Kiss me like you know me
Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!Stark!reader
Summary: you and Peter were together for years – at least until Strange cast the spell. He ceased to exist as Peter Parker, yet the two of you kept working side by side as Tony Stark’s daughter and Spider-Man. That is, until something shifts in you.
Warnings: fluff, angst, strangers to friends to lovers to enemies to lovers again, memory loss trope, spoilers from Spider-Man: Brand New Day, a little of dark Peter/OOC Peter because of the mutation, jealous Peter, sexual tension, banters
Word count: 6K
A/N: hi! At first, I wanted to write something along the lines of the memory loss trope as if you were MJ, but then I read somebody asking for something different and the idea was slowly forming itself in my head while I was listening to Ariana Grande’s new album, “Petal”. Buckle up, because this is a long ride! Are you ready? Feedback is always appreciated by a writer! Hope y’all like it. Enjoy! X
Main Masterlist
Peter Parker's Masterlist
Tom Holland's Masterlist
“I can’t find my earrings anymore! Have you seen them lying around anywhere, Justin?” you ask, hurrying around the room. You’re running late for work—something your father would never have allowed. But then again, there are a lot of things your father wouldn’t have allowed if he was still alive, right?
“No, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Don’t worry though, you look beautiful anyway,” Justin says, before planting a kiss on your lips. You give him an uncertain smile, then shake your head.
“You’re right. You always know how to calm me down,” you reply. “I’ll see you later at the pastry shop, right?”
“Of course.”
His presence reassures you, as always. According to your therapist, stability and balance have been your two favorite anchors since your father died, though you’re pretty sure you were like that back in high school, too. Control intoxicates your senses, as if it alone could give you power, but it also makes you feel safe. You like predictability. You like things clear, precise and simple. For instance, your life is planned down to the last detail: you’ll marry Justin after graduating from MIT, take over as head of Stark Industries from your mother and lead the Avengers from the compound whenever you can. That’s the plan. Justin is moving in with you soon, though it’s almost as if you’re already living together, since he often crashes at your place. Everything is perfect.
As you think about all this, you take a deep breath and smile at yourself in the mirror. The elevator whisks you up to the fortieth floor—a quick ride, yet long enough for you to notice your own tired eyes. Maybe you need a vacation. Ned is always saying you’re a workaholic because you don’t go out with him on Saturday nights anymore, but you have too much work to do—no time for parties, dancing, or building Lego sets (something you used to do only because he had no one else to share it with).
Sometimes you think that in a parallel reality, you must be an Avenger who reads minds like Wanda—only with purple powers instead of red—,because you’re feeling a sharp pang in your chest again today. The doctor said it might just be stress, but you never really bought that. You love working here so much that you even stay overnight. If you enjoy your job, you aren’t really working, right? So that means everything is fine. Oddly enough, these moments always coincide with the arrival of a guest you’d rather not see—someone who is currently running down the hallway toward you. Could any kid from Queens be more annoying than him? No, definitely not.
You huff, the sound of your heels clicking against the floor as you head toward your office—the one with the glass doors overlooking the New York skyline. Normally, you’d be drinking your coffee while gazing at this breathtaking view, but this morning, it seems Spider-Man has other plans for you. Perhaps you simply dislike him because he’s unpredictable and you’ve never been one to color outside the lines.
“Good morning, sunshine!” he exclaims, and you raise an eyebrow as you settle into the comfortable chair behind your desk, the door closing silently behind him.
“What do you want this early in the morning, Spider-Man?”
“Ms. Y/N Stark, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, too? Because usually, you’re ruder than this.”
An almost amused huff escapes your lips, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Then just walk away and forget it.”
“Aiming to be even ruder?” he asks, but you don’t laugh at his dry joke. “Anyway, I can’t: New York needs us.”
“What a shame… What happened this time?”
“Remember that mission you assigned me? Well, bad news: Scorpion got away from me… again.”
You cover your face with your hands in anger, but you don’t let it show. Your therapist says this gesture is also a response to the trauma of your father’s death: you avoid conflict, trying to be kind and appear easygoing. In reality, you do it for the sake of others; if you let it all out—if you allowed your anger to surface—you would hurt people. Bruce has the same problem—in fact, you talk about it often—but even with him, you can’t quite get a handle on it. The venom that would spill from your lips would be terrible for others to bear, but partly for you, too: you would feel guilty. Unfortunately, your empathy won’t allow it.
“I read the police report… but what the detective told me was more interesting: you’re tired, Spider-Man. You need a vacation. You can’t react like that again,” you tell him.
You can’t see his eyes from this distance, but you can sense him holding his breath: perhaps he fears you might kick him out of the Avengers or exile him, but the truth is, he’s already punishing himself. You don’t think he cares about your judgment, given the relationship you’ve built over time—one that has become somewhat distant now. It didn’t use to be that way. Sure, you don’t remember who is behind the mask or what his name is, but you know he was your rock for years—that he was your best friend and your boyfriend. That is, until you broke up—before Strange’s spell, according to Spider-Man. Bruce told you that you used to be much more cheerful, selfless, and generous. Something painful and unexpected must have happened with that guy behind the mask to cause such a drastic change. At that point, he remained Just Spider-Man. Or at least, what’s left of him—because aside from missions with the Avengers, none of you ever sees him anymore. At first, that bothered you, so you tried to talk to him about it, but he was adamant: you couldn't know the truth. So you let it go and moved on. And yet, there’s always that pang in your chest when you see him…
“Like you, you mean?” he asks, and you blink a couple of times.
“What?”
“You just told me to take a break. Maybe you should do the same.”
“I run a company, Underoos.”
“Not yet, as far as I know.”
“And I’m planning a wedding.”
“Oh, really? Whose?”
“Mine,” you reply, and it almost feels like you imagined the smile fading from his face.
Spider-Man stays silent for a few seconds. Through the suit, you can see his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down as he tries to swallow. Sure, he’s your ex-boyfriend, but four years have passed, and he never showed any interest in you, so you were certain he’d moved on.
“Did Justin propose?” he asks, his throat dry.
“Yes, yesterday—and I said yes, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeats.
“Are you okay?” you ask, standing up, but he immediately moves away from the desk before you can reach him.
“Of course. Anyway, I don’t need time off, I’m fine. I’ll sort out my own troubles—don’t worry about it.”
“Spidey, listen…”
“No, it’s fine. You have every right to be happy. Congratulations,” he says, then walks out the door and leaves the office quickly.
You can’t sleep at night. You should be overjoyed, yet you just can’t manage it. You get out of bed, trying not to wake Justin, then head to the kitchen for a glass of water. It’s summer, and the heat in New York is brutal. You’ve decided to get married in June—exactly a year from now—after your graduation in November. You tried cake samples with Justin, but you didn’t like a single one because, like a fool, you were busy wondering who was hiding behind the Spider-Man mask. After all, he always said keeping his identity secret would protect you, but the truth is, you face risks every day even without being engaged to him. That’s where your punishment theory comes from. Maybe you got hurt because of him in the past, and he regrets it? You couldn't say for sure, but now you want to know the truth again. Justin doesn't know this, but at Ned’s place, there’s a board—one you helped work on—covered in your theories about who might be under the mask. Knowing his name might bring your memory back... and maybe even help you reclaim the person you used to be. You wish you could be as carefree as you were when you were younger, even though you know it’s impossible. And maybe, a small part of you is curious about the person hiding beneath the suit, even if you never really tried hard to get to know him after what he told you.
Your fingers are already typing on your phone before you even realize it.
To: Yelena
I know you saw Spider-Man today.
Of course, she’s still awake.
To: Y/N
Yeah. He wanted info on Jean Grey. Small Potatoes. Nice muscles.
You smile.
To: Yelena
I need you to do something for me.
To: Y/N
Do I have to kill Spider-Man? Or do you want to have a spa day with me?
To: Yelena
Tempting offers, but no, thanks. You need to investigate Spider-Man. I want his full name on my desk by tomorrow.
To: Yelena
I like it when you give me orders. Consider it done.
You wake up tired the next day. You seriously consider taking the day off, but then you change your mind. You straighten your hair, put on a blouse, a long skirt, and heels, then grab your bag and head to the compound. Then your eyes land on the earrings you had lost right under the bed—emerald-shaped ones. You put them on, happy. They’re a gift from Justin, and you don’t want to lose them for anything in the world. Suddenly, a crazy idea crosses your mind: Justin will be away all day, and you can get away with taking a day off since your mother is at the office—so you decide to go to Spider-Man’s place. Yelena has already texted you his address and it’s a terrible spot in the slums, but that makes sense, given he doesn’t have much money saved up and preferred living far away from the other Avengers. Far away from you.
You knock on what is supposed to be his door—at least according to the blonde girl you met at the laundromat. Apparently, he stole her clothes, and you wonder why. I mean, he could easily just ask you to help him shop, if he needed it...
He opens the door a couple of minutes later, wearing his mask, a black tank top, and long sweatpants. Up close, you can catch a glimpse of his eyes behind the mask—hazel, and so big you could lose yourself in them.
“Hey,” he says, and you give him a shy smile.
“Hi. Can I come in?”
“S-sure!”
You look around and see multiple screens, a workbench, and clothes scattered across the apartment. You feel a tingling sensation in your head, but quickly shake it off.
“I still don’t get why you didn’t prefer staying with the others at the compound.”
“For the same reason as always, I guess,” he says, and you feel the answer hanging in the air: you.
“Look, I’m still your boss, so if you need clothes or food—really—don’t be afraid to ask.”
He nods, sitting down on the bed.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m all set.”
You notice a bouquet of flowers on the table as you wander around the apartment. Spider-Man seems nervous, as if he expects you to suddenly go for his throat.
“Who are those flowers for?” you ask.
He gives you a smirk.
“What, are you jealous now?”
“No, I just want to know if one of my employees is getting distracted from work.”
Spider-Man laughs.
“You’re the one who told me to take some time off.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why are you so interested in my love life?” he asks, rising from the bed. He closes the distance between you in just two strides, and your heart begins to hammer against your ribs. What is happening? You’ve never experienced anything like this before. “Is your predictable life boring you now? What is it? Does Justin not satisfy you enough?”
Your heart is pounding in your throat. Is the temperature in the room rising, or is it just your imagination? Spider-Man is standing right in front of you, but you back away until your spine hits the wall. He reaches out, placing his palm against the wall to your left. His other hand moves slowly toward your chin—barely grazing it—but before he can actually touch you, you close your eyes, as if afraid of him. When you open them again, he is on the other side of the room, his hands clasped behind his head.
“I think you should leave,” he says, though his voice is trembling now.
“What?” you ask, your throat dry.
“I’m sorry. But you really need to go now.”
“You’re hiding something from me, and I’m going to find out what it is!” You exclaim before storming out.
You leave the building in a fury. Back at your office, you sit at your desk with your hands in your hair, which is pulled up in a messy bun. You let it down, weary from the throbbing headache. You don’t like the feelings Spider-Man stirred up in you—especially since you’re about to marry a wonderful guy. Yet, a part of you was ready to crumble, to give in to the darkness, the unknown and the gentleness of those calloused, gloved hands... You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts. He chose to be Spider-Man, and being a superhero leaves no room for love. It’s his decision and you have to respect it.
You go to turn on the computer, but notice an envelope underneath it.
From: Yelena
Inside the envelope there are the details you asked me for. Open it only when you’re ready.
You dial Ned’s number and hurry over to his house, the envelope in your hands and your heart pounding in your chest.
When Ned opens the door, he stares at you wide-eyed, as if he’s seen a ghost.
“Y/N, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m holding Spider-Man’s real name right here,” you tell him in a hushed voice, sounding feverish. “Are you going to let me in or not?”
After you’ve told him everything, Ned stares at you as if you’d just revealed that you were Spider-Man. Exhausted, you lie back on the floor where you’re both sitting, closing your eyes.
“Have you closed your mouth yet, or is it still hanging wide open?”
“Sorry, but it’s a lot to process. I mean, I’d figured out that Spider-Man liked you, but not that he was your ex. It all makes so much more sense now.”
You sit up immediately.
“How did you figure that out, exactly?”
“Oh, well, the way he looks at you. It was easy. Every time you walk into a room, he stares at you like you hung the moon and the stars.”
“But you can’t even see his eyes!”
“Yeah, but he always gets all flustered when he sees you and he clenches his jaw every time Justin kisses you. He’s insanely jealous, I’m telling you.”
“You never told me that,” you say, sounding almost wistful.
“Why would I? You’re happy with Justin, and he made his choice—apparently. Even if you did remember him—which seems impossible to me now—you still wouldn’t be able to feel what you felt before. His name won’t bring back the person you used to be, Y/N. And maybe you miss her even more than you miss Spider-Man.”
You look at him, tears stinging your eyes. You hold them back, forcing a smile.
“Do you remember what I was like in high school?”
“You were smart and beautiful, definitely out of our league,” he says, and you burst out laughing. “I remember at your father’s funeral, you hugged me like it was the last time you’d see me. And I remember you telling me one day that you flew across rooftops with Spider-Man, even though you’re afraid of heights, but that you felt safe with him.”
You moisten your lips before speaking.
“What if I’m not that person anymore?”
“Oh, I think that, deep down, very deep down,” Ned jokes, and you giggle, “you still are. And that he knows it. That’s why he can’t let you go.”
You look at him as if he’s just revealed the most important secret in the world. You take the letter in your hands again. You look at Yelena’s handwriting, cursive and full of doodles, then you hold the letter out to Ned.
“You keep it. I want him to tell me.”
Ned nods.
“Oh, I see you finally found your earrings!”
“Yes. I feel incomplete without them. And besides, I think Justin would be really upset if I lost them.”
Ned frowns.
“Justin? I thought your dad gave them to you in high school.”
Your heart drops.
“Did I wear them in high school?”
“Yes.”
You go home with more questions than answers. When you go to bed, Justin says goodnight, but you don't reply. Maybe you feel guilty, as if you've hidden something from him, but you haven't omitted anything or lied. You've just been trying to find out more about yourself.
The next day, you go to the office with your hair down. You're so late, you're wearing Converse and an old band T-shirt with a jacket and some pair of jeans. You rub your eyes while waiting for your coffee to arrive.
Suddenly, Spider-Man bursts in through the window, breathless and agitated.
“What are you doing here?”
“Come with me. You’re taking a break today,” he says.
He takes you to the beach. Surprisingly, the journey in his arms, swinging between the skyscrapers, doesn’t scare you anymore. You sit on the sand, slip off your shoes, and savor the scent of the waves lapping at the shoreline. You don’t protest, you don’t scream. You look around, but there’s no one there. Spider-Man probably picked the spot furthest from the city—or maybe it’s just that people are at work on a Wednesday.
“You’re too quiet, and I don’t like it,” he says.
“You practically kidnapped me, yet that’s what you’re worried about? Interesting,” you retort sarcastically, though you aren’t truly as angry as you make out.
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About what’s happening to me,” he replies, then sits down beside you. Grains of sand will probably get stuck in the seams of his suit, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“And that would be?”
“A mutation, or something like that, apparently. That’s why I went too far with you the other day—I’m sorry about that. I designed an inhibitor to keep that side of me in check, the way Dr. Banner does with the Hulk.”
“Oh, good. That might come in handy with Jean Grey.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not the point, though,” he counters, then takes a deep breath. “Look, I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think I owe you a real explanation this time. When Doctor Strange cast that spell, he made everyone forget about me—the person behind the mask. You were hurt during the final battle, so I touched the scar you have on your temple and told you I’d find you to tell you everything, but you knew I wouldn’t do it. So I came to the compound to tell you that you were wrong—for once—but they told me you were in the office, and there you were… shining. God, you were the light illuminating that whole damn room. You were incredible. It was like seeing Mr. Stark all over again,” he says, and you feel tears stinging the corners of your eyes. He is slowly giving you back your memories—the person you were when you knew him—but Ned was right… you don’t feel a thing. “You were… amazing. We used to laugh together, we never fought, and even though your dad didn’t want us together, he eventually realized that I loved you. I loved you, and I just wanted to be with you forever.”
“No, please, don’t say that…”
“Be with me. Marry me, not him,” he says, and you swallow hard. You can see his eyes through the mask now, and they’re pleading with you to listen. “I know you can’t feel what I feel, but I beg you—give me another chance. I don’t deserve you, but I hope you’ll be kind enough to hear me out. Just give me one day, and I’ll show you what it’s like to have me by your side. Please.”
You think about it for a moment—a handful of agonizingly long minutes while he holds his breath.
“You’ve got twenty-four hours, Spidey. Show me who you really are,” you tell him, smiling.
“I promise I won’t let you down.”
“Oh, I hope so,” you say, then you undress—taking off your jacket, shirt, jeans, shoes, and socks—until you’re left in just your underwear.
“What are you doing?” He asks you, sounding panicked, his eyes languidly tracing the length of your body, but you just smile at him, shivers running down your spine.
“I’m done being predictable. Take off your suit and come into the water with me.”
He’s left wearing nothing but his mask, and you can see his muscles flexing in the water. You feel his gaze on you the whole time—even when you don’t catch him staring—because your cheeks keep flushing hot. You splash water at him and he splashes back, just like two children or old friends. Perhaps that’s how it really used to be with that person—someone who now feels like a stranger to you. You have memories with Spider-Man—like when he wrote that he loved you on the Brooklyn Bridge using his webs—but not that guy. Are they really the same person? Even now, after all these years?
As you step out of the water, you feel your wet hair curling against the back of your neck. Later that evening, after chatting a while longer, your hair is dry and you’re starving. Spider-Man offers to grab a couple of pizzas, and you agree. You put on your jacket to cover up, while he wears your T-shirt, even though it’s a bit tight across his muscles.
“Did we really go to that concert together? I wish I could remember you,” you say with a sigh.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he replies, holding a slice of pizza.
A distant song drifts toward you. He sets his slice back in the box, wipes his fingers, and holds out a hand to you.
“I’m not dancing with you right now.”
“Come on—didn’t you say you wanted to be unpredictable?”
You accept hesitantly, but as you stand up, the music seems to spark something inside you; you start moving quickly, laughing, your hands in his. You feel carefree again at last, and it’s all thanks to him.
“After all these years, you still can’t dance,” he says, and you playfully shove him away, laughing.
“Sorry my Dad never gave me dance lessons. At least he taught me quantum physics, though,” you retort, and Spider-Man clutches his chest as if struck by an arrow.
“Ouch,” he says, and you burst out laughing.
“I wish it could always be like this—even at work.”
“In general or between us?” Spider-Man asks, and for a moment, you fall silent. The second song is slower and you feel tired, so you rest your head on his chest and he holds you tight, as if you might run off at any moment—or worse, vanish like a ghost. You wrap your arms around his neck.
You use your hands to search for his eyes, but it’s too dark to see anything. So, you hug him instead.
The warmth radiating from his body reminds you of how your father used to tell you he loved you "three thousand" before bed. It brings back memories of your mother’s bedtime stories when you had nightmares after she died. It reminds you of the scent of Christmas cookies and humming along while baking them. It feels like kissing him without actually touching lips. You feel like you’ve known him forever—as if he had always been there, right beside you, through all those moments.
Your muscle memory remembers him better than your mind does. It all comes flooding back: the earrings he gave you for your birthday, the hug at your father’s funeral, the day he told you he loved you—before you forgot him.
May… Parker’s funeral.
You snap your eyes open and pull away from him, a tear rolling down your cheek.
“What’s wrong?”
“Who is May Parker?” you ask, and something in his eyes seems to shatter; you can almost see your own reflection in his tears.
“What?” Spider-Man asks, caught off guard. “You remember?” he asks, incredulous.
“Were those flowers for her? Was she your mother? I thought she was just my neighbor, but she wasn’t.”
“She was my aunt. My name is Peter… Parker.”
“Peter…” His name slips from your lips.
A sob escapes him. He probably never believed you’d say his name again and after four years, this must have felt like a miracle.
“Yeah, baby, it’s me,” he says, reaching out to embrace you, his voice choked with emotion—but you take a step back. “Take off your mask.”
He swallows, stumbling over his own words.
“But the anonymity…”
“There’s no one here. You’re safe.”
Slowly, Peter does as you told him. He slips off his mask, and now you can finally see his face. He has dark, curly hair, brown eyes, a nose that’s been broken more than once, full lips, a sharp jawline, and bruises on his neck as well as his body. You move slowly toward him. You graze his face with your fingers. He closes his eyes, and you run your hands over them as if you were blind and trying to understand his features—trying to recall every imperfection, every scar or mole. You linger on his lips, as if you could remember their taste, and your heart is pounding hard in your chest now. You feel that strange sensation again—like someone pulling a cord—but it hurts less now, because you are close to the part of yourself that’s been missing.
“Your exile was your way of punishing yourself, Peter. I was the cause of it, wasn’t I? You were afraid they might hurt me again because of my scar. You let me grow up—grow old, actually—without knowing the truth. Now I’m different because of that, and I don’t remember you. You didn’t do it to protect me, but to atone. That makes you selfish,” you say, your anger rising.
He grabs your hands before you can pull them away.
“Y/N, listen to me—I couldn’t risk losing you or having you suffer because of me. You’d already lost your father… Please, try to understand.”
“No, I don’t understand. You made the decision for me and let me become this person—let me regress to who I was before I met you.”
“You can’t blame me for that. You used to be fun. You used to be kind. Now you’re just cruel,” he says, and his words seem to burrow into you like poison. Then his tone softens. “I miss the person you were when you were with me—when we were together.”
“Well, the way I see it, you have only yourself to blame for that now. I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations.”
Peter doesn’t step back, but it’s as if I’d slapped him anyway. A long minute passes before he retorts.
“And who should I blame for still being in love with you, huh? God, maybe? Or you?”
You pull away from his grasp and pick up your jeans from the floor.
“You had your twenty-four hours, Parker. Now take me home. Your time is up.”
The next day, you call in sick from work. It hasn't happened since your father died, but now you really need it. You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, while Justin continues to text you. You turn off your phone and bury yourself under the sheets. Stupid Peter Parker and stupid memories. You should never have given in to curiosity. You were funnier before, huh? Well, sure, you were fifteen! Now you're the head of a company and the Avengers, you have responsibilities. What do you expect a boy who's finally lost everyone he loves to know?
You huff, sitting up. Indeed. He should know better than you, and you were a fool for thinking that. You pick up your phone, turn it on, and call Ned.
An hour later, Ned is eating ice-cream with you in the living room.
"I have to tell you... you stink," he says, and you laugh.
"You're right, but I don't even feel like taking a shower right now."
“So the situation is really serious. Okay, listen: I read the letter and I know his real name.”
“Yes, me too, he told me.”
“Ah… Okay, anyway, with or without our memories, he was an important part of our lives and I think he deserves a second chance.”
“I tried, Ned, but we just argued.”
“I think you're just afraid, Y/N.”
“And of what?”
“The person you are when you're with him,” he replies. The spoon with the ice cream inside remains in mid-air. “You have your whole life planned out between now and when you turn thirty. I understand it's hard even to think about taking a different path and turning your plans upside down—but tell me the truth: did you enjoy going to the beach with him yesterday? And did you enjoy going for a swim half-naked, knowing you might be seen? And touching his biceps under the moonlight?”
You burst out laughing.
“You pervert!”
“Okay, I only said that last part to make you smile, but it’s true—I know you: you just want him to prove that you can trust him. So, put him to the test.”
You leave your spoon in the glass bowl. You sigh, because Ned is right—yet again.
“Justin is such a good guy... he doesn’t deserve this.”
“So is Peter, and he’s a thousand times less boring than Justin.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hello? He’s Spider-Man!”
You smile at him.
“Right. I don’t want to run away anymore, Ned, but I can’t just throw away four years of my life like this.”
“No one is asking you to do that, Y/N, but if you want my humble opinion: I wouldn’t throw away the time you spent with Peter, either. It only took him two days to turn your world upside down like this. That has to mean something, right?”
It’s eight o’clock in the evening when you knock on Peter’s door. You’ve finally showered and changed, and now you’re waiting anxiously for him to open up. You’re drumming your fingers against the doorframe when Peter appears in the doorway. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that highlights his shoulder muscles and a pair of jeans. He looks at you with genuine curiosity, but also a hint of annoyance, as if he’s still angry about yesterday.
“Hi,” you begin.
“Hey,” he says. Great—he’s still angry.
“Can I come in?”
“Did you come here to bark orders at me in my own home, too?”
“Your maturity is embarrassing, Parker.”
“And your charm is as biting as ever, Stark,” he retorts, making room for you to enter. The door clicks shut behind you, and you feel almost trapped—caught in a spider’s web. Ironic. “I heard you weren’t at work today. How come? Were you trying on garters?” He asks, though the last question seems to hurt him more than it does you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the inhibitor sitting strangely on the table. Now you understand why he’s acting this way.
“Put on the inhibitor so we can talk like two normal adults.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Oh, really? It didn’t seem that way yesterday.”
“Yesterday I wanted to tear your clothes off, now I just want to kick you out,” he replies.
You swallow hard, and he must like it, because a smirk escapes him.
“I spoke to Ned… he made me think about a lot of things.”
“Like what?” he asks, ruffling his hair as he sits on the bed. His biceps bulge beneath his t-shirt sleeves with every movement, making it hard to focus on the words you wanted to say. Stupid Ned and his stupid advice.
“Come on, put on the inhibitor. We can’t have a conversation right now—you’re too angry.”
“Angry? No, I’m furious,” Peter retorts, a strange, unfamiliar smile on his face, his knuckles white with rage. “I’m losing my mind, because the thought of you marrying that idiot has been eating me up inside ever since you told me. And I’m going crazy because this damn inhibitor isn’t working!”
“Can I help you?” You ask, and he nods, huffing.
“Sure, knock yourself out. You can use anything on the desk,” he says. Then he glances at you sideways and must notice you’re feeling rather awkward, because he quietly approaches from behind, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. He adds these words—deliberately meant to fluster you further—in a low, husky voice, just to see your reaction: “You can use me, too, if you want.”
You swallow hard, and he walks away with a satisfied smirk.
You move to the desk, and after about ten minutes, you hand the device back to him. “Try it now.”
Peter puts it on and for a moment, you see a pair of dark eyes staring back at you, then they vanish, and Peter looks at you as if you’ve just performed a miracle.
“You did it!” he exclaims, hugging you. You stand frozen, breathing in his scent—a smell that must have been imprinted on your brain all these years, because it feels like home, and the warmth radiating from his body makes you feel safe. When he pulls away, he looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry—sorry about earlier.”
“It’s fine. Now I understand why you and Bruce have so much in common. In the end, it’s much easier to bottle everything up than to let it out, isn’t it?”
“Careful, I might start to think you’re speaking from experience,” Peter laughs.
“Maybe I am,” you reply. Peter gives you a sidelong glance.
“What do you mean?”
“I hid my feelings so well all these years... yet you can still see right through me. You know I spent sleepless nights thinking my father’s death was my fault, don’t you?” you ask, and he nods, looking pained. “And you know I’m stressed at work, even if I don’t show it, right?” Again, Peter nods. “And I bet you also know that my heart aches every time I see you come running into my office, because I’m afraid you might be hurt—right?”
“Yes, I know, and I hate that you worry about me, but what does all this mean?”
“It means I don’t want to wear a mask anymore, Peter. I’ve stopped pretending I’m indifferent to you. I’ve stopped pretending I don’t like you,”
“Because it’s not true. I like teasing you and I like it when you come cheerfully down the hallway in that stupid suit of yours. I like bantering with you, and I like dancing under the moon with you. I don’t feel any of this when I’m with Justin—he never even once urged me to take a break,” you say. “I like the person I am when I’m with you, and I want to find out who we are when we’re together.”
Peter smiles at you, and you take a deep breath—a breath of relief. You remember it clearly: the day your father sat down with you in the kitchen and told you how Peter had excitedly asked for your hand in marriage—even though you were too young—because he needed to know that Tony approved. But your father had asked you, he had asked for your opinion. You had laughed, but for him, that was already an answer.
You don’t have to run away from love anymore: Peter has found you.
