YOU HAD ME AT WRONG WINDOW — Peter Parker x Reader
Spider-Man shows up at your dorm room window, hurt and bleeding, while you’re trying to study for finals. You have no choice but to help him and a night of comfort and fluff ensues.
Also available on AO3: HERE
College Peter Parker | No Smut | One Shot | Second Person POV | Any Spider-Man | Fluff | Comfort
You’re halfway through your last physics past paper and fully convinced that if electromagnetism were a person, you’d punch them in the face.
Your laptop fan is wheezing louder than your exhausted brain, your headphones are blaring some hyper-focus playlist with lo-fi beats, and your desk is a crime scene of sticky notes, cookie crumbs, eraser dust and one very abused mechanical pencil.
Your dorm room is halfway packed— boxes of sweaters and mismatched socks stacked by the closet, your roommate’s bed already stripped bare and empty. She went back home to Egypt 2 days ago, and now it’s just you, your fading sanity, and a large amount of snacks that are currently on sale for the holidays.
You’re already planning the hot chocolate you’ll make on your study break when you finish this question.
But just as you tap the spacebar to replay a tutorial video of an Indian man explaining the same concept that just won’t stick in your brain for the third time, you hear it… A loud thunk against your window.
Even through your headphones, you hear a loud, muttered, “Ow! What the hell?!”
You pause, headphones still on, head slowly turning toward the source like you’re in a horror movie and the killer just called your house phone.
You live on the sixth floor of the student accommodation building. There should not be knocking. There are people on your floor partying one last time before the semester break but how on earth could they have made it out to scale the side of the building??
You take off your headphones and put the last cookie down, heart thudding with the kind of adrenaline only caffeine and existential dread can prepare you for. You take a scissor out of your desk drawer. It’s not even that sharp but it will have to do, you guess…
Another thud. A grunt. And then, faintly, but unmistakably:
“…Did I forget to leave this open again, come on!”
Cautiously, and confused, you stand, shuffle over in your fuzzy socks, and peek past your string lights and the little paper snowflakes taped to your windowsill.
Outside, clinging to the narrow ledge like some kind of deranged Christmas ornament, is Spider-Man.
Yes. Spider-Man. In the flesh. Or rather, in the spandex? Red and blue and bleeding through the rips in his suit!
He doesn’t see you at first. He’s carrying a backpack and he’s crouched awkwardly on the windowsill, both gloved hands jammed under the windowpane as he mutters angrily under his breath, “Come on, Peter, you idiot… Wait, did I forget to put my lights off? Why is it so— wait… When did we buy a salt lamp?”
You slam the window open so fast he almost slips.
“WHAT THE—?!”
Spider-Man lets out a startled noise that can only be described as a high-pitched, mid-puberty shriek before flailing backwards. He barely saves himself with a web, panting, as you gape at each other.
“What the hell are you doing?!” you hiss, eyes wide, adrenaline now spiking for very different reasons.
He pauses.
Then peers past you into the room.
“…This isn’t my room.”
“Ding ding ding,” you snap. “If you’re looking for Peter Parker, try four doors down.”
A long pause…
“…You know Peter?” he asks, voice hoarse.
Before you can answer, he sort of… slumps. One hand presses to his side and you finally notice the dark crimson smeared down his ribs.
“Oh my God,” you whisper. “That’s a lot of blood.”
“Yeah. That tends to happen when you get slammed through a car windshield. I’m gonna go find Peter now…”
He tries to wave it off like it’s no big deal and then promptly collapses into your room headfirst. The backpack falling beside him.
You scream and then you’re so thankful that no one outside can hear you because of their loud partying.
Two minutes later, you’re dragging the city’s web-slinging superhero across your roommate’s rug while he wheezes, muttering apologies and asking, “Please don’t call the RA. I’m trying to keep a low profile,” as you pick up the phone you put away while you were studying.
“I wasn’t going to call the RA, I was going to call an ambulance!”
“No hospitals,” he groans. “I’m fine. I just need—”
“Peter, right? I know where his room is, I can go get him. That guy’s never at any parties, he’s probably up studying for our exam tomorrow too.”
“No, it’s okay, I think I’ll just—”
You cut him off, checking your phone again. “We don’t really talk but I have his number because of this group project we had once, maybe I can call him up here?”
Without thinking and probably under the influence of a serious concussion, Spider-Man starts feeling around his non-existent pockets in a fit of panic as you dial the number.
His phone rings, in that backpack. And you stare as the main soundtrack from the first Star Wars movie plays.
“Why do you have Peter’s phone?” You ask.
“Uh,” he sighed, “That’s his backpack, I saved him. I was just trying to return it and make sure he’s okay.”
“There’s way too many people out there, are you sure you don’t need my help?”
He’s breathing so heavily and he barely has the energy to get past you as you block the door. You hear him sniffle beneath the mask.
“Y/N, please,“ he whispers with a shaky voice that makes your heart twist. And then he rips the mask off.
And you freeze. You stare at him. At the too-familiar messy brown hair and the tired, warm brown eyes and the soft, crooked nose you’ve definitely stared at from behind a textbook in calculus.
“Peter?!”
He looks like a raccoon caught in your trash can. You, meanwhile, short-circuit.
“Peter Parker?! You’re Spider-Man? YOU? YOU’RE? WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? OH MY GOD???” you’re pacing now, waving your hands like a cartoon character trying to fly away, “THIS IS WHY YOU NEVER SHOW UP TO GROUP PROJECTS, YOU’RE OFF FIGHTING CRIME? OH MY GOD? OH MY GOD!”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, like a kid who broke your favorite mug. “Please don’t freak out. I just really thought this was my room. I had the craziest night.”
You gape at him. He’s bleeding. He’s shivering. His voice is quivering. His hair is stuck to his forehead and he’s got an actual web-shooter strapped to his wrist.
You exhale and drop to your knees beside him.
“…Okay. Okay. Let me help you, though. I can’t let you leave my room like this, even if I didn’t know it was you, Peter.”
You lead him over to your bed and get the first aid kit from under it, gently cleaning his wounds. He winces the whole time but doesn’t complain, and you tell him he can take a shower if he needs it, which he does. Before he goes into the bathroom, you hand him a hoodie and sweatpants which somehow fit him.
While he’s in the shower and the steam slips out into the rest of the room from under the doorway, you take your laptop from the desk and search up ”Spider-Man latest news” on YouTube to see what exactly happened. You find a candid video of him being attacked by what looks like a whole band of henchmen, but you have no idea who they’re working for. Poor kid, you think, as you watch him being flung off buildings and punched into walls. The footage is really shaky but you’re pretty sure you just saw those guys whip out some steel pipes to beat him in the shins with.
Now that the shock of the revelation had died down, you felt so inexplicably sad. The fact that Spider-Man was just some awkward, nerdy, orphaned college kid you met last semester made your chest feel funny. And the fact that you may or may not, kind of, sort of, always had a little crush on him makes it feel even funnier.
You make some hot chocolate for the both of you with some more Christmas cookies on the side, ready for when he comes out. Peter comes out wearing your clothes, looking much better… and not just because he had cleaned up his wounds. His wet hair and bunched up eyelashes make your stomach flutter just a little bit.
He was grateful for the clothes and the snacks and the hot chocolate helped, as you hoped it would. You sit on your roommate’s bed while he sits under the blankets on yours, mugs in hand, surrounded by twinkling fairy lights and the soft hum of “All I Want for Christmas” leaking from the hallway.
“I feel like a failure,” he says after a long silence, voice small. He caught sight of your open laptop where you had just searched for footage of what happened.
You glance over at him again and he’s now staring at his mug like it holds all the answers.
“The guy got away. I shouldn’t have let that happen.”
You nudge his leg gently. “You were outnumbered, dude. Also their attacks were brutal, they had weapons and you didn’t. I think you’re allowed to feel a little shitty right now.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “That’s… a good point.”
The noise from the partying on your floor starts to die down and outside your window, snow starts to fall. Light, fluttery, magical. The kind of snow that makes you nostalgic for things you never even experienced.
Peter catches you looking and gives a small smile. It’s kind of heartbreaking. Kind of beautiful.
“I always thought you were cool,” he says, quietly.
You blink. “Me?”
“Yeah. You’re always working so hard. Always helping everyone. You made the dorm Valentine’s wall in February.”
You try to suppress a smile. “No offense but I thought you were always working hard too. You never show up to any parties or hangouts so I always assumed you were home studying… not out fighting crime.”
He stares out of your window, fondly. “I’ll take that as a compliment actually. At school my aunt used to just kinda… assume I was doing drugs or something.”
“You’ve been Spider-Man since high school?” The thought finally registers. “Shit, yeah that’s true. Wow, that must’ve been tough.”
Peter shrugs and lets out a long sigh, so you take the hint and change the topic because you don’t want things to get too emotional. Eventually, the party noise outside dies down completely. It’s silent.
“I should really get back to studying for the physics test tomorrow,” you say, making your way back to your desk. “These stupid electromagnetism questions have been giving me a headache. How sure are we that they’ll even be on the test?” You yawned, contemplating whether you’d be able to skip them and still pass.
“Very sure, trust me, they’re on all the past papers so there’s a really high chance, I guess,” Peter said, getting up.
“When did you find time to do all these papers?” You turn to him.
He shrugs again. “The good news is that the questions are kinda repetitive. So if you know how to answer one, you’ll know how to answer them all.”
And with that, he takes a seat and helps you study. Turns out Spider-Man is weirdly good at circuits.
You fall asleep sometime around 3 A.M shoulder against his. He whispers your name once, softly, like he’s testing how it feels. And then he writes you a note and leaves it stuck to your window.
You wake up to snow and sunlight and the ghost of Peter. You think maybe this is the start of a very weird, very good Christmas break.
The note reads: Thanks Y/N. You make the best cocoa. I still have your number too, I’ll call you if I ever need anything. Also, let me know if you need your clothes back. Good luck with the final and happy holidays :)
You giggle when you flipped it over and see a doodle of Spider-Man wearing a Christmas hat and drinking hot cocoa.