Aw, of course he was whining. Peter had just saved the Torch’s sorry little ass, and he was whining. Of course he was! If he had been anything but a brat about this, Peter would have had to make sure he wasn’t a Skrull (Question: How many pairs of Spider-Man print boxers do you own, and why is it more than zero? Answer: Probably at least two, but will pretend to have no idea what you’re talking about.) At least whining was proof of life. Reassured that the Fantastic Four hadn’t just become the Fantastic Three on his watch, Peter turned to blast one more web over the Lizard, making sure he’d stay down. (Rule #2: double tap. Worked for zombies; probably worked for scientists who’d accidentally mutated themselves into giant lizards.) Just in case. Johnny was probably nursing a healthy head injury, and Peter didn’t need to give him any more reasons to whine.
And he did look hurt–not awful; even after literally falling out of the sky, Johnny Storm looked frustratingly, stubbornly good–but Peter saw the way he leaned forward to support himself, and he winced. “If it helps, I don’t think they like you either.” The mask hid the way his mouth tugged at the corners, its thin, nervous line twitching into something that was either a smile or a grimace. Did he offer him a hand? Did he try to help him up? Did he let him sit there as long as he needed, nursing his ego? “Yeah, thank you for distracting me. Liz and I had a whole thing going. Super choreographed. We were gonna go out for Dancing with the Stars. I think we had a real shot. Next time I need someone to play Icarus, I know who to call.”
Sometimes, Peter wore Spider-Man as a skin–sometimes closer, sometimes there was no divide between them at all. Sometimes, he was so very aware of the costume. The mask, the quips, the obnoxious suit; it was a song and dance routine, carefully designed to hide him in plain sight. The red and blue hid blood and bruises; the black-and-white bug eyes hid very real, very human ones; spiderwebs disguised the way his face softened into a smile. He was Spider-Man, super-powerful and super-cool superhero extraordinaire, and he was a boy whose friend had been hurt. Johnny could hold his own, usually. He’d be fine, probably. Peter hadn’t asked him to butt into the fight–he would have, in fact, asked him to butt out of–but it had been his fight in the first place, and it was his to handle. His to make sure no one else got hurt, not even Johnny fucking Storm.
Peter dramatically pressed his hand to his chest. “Oh, my heart. Y’know, you make a cute damsel, Torchie. You should try it more often.” Johnny leaned on his shoulder as he stood up, and Peter reflexively wrapped an arm around him for support, ignoring his own battery of cuts and bruises. He’d take stock of those later. “I got you,” he said. “What do you need? I think our scaly friend’s out for the night, so–do you want to head to the Baxter Building? Somewhere Ben won’t laugh at you? Just say the word.”
He stood and tried to keep his balance, Johnny’s head dancing enough without trying to make sense of Peter’s babble. But that was pretty much par for course. Johnny just closed his eyes and listened, let Peter’s voice wash over him. He liked the babble. It was comforting, especially after he’d just gotten wiped out. “Do you ever stop talking?” Johnny asked, aiming for exasperated. He was pretty sure he’d skated right past that and into embarassingly infatuated I’m-completely-in-love-with-you-and-also-wouldn’t-mind-seeing-what-you’ve-got-under-the-suit territory. It was fine, though. Pete wouldn’t notice. He never noticed. “Like, I literally have a head injury here and you’re making it worse,” he added, groaning.
Years of insult after insult, fireballs and web missiles, Johnny knew the script, knew this frustration in his chest. He felt jittery all over, on edge, full of fire. It had always been like this. Peter would drive him crazy, so much he couldn’t think, and Johnny would do his best to be annoying right back. So what if he’d never really gotten past the throw some fireballs stage of managing his feelings? It worked for them. Mostly. Peter stepped closer, his arm wrapping around Johnny’s back, close enough that if Johnny turned his head, he’d be right there, and there it was. Right on cue. He couldn’t think.
“That right?” Johnny widened his eyes, playing along. He was still a little breathless, but he figured that could pass as part of the act. “Oh, Spider-Man, how can I ever reward you?” he said, fluttering his eyelashes. He could feel the warmth of Peter’s arm at his back. It was all a little much. Everything Johnny wanted, right there. For a second he thought of just trying it, kissing him. Even just once. Pulling off the mask, Peter’s hair wild underneath, more handsome than he had any right to be. He’d still be talking, too, that smart mouth going at a hundred miles an hour, the remnants of stubble on his jawline if he hadn’t bothered shaving - which, knowing Peter, he probably hadn’t. He was always kind of a mess. That should really be a turnoff, Johnny thought and felt it again, so much wanting it actually hurt. Same old story. He had to do something with it. He just wasn’t sure he was up to a fireball yet, so Johnny stuck his foot out and around Pete’s ankle instead, and tried to trip him over.
What he needed was space. He needed - distance. “Yeah. You always come through, webhead. It’s kind of annoying.” Johnny coughed, ignoring the ache in his chest, and stepped away. What did he need? Geez. Pete really was clueless. He shook his arms out, tentatively prodding at his powers, letting a trail of fire slowly run the line from his wrists to his shoulders. “Anyway. I’m back, baby! Race you to - well, guess the usual place is out. Race you to the roof of the Baxter?” Johnny challenged and then took off. “Last one there’s a rotten spider!”
