,” he admits. “You didn’t take it.”
“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t.” You press your hand to your mouth and take a deep breath. “Please go home, Parker.”
He gets to his feet, and your stare bores into the wall, unable to look at him.
He stops in front of you, and you grimace as he hugs you. Slowly, your arms come up, wrapping around his waist as you bury your face in his chest.
It really sucks when the only person you want to talk to is the same one who hurt you.
“I—” he stops himself and pulls back, pressing a kiss to your temple. You tense, looking down. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“I know,” you tell him honestly. “Please leave,” you’re practically begging. You need him gone. You need him to take his heartbroken face and leave you alone.
Peter slowly backs up; his hands linger a moment before letting go. He turns toward your door. “Why don’t you use the patio?” you bite out, unable to keep the venom from your voice.
You turn toward him as his hand freezes around the doorknob. He looks over at you, and you shrug. Slowly, he pulls the mask out of his jacket; you watch as he puts it on, his face disappearing behind red threads and white lenses. You can’t believe how long it took you to see it.
You don’t watch as he leaves; you just wait until you hear the patio door closing. The anger hits quickly after that. As you glare down at your couch— the one he ruined. You rip the cushions off and throw them off your patio, letting them fall in the alley below.
It’s then a blind sort of rage as you attempt to drag your couch out of your apartment. It’s stupid and pointless. All you end up doing is getting it stuck in your front door while you sit on the floor— staring at it.
You glance over at your notebook and crawl toward it. You rip the pages out, shredding them. Destroying the evidence.
You can’t let anyone know who Peter is.
Even if you hate him.