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this is alarming

tasm!peter x fem!reader

summary: you consider yourself a generally unlucky person, but when you meet peter parker it becomes even more apparent that the universe hates you.

warnings: mean peter, mean reader, coworkers, angst (?), working, jameson

a/n: this is part one because i wrote 10k and decided that tumblr wasn’t going to put up with me any more. next part will be out later tonight, or tomorrow.

*

you always set seven alarms in the morning.

it's often that your alarm clock falls behind the nightstand, often that you shut it off without a moments notice--eyes closed, dreaming dreams you can never remember. it's often that you don't hear anything at all.

only the sound of a groan escaping your mouth when you pick up your phone and see that you're two hours late for work.

the first alarm is to be snoozed; almost an hour and a half before you need to wake up.

the second alarm is for the dreams to muffle, to hear the sound but pretend that it's only a figment of your imagination.

the third is for stirring.

the fourth is to open your eyes and feel some haze snap them immediately shut. if you can't open your eyes, why should you even bother to wake up?

the fifth is for shivering into the covers. your temperature hasn't regulated, and if your bed wasn't so welcoming, you probably wouldn't still be in it.

it's usually by then that you've pushed the alarm clock off of your nightstand, and that it rests under the bed, collecting dust.

you've tried moving it to the other side of the room, but even seven alarms weren't enough to get you up.

so there it remains, ready to be picked up whenever you are graced with the opportunity to really notice it.

the sixth alarm is to think. wonder to yourself what you're supposed to be doing right now, if you need to shower, smell your own sweat from restless sleeping, and consider the possibility of never waking up at all.

you usually get caught in these thoughts, and your eyes still don't want to open.

the seventh alarm is the one you get up to if you're lucky. it's the one that pushes you out of the bed, onto the floor and laughs when it sees the bruises you have from falling.

and it doesn't really matter when you wake up, or when you get to work.

there's a bitter taste in your mouth, and it's not just morning breath.

*

it usually rains on the days you walk to work, and conveniently you've never really learned how to open an umbrella properly--proven by the stack of broken ones you keep hidden somewhere in a closet--so there's no hiding from the drizzle of the sky.

sometimes you wonder if the earth is mad at you. if whatever deity controls all of this thinks that you're making a mistake.

a mistake every time you wake up in the morning, and suddenly feel the courage to move your limbs.

it doesn't matter though. you have an extra pair of clothes in the ridiculously large bag you always carry around.

there might be a first aid kit in there, a water bottle, a lighter, and many other things that you only realize you need when you don't have them.

your relationship with this bag is the longest one you've ever had. and it's beginning to fray at the edges, not unnoticed by you.

still, as soon as you get to work--only fifteen minutes late--you hide in one of the bathroom stalls, cursing when you accidentally drop your clean clothes onto the floor.

you try not to think about bacteria, or who's walked in this bathroom before you.

and if you weren't already late--and if you cared a little bit more--you might try and deal with your hair, but today, you settle for dripping it out over the sink and ignoring the woman who walks by behind you, giving you a look you can't miss in the mirror.

you ignore all of it, at this point.

*

when you got this job as an editor at the bugle--known for crazy conspiracy theories and adamant headlines, or pictures of spider-man--there was only one desk available.

it's hidden in a little alcove of the space. a corner you have just to yourself--and it would be nice, you're sure, if there was any actual lighting or an outlet that worked anywhere within the eight-foot vicinity. and also if the ceiling would quit leaking almost right above your desk.

you didn't complain when betty showed you it on your first day. you figured that after ten job interviews and six very strange first days, you didn't have any room left to complain. and you wouldn't be surprised if this only lasted three days.

but it was supposed to be safer than stocking shelves at target--which, coincidentally, had no more shelves--or passing out flyers for local offices in the middle of the street. or even working at annie's flowers where everything was supposed to be beautiful and nurturing, but you were pretty sure you still needed stitches from all the thorn pricks you'd endured.

this was an office job. this was reading and writing and hoping to avoid the available eyes of everyone else--or a helicopter crash into the side of the building.

what could go wrong, you'd thought, smiling at betty and thanking her for showing you around.

and then you grabbed the nearest file on the desk, stained with something that looked like tears. you never said a word about your desk or the discomforting smell that came from the exposed pipes on the wall.

you'd managed to last seven months at bugle, so far. seven months of laughing at grammatical errors and wincing at headlines with puns that even you couldn't have come up with.

you fixed things and stayed out of everyone's way.

and then you went home, running to avoid the rain, or trying to catch the subway before it left.

you sat on the couch and watched the news, eating a sandwich or whatever you could find in the fridge that hadnt already rotted.

you hadn't put the pictures up, and you didn't think you were going to. even though you'd been living in this apartment for more than a year, and it had been three since any of that mattered.

you were lucky to have this life, you reminded yourself. and you sat at your tiny desk, reading about fates that were far worse than yours.

*

there were at least twenty pairs of eyes on you when you opened the door. the hinges squeaked as you closed it, and you almost squeaked when you realized that everyone else--everyone--was already in there.

all sitting down, all giving you confused looks.

and you swore that the email about this mandatory "morale" meeting--an excuse for jameson to talk about failures for the month--said eight-thirty.

you were absolutely sure of it.

but as you lean against the wall because there aren't any chairs left, after whispering a soft apology, it was clear that you were very wrong.

or maybe you'd been sent a typo that no one else received. or they forgot to put you on the forward list again, and there was no way for you to know that the time had changed to eight.

or maybe you just couldn't read.

it didn't matter, because after about fifteen seconds, the lecture resumed and the eyes left your sullen and guilty face.

you couldn't listen to anything else you were supposed to be paying attention to for the next thirty minutes.

your feet ached, and your head hurt, and every two minutes your stomach grumbled. and then you were thinking about breakfast. you were thinking about quitting this job so you didn't have to see any of these people ever again.

and whatever jameson was ranting about, it probably didn't apply to you.

still, it got worse when you began to doze off--who knew drywall could be so comfortable--only to wake up to people passing you, pushing you with glares in their eyes.

"hey, cathy," you nodded, giving her a reckless smile and waving. you’d never shared a proper conversation with the older woman. you definitely did not hear her scoff as she walked by.

and as soon as the crowd of your coworkers had cleared the room, you were sighing, hand to your head, and then promptly tripping over a leg of a chair someone didn't push in.

a hand wrapped around your shoulder, awkward and warm, as someone pulled you toward them, keeping you from falling.

"are you sick?" a rough, low voice whispered, not quite in your ear but not quite far enough away for you to feel comfortable.

with the grace of a drunk elephant, you attempted to stand on your own two feet, trying to find your balance without flailing your arms.

"what?" you croak out, trying to laugh this furious heat off of you.

"you came in late, and now you're falling over. also, you feel a little warm."

"i thought the meeting started at eight-thirty, and there was a chair," you say to this man, pushing the damn chair back in. "plus--" and then you look up.

peter parker, with his signature furrowed brows and lip bite, stands there, looking at you.

well, that explains the heat.

"oh, um--" you scratch at the back of your neck, going for a pleasant smile. "hey, peter. thanks for... not letting me split my head open."

"do you want me to call you a cab?"

"why?"

"you don't have a car right?" peter says, eyes clearly saying are you serious?

"i-- no?"

"you probably shouldn't walk home then. you're already having trouble standing.”

you blink. "i'm really not sick," you tell him, trying to sound stern or serious or anything but flustered. "it was an accident."

he holds intense eye contact with you, barely blinking. "you sure?"

you nod. it doesn't feel necessary to tell him that this happens a lot.

"okay. well, jameson wanted me to talk to you about the jenson project. which he wants us to do together."

"oh. how come?"

"apparently 'partner work' is a strong selling point. i'd just send you some pictures to fit into an article. you'd have to--" he purses his lips.

"mess with them?" you ask, trying to be helpful.

"sure. jameson said he wants it to be nice and shiny for next weeks release. i thought maybe we could work on adding the pictures together, just so i know if i need to change anything."

"like photoshop?"

peter nods. "or if there's anything you have questions about. i was there taking the photos so i got a lot of the interview too."

"yeah, okay. i'm just working on a couple of footnotes for this week right now, so i'm not sure when i can--"

"how's thursday?"

you try not to flinch at his tone. certain but soft. his eyes, you think, might be the most terrifying thing you've ever seen up close.

clearly, peter is not very interested in any of this. or maybe he's a strict rule follower and is holding a grudge against your lack of punctuality.

"thursday works," you tell him, dropping your somewhat regular smile.

"great. we can work at your desk or mine, it doesn't matter to me. or we can go get coffee to escape the office for a couple hours. just let me know."

and then he's walking away, pushing in a chair as he goes with a look back to you, and you've barely even comprehended what he just said.

or the fact that he didn't let you answer him.

"okay," you say, in a whisper, but you're just talking to the wall.

last to come, you think, and last to leave.

*

here's the thing about peter parker. he's not known for being the friendliest of coworkers.

he's pleasant enough, gets all his work done, doesn't snap at people when they make mistakes and doesn't finish the coffee in the breakroom without brewing another pot.

and since you've been there, you've learned--mostly from eavesdropping--that he's been working here for three years. that he's taken lead photographer out of many qualified candidate's hands and only responded with a smirk. that he's supposed to be a genius, comes into work with bruised knuckles sometimes--which your coworkers gossip endlessly about--and jameson is either constantly praising the man, or degrading him.

he doesn't go to office parties, he doesn't respond to emails. peter practices something you like to call "every man for himself."

and he doesn't ever smile.

trust that you should know. because, you'll admit, when you first got there, it was hard not to notice peter.

first of all, he's very tall, strong, and kind of brooding. he takes up fifty percent of the office space alone.

but he's also insanely attractive. blessed with thick hair and glorious eyebrows and cheekbones that put knives to shame. his eyes are soft and his lips are plump and he is a certified asshole.

or at least something like it, everyone knows. including you.

but for at least the first two weeks you couldn't avoid staring at his pursed lips or snorts when someone said something particularly obnoxious--usually jameson--or the way he tapped his wrist incessantly, like he was counting down time.

peter parker makes for a very suitable work distraction.

but as soon as you talked to him for the first time, you realized that he was a pretty, intelligent man.

you'd stumbled into the breakroom and dropped whatever semblance of a lunch you were going to pretend to eat that day, and peter was sitting at one of the tables watching.

he didn't have anything to eat, just a cup of coffee and a bitter look on his face.

you'd smiled sheepishly, picking up your now tarnished food, and swallowing. "i wasn't that hungry anyway," you'd said aloud, mostly because you weren't thinking clearly at the time.

peter didn't say anything back, not acknowledging the sarcasm or your lost lunch, he just stared.

and then you held a hand out to him. "hi, i don't think i've introduced myself. i'm y/n, a new editor."

peter blinked, looking at your hand, then back to your face. "peter," he said, giving you a small wave.

and then he turned his attention back to the mug in front of him, leaving your hand in the air, radiating embarrassment.

you cleared your throat and left the room, deciding to get more work done instead of worrying about it.

you'd sort of assumed--recklessly--that he would be charming. that he might smile at you, welcome you to the team, tell you that if you needed anything he was there. maybe it was his face, you'd thought. soft and knowing.

but peter wasn't there for anything but the money, and gradually, he became just another grim coworker, watching the clock until five every day.

and that was probably good for you anyway, because as angry or numb as peter already was, you didn't want to inflict anything bad on him, as you might've if he'd just smiled at you.

and if you overheard the clique of middle age ladies talking about him during lunch, you didn't say anything. didn't smile or laugh, or try to pretend like you weren't listening.

you kept your conversations with him short and tried to stay out of his way.

but apparently, he was going to get in yours.

*

you really don't even notice him when he walks up to your desk.

it's not your fault that you didn't get much sleep last night, being that your neighbors--right next to your bedroom--were fighting all night long. slamming doors and throwing things that shattered when they hit the floor.

and then they'd start screaming again.

you'd attempted to drown them out, only just barely dozing off when some other loud noise would wake you right back up.

you'd considered putting your headphones in and playing white noise, but with your luck, that would last all night into the next day, and your seven alarms would be pointless.

so you laid there, trying not to eavesdrop on the fight they were having, or think about your own voice yelling, screaming, and then going completely silent.

and now, you were nursing a cup of coffee, blinking at the computer screen like it was a puzzle.

and peter had come up to your desk--made the effort to venture almost across the office to your little cave--and you didn't see him there.

you didn't see anything until he cleared his throat, tapping his foot against the floor like an angry mother, and you finally looked up.

looked up to threatening eyes and a frown.

and peter parker, because of course he was there, at this very moment.

"hi, peter. what-- what's up?"

he blinks at you. you blink back, though significantly slower.

in the past two days, you had avoided any and all eye contact with him and accidentally forgot to look at the email he had sent you with some files attached. you also conveniently learned that jameson was disappointed with his last set of pictures, and that was probably why he'd forced the two of you to work together.

it didn't really matter.

"it's thursday," peter answers, dryly, after several moments of uncomfortable silence.

you look away, searching for any other person that could talk to him instead of you. "was that a question?"

"we have a date," he says, a bit harsher.

you couldn’t avoid leaning back at his voice, nor noticing the wince that fell upon his face as soon as he said it.

"er," peter clears his throat. "we're supposed to work on the jenson article today. are--do you have amnesia?"

"huh?"

"or some other medical condition," peter continues, "that would cause you to forget about the one article you have to edit this week?"

briefly, you want to ask how he knew that it was your only article, and why he was allowed to judge your work ethic when his was "consume coffee like blood and scare away any person who tries to speak."

you try not to laugh at the idea of vampire peter.

instead, you mumble "just a severe mental deficiency," under your breath and pinch the skin of your thigh, just to wake you up some more.

"what?" peter says, still frowning at you.

you sigh. "look, peter, i'm sorry. i haven't even looked at the article yet, or any of your pictures. i've been busy. but if you just want me to finish it myself i can--"

peter holds a hand up, telling you to stop without asking nicely.

you almost scowl at the very idea of it.

"no," he says, like it physically pained him to do so. "i need this--jameson wanted us to work through it together. as an actual collaboration."

you're very grateful that he's explaining this to you.

"i'm not going to tell him," you say, voice rough.

"you can read it and figure out where you want the pictures and the description for them while i edit some of them. i was rushing when i did it last week."

"um... okay. are you sure?"

"we can't work here," peter responds, instead of answering the question. "there's barely enough room for just you."

"...yeah."

"my desk is a mess," peter says, more to himself. "we can go to the coffee shop a block away."

you squint at him. "are you sure? 'cause we could always go to the starbucks on fifteenth, or we could just skip it and head to tipsy's."

you're just briefly aware that your sarcasm is not coming across well, and that you probably shouldn't have said that, nonetheless to peter parker, who already hates you enough.

to be fair, he hasn't asked you about any of these decisions.

"i'm going to go get my bag," peter grinds out. "i'll meet you by the elevator."

*

the only thing keeping you sane while you sit across from peter is the latte that you've been chugging for the past three minutes.

as soon as you got there, peter had ordered some tea that you didn't know the name of, picking the table for the both of you, and before you could even sit down he was frowning at his computer.

he hasn't bothered to say anything to you, so you don't bother to say anything to him.

still, you look up every couple of minutes, wondering what he could possibly be so worried about.

luckily--ha--this article is reasonably proofread. you only have to fix a couple of jumbled sentences and reread a couple of paragraphs because you can't really focus.

it's about half an hour after you've both been working that you get tired of it.

collaborating with peter by staring at your computer and hoping that the pleasantries, or nice relationship you've been craving for the past six months will manifest itself into existence.

he's right there, you think to yourself, and he's an ass sometimes but so are you.

and it's not like you get the opportunity to talk to a lot of people at work.

you clear your throat. "the pictures are good," you tell him as if this is new information.

you've known about peter's affiliation with photography since your second day.

the man just grumbles out a thanks, not even bothering to look up and acknowledge you.

you have a tight smile on your face. "are you still editing them, or can i start asking you where you think they should go?"

"you finished already?"

there's some emotion in his voice that you don't recognize, but there is still the obvious disdain that you're becoming very comfortable with.

"i'm a fast reader," you tell him. "was that a no?"

peter finally looks up, face blank. "i'll send you the updated ones. do you want me to add them in where i think they'd work, or just tell you where to do it?"

you'd really like to never have to have a one-on-one conversation with him again, but that doesn't really seem like an option right now.

"how about i put them in and you blink twice if you think it's stupid."

peter does not crack a smile. he doesn't even blink.

you try to hide another sigh. "go ahead and put them in."

and so you wait five minutes for the internet to catch up to him and silently curse jameson for subjecting you to this.

your latte is almost gone.

"okay, you can go through it," peter tells you eventually, returning to something else on his computer.

you scroll through it, beginning to write descriptions for each of the photos--which really are beautiful. and bright, almost too good for the bugle.

but you're a bit bored, and a bit delirious.

"can i ask you something?"

peter looks up at you, classic furrowed brows, and then back to his computer, grunting.

you're assuming that it means yes, but if he's not going to use his words like a big boy, then he'll have to deal with the consequences himself.

"how do you get the pictures of spider-man?"

"with my camera."

you can't tell if he's kidding or not.

"no, i mean, how do you get such good quality? he's always moving around, and quickly, so i'd assume it would be pretty difficult..."

he frowns. "it's just some angles and flash," peter answers. "honestly, it's less complicated than you think. they're not all good, i go back and edit them."

"yeah, but still."

peter shrugs, and looks down again.

"have you ever actually spoken to him?" you continue, still sizing pictures, still writing descriptions.

but you'll be damned if peter sits there in silence for another minute.

he sighs. "yeah, couple times."

"really?"

peter nods.

"is he nice?"

peter frowns. "'is he nice?'"

"yeah. i mean, i've heard lots of stories and read the articles--obviously--but i've never met him. is he... a good guy?"

"he keeps people from dying on the daily, and you're asking if he's got a good moral compass?"

you almost scowl, looking up to find brown eyes studying you. and then you shake your head. "i just find it hard to believe, i guess. i can't imagine--" you pause, shrugging. look away from peter's intimidating eyes.

"you can't imagine what?"

"just... doing that every day and being okay. i mean, he sees people get hurt all of the time, and he's supposed to be okay with that? that's a lot of mental energy. what if he's helping someone that he knows? or what if he can't help? not to mention the physical aspect..."

peter closes his computer, taking a breath. "are you good with the photos?" he asks.

"what?"

"i need to get back to the office and talk to jameson about some stuff. do you need anything else from me?"

peter is stiff and scowling. you shouldn't be surprised, but he also just shut down the first actual conversation you've ever had with him.

"oh, no. no, i'm okay. thanks."

"okay. i'll see you later."

peter packs up his stuff, and doesn't bother to look back at you while he walks out the door. you're not sure what you did this time--besides just generally existing--but you groan, hands rubbing at your eyes.

you're too tired for this. you're too exhausted to be talking to peter parker, who doesn't talk to anyone.

you sigh and look back to the article.

and then you spill what's left of your coffee, watching as it drips to the floor.

*

you're trying not to move.

even breathing, you think, is moving. so you hold your breath for as long as you can bare it, counting by tens, thinking about all the reasons you shouldn't need air.

but eventually, your body gasps for you.

your body moves because it can't think the same as you can, it can't hold that same guilt.

you know that if you don't move--not even a millimeter--nothing bad can happen. the dominos won't fall if there's nobody to push them over.

you're laying in bed completely still.

you're thinking about all of the mistakes you made, all of the unfortunate things you've caused to happen, and it causes enough fear to turn you to stone.

you'd be a statue. you know if you could choose that, you would.

what do you want to be when you grow up?

clay.

you'd choose being cemented in concrete than ever having to look your own luck in the eyes again.

you count by tens until you fall asleep.

and you dream of things that have already happened.

*

when you show up to work on monday, soaking wet, there's already a cup of coffee on your desk.

you try and think back to friday--which was lifetimes ago, really--and remember if you left it there. but you stayed in the office on friday, contemplating putting in your two weeks or throwing your computer across the room. you didn't go out for coffee.

and when you pick up this disposable cup to smell it, you can feel the steam on your face.

it's warm.

you look around the room, searching for someone who might've left this on your desk--even though you're literally hidden from every common eye--but can't find anyone who looks particularly tired this morning.

and there are only four people in the office as of now.

so you wait ten minutes, and then fifteen, ready for someone to come up to your desk at any moment and accuse you of stealing their coffee.

this would not be a surprising occurrence.

but even after twenty minutes, no one does.

you're back in your corner, alone, as per usual.

and when you realize that the coffee is going to go cold--claimed or not--you decide to take a sip.

and for the first time in a while, you've started the day off alright.

*

on tuesday, jameson calls you and peter into his office.

and, out of nothing less than familiarity, you're ready to be yelled at. you've prepared a list of snarky remarks to keep you from crying.

and you're completely, one hundred percent ready to ignore peter.

if he doesn't like working with you, fine. that's up to him--even though you definitely did a good job with his pictures. and if he doesn't even like you, fine.

you can deal with that.

what you can't deal with, of course, is standing a foot away from him in this office, feeling towered over by both of these men, who are much bigger than you.

but you keep eye contact with jameson anyway. what else can go wrong?

"i heard we were having some issues with the article last week," the boss starts, his voice typically unserious.

you furrow your brows and try not to look at peter.

he tattled on you?

"yes," you say, instead of admitting defeat. "i was behind on editing the article, so it took a little longer than expected. but i emailed you the finished copy on thursday night."

you don't mention that it was exactly one in the morning, and you'd been having twenty-minute naps since you got home.

or that peter had completely unnerved you.

"parker?"

peter sighs, shrugging. "it gave me more time to go over the pictures. we got it in."

at that, jameson smiles.

you wonder if he finds peter's grumpiness as amusing as you do. or if he's just enjoying the two of you struggle to completely ignore the other.

"good. well, seeing as it worked out--and it's some of the best work i've seen from both of you--i'd like to make it a regular arrangement."

finally, you glance over at peter, noticing his jaw clench.

you're not sure if it's at jameson's suggestion or his praise.

"it's a brilliant idea, having the photographer and editor working together. parker, you've got some fine pictures, but you're no writer. and obviously, she is."

you don't tell him that you feel anything but.

jameson chuckles, holding his hands up in defense. "i know, i know, it's more work for both of you. and more interaction. but it's only one article a week. everything else will remain the same."

"for how long?" peter asks, for the both of you.

"until one of you quits, i guess. or dies."

it's at this point that you see that there are no other options. no choices for you to consider. if peter wants to quit, he certainly can. he could get a job anywhere he wanted, any newspaper.

but you've struggled to keep this job. you've struggled to be anywhere for more than a month.

and despite how much you might dread the place, it's also an escape from everything else.

so you can't leave. and you have no current plans to die.

"alright, you can both go. shut the door on the way out. and one of you ask betty to get me a cup of coffee."

you follow peter out, looking at the muscles in his back tense.

and when you shut the door, he turns toward you.

he looks even angrier, even worse than he had last week. he's not even trying to remain professional.

"thursday?" he asks, but you know it's not a question.

"fine."

you go back to your desk, watching the ceiling leak onto your computer.

*

peter decides to go back to the coffee shop.

he orders the same tea, sits at the same table.

and he doesn't say a thing to you. he didn't even blink when you went to his desk at nine, gesturing towards the elevator.

but honestly, that's fine. you don't have anything to say to him either.

except to ask what made him hate the world so much. but you don't think he'd appreciate that.

eventually, you swallow. "so, you can put the pictures where you'd like, and then i'll write the descriptions. it'll be faster that way, and you've got a good eye."

peter nods but he doesn't answer.

"is there anything i need to know? anything important you want to add?"

"about the pictures?" peter confirms, waiting for your acknowledgment. "no. about social courtesy? definitely."

the last part is said completely under his breath, but you catch it anyway.

catch it like a rope you're hanging onto, hoping that it doesn't slip from your fingers.

"what?" you say, looking right at him. your hands are off of your computer. your hands might be around his throat in a couple of seconds.

peter furrows his brows. "what?" he repeats as if he doesn't know what he's said.

"what's your problem?"

"my problem?"

"yeah, with everyone. but especially me. peter, you don't have to like me, but i'd appreciate it if you could at least try and be professional. or talk to me about the work that we need to do."

"i don't have a problem--"

"save it. i'm sorry that jameson is making us work together, but unless you kill me, there's nothing i can do about it."

peter sighs, running a hand through his hair. "well there's something you can do about the way you get everything done," he says, quick and sharp.

"excuse me?"

"is it physically impossible for you to sit still? or show up on time, or do the work that you need to do? if i have a problem with you, it's that you're not doing anything to help me, and i don't need you."

"that's not what jameson thinks."

the words slip from your mouth, but honestly, peter deserves the wind knocked out of his chest, just like he did to you.

if karma is a thing, it's coming through.

it's just your luck that you'd get partnered with the one person that couldn't hate working any more.

"jameson doesn't even read the articles," peter scoffs, "he just sits in his office and smokes cigars and bosses everyone around--"

"then why does he want me to write your descriptions? you can't do it yourself?"

"maybe he pities you."

peter's eyes are sharp. his words are perfect.

"why would he pity me?" you ask him, "because i'm an editor?"

"because there's not a single person in the office that likes you. because disaster is attracted to you. because you can't follow directions to save your life, and you clearly have some issue with speaking up for yourself. he's probably pairing us together in some last-ditch effort to save you."

save you.

you take a breath in, tell your lungs that there's no air that they need.

there's no reason to be breathing, if you think about it.

and when you look at your hands, they're shaking. and you can't keep your eyes in one place. and you're ready to run out of there, to anywhere where peter can't follow.

you can't admit to yourself that he's right. you can't sit still, and you can't be there for much longer.

"you think you're better?" you ask him. "everyone in the office is scared of you. you don't have friends or anyone that likes you either."

peter shakes his head. "i chose that."

there's an implication there that you can't think about. there's something about his calm demeanor.

you can almost see the ghost of a smile on his face, just like everyone had said.

you don't have a choice about most things. but you know when to quit.

"peter, you can talk to jameson. you can quit, or do all of it yourself. if you want to just send me the pictures and have me edit all of it, that's fine." you stand up, shoving your computer in your bag, and trying to keep your hands steady as you pick up your latte. "but if you can't treat me like a person, or a coworker," you tell him, "then i'll talk to jameson myself.”

and then, without waiting for a response, you walk out the door.

you try not to let it hit you on the way out.

*

peter avoids you the next day.

or maybe you're avoiding him.

luckily, he's gone most of the time, taking pictures and sulking in corners where you don't have to watch.

jameson hasn't said anything about the article you submitted, and you're trying to assume that it's a good thing.

but honestly, none of it feels good anymore.

you know that you shouldn't let someone like peter parker get under your skin, but he has some iron grip on your brain. some cave built in your head, echoing the things he said to you yesterday.

nobody likes you.

disaster is attracted to you.

it's in your nature to prove him wrong, somehow. to start gossiping with the other ladies in the office, maybe even ask one of the men out on the date--though none of them are as tall, or as pretty as peter parker, so it probably wouldn't matter to him anyway.

you think about talking to jameson, tell him that you and peter can't work together, or that peter is an asshole, or that you would like a raise.

you think about blackmailing peter, but you have nothing on him. (besides his obvious attitude problem).

you want to do anything to prove to yourself that what he said isn't true.

people can like you, and you can like yourself.

but you know, that even if peter is just an asshole, bitter, and lots of other things you don't care to think about, he's also right.

at least about one thing.

disaster is attracted to you. and to the people you care about.

cared.

you wish you could tell peter that all of those things he thinks about you aren't by choice. that you don't want to live in your cave of a desk, and you don't want to show up late to anything, or trip on chairs, or walk in the rain.

but he'd probably just laugh.

and anyway, he isn't there on friday. so you can't tell him any of it.

*

on monday, it only takes two alarms to wake you up.

and typically, you'd be proud of that. grateful for it.

but it's cold outside, and you have to go to work.

you'd rather be sleeping.

rather be laying in bed than thinking about peter, or anyone else pitying you. rather do anything than think about peter and still recognize that he's smart and talented and better than you.

so you leave your alarm clock under the bed.

what are sick days for, if not days like this?

*

on tuesday, you get to work early. it's not by choice, but you were running in the rain.

you were trying to beat everyone there so that you might not have to speak to a single person all day.

that would be nice.

but someone is already there when you walk through the elevator doors, jacket still dripping.

and that someone doesn't even look up, or bother to wonder where the water is coming from.

of course, peter beat you there.

you've never loved your desk, but it's a welcome refuge now, despite how bad it smells. you can't see him, and he can't see you.

and you can take your jacket off over there.

but when you sit down, there's something on your desk that you don't recognize.

a blue hairbrush, and a candy bar next to it, wrapper somewhat wrinkled.

on tuesday, you decide that you're officially going crazy.

*

you try to avoid wednesday as a whole. thinking of it more as another object in your way, and something that can be ignored until it's over.

and it works, for the most part. you eat lunch at your desk, bring coffee from home, and sneak handfuls of chocolate whenever you feel like it.

you go through a thousand articles and decide that all of your coworkers are illiterate.

which you don't really mean, but prefer to think anyway.

it's about an hour before you can get home that you see the notification show up in your mail.

a new message, most likely some coupon for h&m.

but you see peter's name at the top, and a file attached to it. you stare at it for at least a minute.

it could be a hate note, a notification about submitting an hr claim, a picture of a house burning with a description of "this will be you." or even a list of people that peter hates, with your name in bold.

there are a thousand possibilities, and you don't care about a single one.

but when you click on the link, you just open a pdf with new pictures, labeled with the title of the article for the week.

and you're not sure what any of that is supposed to mean.

*

on thursday, peter is at your desk again.

in fact, he's at your desk before you are. and when you see the back of his head peering over your pens and pencils, and files that you haven't wanted to put away, your breath stops.

he might be there to murder you.

still, you continue to walk forward, tennis shoes squeaking, and pray that you don't accidentally trip before he's even noticed you're there. if peter is going to kill you, you might as well accept your fate.

and then you step past him, frowning. "peter?"

"oh, hey," he says, softly, standing up. his hands are awkwardly clasped in front of him. "you're early."

"what're you doing here?"

"at work?"

"at my desk."

peter bites the inside of his cheek. he gestures to the ceiling. "it's leaking," is all he says.

"yeah. it rained last night. why are you here?"

"did you tell jameson about it?"

you don't know how to feel anything but shocked. is he waiting for the perfect moment? does he want you to get comfortable just so he can ruin it?

"i--no, it's fine. i don't..." you shake your head, setting your bed down. "did you need something, peter?"

he clears his throat, nodding. "are we going to work on the article today?"

you might be gawking at him.

"what?"

"i just--there are some details i want to add, if you don't mind, and i think--" he stops, taking a deep breath in. "you're better at it than me, so i'd like your advice."

there is only one thought running through your head as you stare at him.

when did peter parker get a nicer, shyer twin?

"what?" you say again, just because you don't know how to answer any other way.

in fact, some part of you thinks that this might be fake. peter parker would kill you, and then you would hallucinate a different version of him that's actually talking to you.

no trick the world might be playing on you is more surprising than the smile peter is trying to put on his face, stiff and wrong.

he blows out a breath. "i'm sorry about last week. i shouldn't--i didn't, well. i shouldn't have snapped at you. or said any of those things. and you were right about me being unprofessional and mean, and just--" peter shakes his head.

and then he meets your eyes. "i'm really sorry. i'd like to continue working with you, because jameson is right, and... but i understand if you don't want to. if you don't feel comfortable. i can talk to jameson, so you don't have to, or--"

"peter?"

he stops talking, nodding. "yeah?"

"am i hallucinating?"

you must be. you must be dying or something. you can't believe that you didn't notice until now, that you didn't pay attention to any of the signs, or worried over something stupid like what you should be eating for breakfast when--

but peter parker laughs.

it's small and almost inaudible, but he's laughing.

and it's not that laugh that first drew you to him all those months ago, that judgemental snort or the laughing-at-you-not-with-you chuckle you'd thought was adorable.

this is a genuine laugh.

you blink, because this is just another sign that you're dead.

peter sighs. "no, i mean all of it. i'm... just sorry."

"you are?"

he nods, and he's still looking at you.

"um, okay," you say, nodding your head. "yeah, we can--we'll go get coffee. but there's, um, i just have some stuff i need to finish from yesterday, so--"

"how's nine?" peter asks, softly.

and this time, it almost isn't an interruption. it's more of a saving grace.

"yes, sure. nine."

"okay," peter gives you that same fake smile, and then he turns around, leaving the cave and going back to his desk.

you can't decide if this is a good or bad thing.

*

"you didn't have to do that," you're saying to peter as the two of you walk to the only empty table in the shop.

conviently it's much smaller than your usual table.

"i owe you," is all peter says.

"not coffee."

"it's six dollars."

you're having a hard time deciphering his face. and his attitude.

you're wondering if this more pleasant, sweet version of peter is going to last long.

you're wondering how far you can push him.

"i don't want to be indebted to you. it sets a bad precedent."

peter sighs, and he's shaking his head, and possibly rolling his eyes, but he says: "fine. next time we come you can pay."

you're satisfied with this, at least for now, so you take a sip of your latte and open your computer.

"which descriptions do you want to add?" you ask peter, "i already looked through all the pictures."

"just the ones of the church, and the bank."

"you want to add descriptions to the burned-down buildings?"

peter doesn't seem to recognize the sarcasm, because all he does is wince and nod.

you're frowning at his face, but you agree, letting him handle your computer so that you don't have to wait for it to update.

peter takes a couple of minutes, writing details that you'd have no idea about, scowling all the while.

"when'd you take these pictures?" you ask him, in the middle of it.

"saturday before last."

"you work on the weekends?" you raise an eyebrow at him, but he's not looking.

"i carry my camera around. sometimes jameson asks for pictures that i can't get six days after."

he pushes your computer back to you, nodding. immediately you start reading what he's written, trying very hard not to laugh at some of the word choices.

most readers aren't going to respond to an acrid smell.

but you don't tell peter this, you just change it, adding and deleting words where you see fit.

"did you work at another journal before this?" peter asks, after a couple of minutes of silence.

you look up at him and realize that he might've been staring at you the whole time, and you'd have no idea. he might be texting someone about how horrible you are.

"no."

"you started writing when you got the job?"

"mm-hmm," you continue typing, trying to avoid peter's eyes.

"how'd you get so good at it, then?"

"oh, well. it's just editing, you know, not that complicated," you repeat his words back to him but feel uncomfortable at his praise, even if it is a lie, but especially if it's true.

"you're writing all of these descriptions. jameson says i make them too complicated, or unreachable for readers."

"jameson says that to betty when she puts cream in his coffee."

peter almost chuckles. "that's true."

there's a moment when you aren't sure what to say. if this is friendship, or peter pretending to be kind just so that you won't tell jameson. just so you'll keep helping him.

but he doesn't need you.

"well, you're a brilliant photographer, so you don't have a lot to make up for."

"tell jameson that."

and that third week, everything goes smoothly.

*

after the fourth week, you and peter don't need to plan when you're going to work together. four days of the week you are completely independent, editing articles and spinning around in your chair, and listening to jameson yell at people from across the room.

but on thursdays, you and peter are partners.

it's a regular meeting now, so you show up at the elevator at eight-fifteen and peter is already waiting there. and then you walk to the coffee shop, making small talk that isn't completely uncomfortable.

peter asks you about your plans for the weekend--though you doubt that he actually listens to the answer. and you ask him about working at the bugle for three years, about wanting to quit every day.

it's only when you mention something of the sort that you can get peter to smile, even a little.

but today, as soon as you sit down, sipping on your coffee and moving hair out of your face, peter is frowning.

but it's not his typical resting frown.

"what did you do?" he asks, staring at your forehead.

"hmm?"

"to your head. what happened?"

you touch the edge of your head, feeling the cut run up your skin, and sign. "oh. that. i fell."

peter is blinking at you like you've removed your head from your body.

you move your hair back, feeling self-conscious.

"what'd you fall on? a knife?"

it's almost a joke but peter's face is concerned, his eyes are running over yours. so you're not sure that it counts.

"i bumped my head on the corner of a table."

"and got a five-inch cut?"

you roll your eyes, realizing that neither of you has taken out your computers, or actually sat down properly. "by 'bumped' i meant tripped and fell into the table and woke up a couple minutes later feeling a bit dizzy."

peter's frown deepens. "do you have a concussion?"

you raise a brow. "no?"

he tilts his head, pursing his lips at you like you're a reckless child. "you didn't go to the doctor?"

"i washed my face and put some glue on the cut."

"it probably needs stitches."

you just shrug.

"does your head still hurt?" peter asks you. "are you having a hard time focusing? did you feel nauseous when you woke up?"

you blink, laughing just a little bit, mostly because you're confused. "whoa, dr. parker, i'm fine. it happens. i'm clumsy."

"you're reckless, you mean."

"says the man who wears converse and a t-shirt when it rains."

at that, peter has nothing left to say.

*

it's maybe three weeks later that the two of you have moved on.

way, way on.

bypassing the small talk stage, you now make fun of peter for being knowledgable about every single thing--to avoid showing him how impressed you are--and he teases you about your abnormaly large bag, all the while trying to give you life advice, telling you that he has more experience than you do.

he's about a year older.

and it's comfortable now. peter doesn't joke much, but when he does, you react with nothing short of a cackle. and you've finally chided a real smile out of him, even if it's just a twitch of his lip or a wrinkle of his nose.

peter doesn't complain about your tardiness or the strange way you like to get your work done, and you don't complain about his sour attitudes, and glares.

well, not much, at least.

and you're not friends--you don't think you can say that, if only because it terrifies you--but that's okay. you don't think either of you needs that, some label on a relationship that could fluctuate into something else at any minute.

but peter is there, and you don't feel like every move you make is a mistake anymore.

when jameson calls the two of you into his office to praise you about an article that did well or ridicule the two of you for slacking on an article that no one cares about--even though he chose the topic--well. you smile at peter, and he smiles at you.

and if you laugh, he laughs.

still, you notice some layer of bitterness behind peter's eyes. like he knows that he's not supposed to be here, not supposed to be laughing or smiling or working with someone that he doesn't need.

you can see it, hear it in the way he talks sometimes.

so you tread lightly, not talking much on those days, and only offering him suggestions that he can't turn down.

he never snaps at you, and you don't think he's going to.

but there's still a bit of hesitation.

and on this particular wednesday, you're crossing out some section of an article, sighing into the paper, and trying not to listen to the creaks of your chair, when peter walks up to your desk.

in his eyes is something curious, something you don't see very often.

"hello, peter. is there something i can do for you?" you exaggerate the words, sort of like a warning.

"just stopping by. wanted to make sure that our fresh meat isn't being worked too hard."

you frown. "i've worked here almost a year."

peter tilts his head, shaking it. his eyes display some fake show of shame. "ah. to be so naive."

and then, without giving you another glance, he steals a pen from your desk and walks away.

you don't know if you're supposed to call out to him.

*

"what is that, peter?"

he looks up from his phone, still chewing. "what?" he asks, through a mouthful of food.

"that's your lunch?"

"wanna bite?" he offers the protein bar to you.

"you're surviving on that?"

peter rolls his eyes, looking away from you. "i have a big breakfast."

something about the way he says it makes you feel like he's lying, or hiding something, but if peter wants to lie about his eating habits--you had a bagel with butter on it this morning--who are you to judge?

it's comforting to be sitting here, in this lonely breakroom, next to an actual person.

it's also a bit strange because peter had said one word to you in this very room, the day you'd met.

"do you also eat wheat and very occasionally half an egg?"

peter bites his lip. "how do you half an egg?"

"c'mon, you can have some of my lunch."

you pull out a bag of chips, a sandwich, and some assortment of fruit that had been sitting in the fridge for far too long.

peter furrows his brows. "what is that?"

"this is a lunch, peter. say it with me. lunch."

"i think your sandwich is rotting."

you snort. "i don't want to hear any criticism from you, mr. ant, when you're literally eating eight grams of protein and four chocolate chips."

"there's at least seven," he argues, and frowns. "ant?"

"cause of your appetite."

and then, peter almost smiles.

*

and there's a part of you that feels the guilt seep into your skin with every breath, every almost laugh you get out of peter.

there's that voice in your head, laughing at your stupidity, wanting to whisper threats in your ear.

when you're home alone, you can't ignore it.

you can't feel anything.

you worry that sometimes, seven alarms won't be enough to wake you up. not from this foolish dream of having a friend, or just someone to talk to.

you'll never stop being reckless, that voice says.

you'll never stop hurting people.

you know that you need to let peter go, right now, before you get used to his laughter and a smile with teeth. before he wonders where you've gone on days that you miss work, and can call you when he's bored.

the last time this happened, the last time you let this happen--

every night you promise yourself that tomorrow. tomorrow you'll start distancing yourself.

you'll be too busy for peter. too busy for anyone else.

you've kept this job for longer than any other one, and you don't want to lose the familiarity. you don't want to have to leave.

you'll be a ghost, starting tomorrow.

*

"what do you mean?" peter says, arms crossed, glaring at you from the other side of the table.

you're typing as you say "what do you mean what do i mean?"

the two of you have eliminated peter's computer completely. you type descriptions, and he places them where he wants, making sure not to mess up the rest of the article. and then you read what you've written to him, and try to ignore his snide comments.

it's a well-thought-out routine.

thursdays might be your favorite day of the week.

"you don't cook?" peter asks, sounding dubious. "not even pasta? or a pre-cooked meal in the oven?"

"i save those for special occasions."

"you just eat things you find at the store?"

"i'm a big fan of those pre-made salads, and cans of fruit."

peter sighs, leaning his head into his hands.

"what?" you say, "the lack of protein bars in my diet is upsetting you?"

"you don't cook?" peter repeats. "at all?"

"no, peter. now will you help me--"

"why not?" he interrupts, closing the computer.

you sigh at him and he sighs back.

you think that his foot might be kicking yours under the table.

"i'm kind of a hazard in the kitchen. i don't feel like making a hospital visit every time im craving some mac and cheese."

"you can't be that bad."

you laugh and roll up your sleeve, showing peter the side of your arm. "see that scar? it's from when i tried to make thanksgiving dinner and burned myself trying to put something in the oven."

peter frowns, running the tip of his finger over it while you laugh.

you roll your sleeve back down, looking at his far too concerned eyes. "last time i tried to use a knife i almost lost the tip of my pinky."

peter waves a hand. "that happens to everyone."

"and i was also wearing a cutting glove."

he closes his mouth. stares at you very intently.

"peter, can we get back to actually finishing this article before jameson fires us both? and by fire, i mean literally burning us both alive."

peter is still staring, apparently thinking very hard. "i'm going to cook for you," he states, shrugging finally.

"what do you mean?"

"my aunt taught me enough to feed you for one night."

"peter, i meant, why would you do that?"

"because apparently you only eat boxed food--"

"--there's cans too--"

"and you're already crazy. you need some actual dinner. a meal."

"peter, you always criticize me for eating so much at lunch when you're munching on your apple or whatever--"

"yeah, because i didn't realize that those bagged foods were the only sustenance you were getting."

you laugh at him. "i think that's a little dramatic."

"i don't. are you free tomorrow night?"

something inside you screams no, violently and furious. it tells you to get up right now and leave. tells you that you shouldn't even be here, that they should.

but the other part of you is laughing.

"peter, i'm not letting you cook for me."

"you think i'm a bad cook?" he challenges, just barely smiling.

"i think you're insane."

he mock laughs, and then holds his hand out. "give me your phone."

"why?"

"just do it."

and you do, only because peter's eyes are right on yours and he's not going to let you look away.

he takes your phone and types something in, smiling a little while he does so. and then he hands it back to you.

"type your address in."

"peter, i'm serious. you're not coming to my apartment to cook for me. i eat."

"so am i," peter responds, "put it in."

you raise a brow, refusing to lose this battle. in all honestly, you're not sure who's going to break first, because peter hates eye contact, but you hate his eyes.

"do you want me to just ask jameson for the address listed on your file?"

and there's something about the way he says it that makes you giggle, finally looking away. you shake your head, a bit annoyed that he's gotten this far.

but you type your address and send it to him anyway.

and there's only a small piece of you that regrets it.

*

there's a knock on your door while you're pacing around.

it's seven o'clock, and you've only had the last two hours to think about how to get out of this. you've contemplated playing sick, pretending not to be home, telling peter that there was an emergency, accidentally forgetting about this whole in the first place.

and the only real answer you've come to is that you can't answer the door.

work is one thing, you think, but as soon as someone is allowed to invade other areas of your life, you've got no choice.

you need to keep peter away, and you need to start doing it tonight.

but he's knocking at your door, and there's something about him standing there that makes you feel restless.

insane.

and you're not even thinking as you walk through the hallway, swearing to yourself that you're only going to make sure that it's really him.

you're not thinking when you bump into the side table by the door, and knock over a vase that you could've sworn you moved weeks ago. a vase you shouldn't even own.

"shit!" you're saying, as you try to catch it.

it shatters against the floor, covering the entire walkway, and effectively trapping you from moving forward.

maybe it's fate.

maybe this is just another warning not to answer that door.

but then a muffled voice says "y/n? you alright?"

and you rap your hand against your head, feeling so stupid and unlucky. still, you call back to peter. "i'm okay. just broke a vase. let me clean this up really quick and i'll--"

peter is frowning when he opens the door.

and you are frowning when you realize that you left it unlocked for the last two hours.

"don't move," peter says, quickly. "you're not wearing any shoes."

"it's fine, peter, i'll be careful."

"where's your broom?" he asks, meeting your eyes.

it's only then that you realize he's wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. he's standing in front of you in completely normal clothes and carrying a bag of groceries.

"no, you're my guest and i'm not letting you pick up my mess."

"where is it?" he repeats, softer now.

and you want to walk over the shards just to prove a point to him--whether it's that you're fine, or that you can handle a little pain--but peter is looking at you and walking inside, trying to kick away the shards closest to your feet.

you sigh. "there's a closet just around the corner."

peter gives you a small smile, hand grazing over your shoulder, and then he goes to get it, unconcerned about the cracking underneath his feet.

when he comes back and begins to sweep it up, he's almost laughing. "were you running to the door?"

"i think i lack control over all of my limbs. i might be a robot."

peter scoffs. "you wouldn't get hurt all of the time if you were a robot."

"i'm realistic."

"you're human and ridiculously uncoordinated."

you frown at him, and peter smiles at you. he brushes the broom over your bare feet, laughing when you squirm away. and then he clears a path so you can walk forward without cutting yourself.

"thanks," you say to him, watching shamefully as he continues to clean. "sorry, i don't mean to make you my butler."

"i'm already cooking for you, might as well clean."

and then peter lets you lead him inside, asking where he can dump all of the glass, and moving the grocery bag he put by the closet onto the counter.

after a moment, he looks around, his eyes scanning the walls and the floors.

he licks his bottom lip. "it's... nice."

you look at him, pouting. "you don't think i'm a good interior designer?"

"it's just a lot more empty than i thought. i figured you'd have art and sculptures, and... more."

you don't tell him that you'd love to, that you'd love to fill this apartment with things close to your heart. you don't tell him that if anything gets that close, it's sure to be broken.

but you smile anyway. "sorry to disappoint you, mr. parker."

"it's just unexpected. show me where i can get a pan."

you show him where all the necessities are, scoffing at some of the ingredients he has in the bag, and listening to him explain that it isn't his recipe, but that you still aren't allowed to criticize.

you just nod errantly, sitting on a bar stool so you can watch him.

and peter makes it look like a little dance, finding the things he needs in seconds, handing multiple things at once, and catching anything before it falls.

you sigh, and peter looks over to you, questioning. "i think you stole all of the coordination i was supposed to have."

and then peter laughs--with teeth and everything--and turns back around. "i don't think it matters much."

and you're about to argue with him, when some timer he set beeps.

"almost there," he says, "do you want to get some plates and forks so i can just move it onto there?"

you nod even though he can't see it, and walk around the counter to move past him.

but peter has ridiculously long legs, and without even noticing, you're stumbling into one of them and almost falling into peter's back. just as always though, he's quick to turn around and keep you from hitting your head on anything, including his bones.

peter sighs and you look at him, sheepishly smiling.

"see what i mean?" he says and then helps you stand back up.

even when he lets go you can feel the imprint of his hands around your biceps, the taste of his laughter in the air.

peter is in your apartment, laughing and cooking for you, taking care of you, and doing it all with a smile.

and, god, you don't think you'll ever be able to wake up from this.

*

part two.

my masterlist here.

tags:@moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @localrockstargf @thestudiouswanderer @take-my-hand-time-boy @thoughtsofagodlovingsunflower @nyomjoon @moo-b1tch @raindropstearsandtea @rqmanoff @hollandweather @wetcoldnoodle @urlocalavenderhazestan @valvlry @imthatcoolmom @spideysimpossiblegirl invisibletrolleyson-jeremy @sharkswaters

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