summary: peter reminds you how important sleeping is. and then proceeds to keep you awake.
warnings: fluff, insomnia, half-asleep drabbles.
a/n: and in this i attempt to write fluff without writing fluff
*
it's quiet when he gets the call.
quiet enough for new york city in the middle of the night. car horns, and flickering lights, and yelling from a couple of streets down. the sound of doors opening and closing, and people running from dreams they used to covet.
peter likes it best like this. when there's nothing to do.
when time is only a thing to stand on, tilt off of the edge as he appreciates the silence that comes with three am.
but then his phone starts buzzing in his pocket.
peter--for just a moment--feels a bout of relief that his phone is still there. the guy at the tech store is getting tired of seeing him, and peter is getting tired of making an excuse every time he loses his phone.
the relief goes away in a second; no one should be calling him at three in the morning.
and when he sees your name on the screen--illuminated by a picture he took of you sitting at a counter, glaring at him because it was the fifth picture he'd taken of you that day--his confusion morphs into panic.
you're usually asleep by now. usually laying in your bed, slightly snoring. you've always got some drool on the side of your cheek. always got your legs kicked out of the covers, shivering because of how cold it is.
which peter knows, because he finds it all endlessly adorable.
but only when you're actually doing it.
and besides, you have a weird thing about calling him when he's patrolling.
"i don't want you falling on your face when you get shocked by your ringtone," you'd said to him.
peter had smiled, charming. "but then you could kiss the bruises away."
so peter clears his throat, avoids thinking about whatever you might need, and backs into an alleyway that he would avoid under any other circumstance.
he'll do the most for you.
"hey, baby," he answers, sounding more carefree than he feels.
he can hear you breathe into the phone. "hey."
peter keeps a smile on his face. "what're you doing up so late?"
there's a sniffle on the other end.
it only proves to drop peter's heart even lower in his chest.
he hums into the phone, waiting.
"peter," you whisper, softly, breath catching.
"what's going on, sweetheart?" peter asks you, slipping the mask off of his face. he looks around for any pedestrians, and then takes off his gloves. "another bad dream?"
"no. it's just--" peter can't hear you clear enough to tell if you're crying, but he has a sinking--sinking so far into the earth that it digs up spare body parts--suspicion that you are. "i can't sleep."
peter holds the phone up between his ear and shoulder, sneaking his other arm out of its sleeve. "are you feeling okay?"
"yeah."
"just tired?"
"yeah."
peter switches ears. "i'm sorry, baby. what can i do?"
"i don't know. i thought talking to you would help" you breathe out, sniffing again. "but i just feel worse now."
"worse?"
"you're working. i can hear sirens."
peter avoids shivering from the cold. "i was just heading home."
"don't lie, peter."
"i'm not," he swears, pulling his suit down so he can shake it off of his feet. "i'd much rather talk to you. it's boring tonight. and cold."
"you like when it's boring."
peter tries not to smile at how well you know him. "i like it when you're feeling alright, too. did you just want to talk?"
there's a brief pause, leaving peter a moment to dread whatever you're going to say next.
as he stands in a dark alleyway in a t-shirt, underwear, and socks. his hand digs around for the backpack he stashed earlier.
"it's okay," you whisper. "i'll probably fall asleep soon."
peter smiles, maybe amused at the unspoken words. or maybe because he's trying not to freeze to death. his heart flickers at the concession in your voice.
he slips his sweatpants on next, refusing to think about the reality of this situation.
"baby," he whispers to you, listening to you breathe.
"yeah?"
"can i come over?"
peter hears something that sounds like a laugh.
"you don't have to. you're probably tired."
"nope."
"peter," you sigh, now trying to convince him.
peter laughs, slipping on his shoes. "i'm wide awake. and greedy."
"greedy?"
"wanna see you. it's been too long."
this time, you actually laugh. "i saw you earlier today."
"my point exactly."
"you still don't have to."
peter zips up his backpack, falling back into the light once more. he listens to the sirens and smiles into the phone.
"i'll be there in ten."
*
you flinch as you wake up, body on alert, nerves short-circuiting until you're sure that your limbs have left completely.
that the numbness of your arm is just a trick of your mind.
and that the eyes on you are just some part of a leftover dream. dazing carefully, droning on and on because they won't look away.
brown and warm and soft and smooth. rough in their nature. playful.
they stare at you, amused. unmoving and careful and cautious.
and there's a hand on your head, musing your hair.
you groan and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to grab onto the grasps of dreams that are still leftover.
because it would seem that this isn't one.
"good morning?" peter says, laughing.
you fall even further into the pillows, head aching from the light coming in through your window.
"are you still sleeping?" peter asks, softly, moving your malleable head. tilting your jaw.
you can still feel his eyes on you.
"why are you staring at me?"
"incoming news: my baby is beautiful."
peter's voice is soft and teasing and far too amorous for your heart. too strong and true and every usual thing that you love about it.
"too early for this," you mumble, moving away from him and digging your face into a pillow.
peter laughs. moves you back so that he can stare at you.
"this is creepy, peter."
"okay."
you open one eye, squinting at him. "i don't remember inviting you in here."
"that's weird because i remember it very well," peter tilts his head, eyebrow raised. "i distinctly remember someone tackling me when i--"
you push him away.
"not like that," peter says, returning.
"how long have you been awake?"
"an hour or so."
your other eye opens. you blink. "what?"
peter moves his head down into your neck, nuzzling the skin by your pulse. "you're very warm."
"you mean to tell me that you've just been laying there for an hour?"
"not just," he says into your skin.
you can feel the vibration. curse the goosebumps that respond.
peter laughs.
"how did you sleep?" he asks you, softly.
"fine until i woke to a stranger in my bed."
peter's head jerks up. "where?"
you laugh, pushing his cheek away with the tip of your finger. peter smiles and grabs your hand from his face, kissing the knuckles there.
"how did you sleep?" you ask him. "were you here all night?"
"came in around four. you woke up, kissed me, and then fell back asleep."
"sounds about right."
peter moves some hair out of your face. "i didn't mean to scare you," he says. "i'm sorry."
"you didn't scare me."
"i would've left but i fell asleep."
"that's good. you were out late."
peter doesn't answer that, only traces a finger from the corner of your eye to your jaw, up to your lips. his touch tickles, which you know, is the point.
"you didn't scare me," you repeat, because you know him.
"no? you jumped."
"that's how i always wake up."
peter laughs and kisses your cheek, melting his adoration into you.
it's almost unfair.
"i thought i was dreaming. i like it when you're here."
peter meets your eyes. "yeah?"
you nod, allowing your lips to move on their own accord. to bend and twist and smile at him like he's the only thing that could be worth it.
peter smiles back, just the same. "you're cute when you're half asleep," he whispers.
cloudy tone and sweet words and things that are supposed to kill you right where you lay.
but then he kisses you. he manages to wake you up completely, any hazed thoughts drifting away from your head. nerves alight with fear that he'll move away. skin burning at the thought of him touching you.
which he is.
he teases at your skin, laughing into your mouth.
you laugh back.
peter pulls back, hand tilting your chin toward him. "what do you wanna do today?"
*
when peter wakes up, it's to the sound of a door closing.
so he lays in bed for a moment. tries to remember where he is and why he's asleep.
it's still dark outside, he can see when he looks through the window. streetlight shining in on his face.
if he touched the glass, his skin would freeze.
peter pulls the cover over his head, his own warm breath punching him in the face.
he's pretty sure that he forgot to brush his teeth.
so he moves them back down, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. he's not sure when he fell asleep. barely remembers watching a movie with you, and laughing when you almost fell off of the bed. he doesn't remember what happened next.
but he knows that you should be right next to him, clinging to him like you always do when it's cold outside.
but you're not. you're nowhere near him.
he looks over to the clock on the bedside table, the numbers flashing red back at him with a glare.
he blinks again.
and then sits up, looking at the crumbled covers on your side of the bed. the pillows on the floor.
and peter frowns because usually, this isn't a good sign.
he hears you close something else in the other room.
there's a slight concern fuzzing up in his chest. like a purr of his blood, telling him that he's not falling back asleep any time soon. just barely dimmed from the excess of exhaustion still in his chest.
peter feels just a little bit dizzy when he stands up, feet wobbling over the floor. he still has his socks on.
he walks to the door, just about to open it when he hears something else on the other side.
something that sounds like music, and something that sounds like you dying.
peter walks out into the kitchen to find you singing into a whisk, dancing to a song he doesn't quite recognize.
all of the lights are on.
you don't seem to notice him, even when he goes up to the counter, just continue singing and dancing--movements soft and smooth and far too enthusiastic for two in the morning.
still, peter lets a smile tease at his lips.
he wonders if maybe he's still asleep. that maybe this is just something funny to tell you about tomorrow.
but then you look up at him, eyes widening, movements stopping.
peter watches as you almost fumble with the bowl on the counter, falling like he's just changed your center of gravity by walking into the room.
"peter," you say, surprised, voice a bit quieter than the music. you reach over the counter to grab your phone, turning it down. "you're awake."
peter laughs, noticing some flour on your nose.
"did i wake you up?" you ask, brows folding. "i'm sorry. i was trying to keep it down."
peter shakes his head. "no. what're you doing?"
you look down at the bowl again, almost guilty. like a child with lipstick all over their face. "making cookies."
peter sits down on a stool, watching you. "this late?"
you give him an innocent smile. "i thought that you might help me eat them."
"why are you awake?"
you shrug. "i wanted cookies."
"so you decided to start making some at two in the morning?"
you frown. "well, actually, i woke up an hour ago. do you know how dirty the kitchen was?"
"bub--"
"i spent an hour cleaning it. and now i'm making cookies."
peter lets out an exasperated laugh. "that's all?"
"i was dancing."
"i noticed."
you frown and stop mixing the dough. look towards the clock on the stove. "you should go back to bed. you have to be up early, don't you?"
peter nods, biting his lip.
you stare at him, waiting.
he stares back, so willing to watch your face shift and burn into the atmosphere.
a perfect cosmology.
"what?" you ask him, brows raised.
"what kind of cookies?"
"chocolate chip."
peter gets up, walking around the counter, towards you. "can i have one?"
"i'm making them for you."
peter goes right behind you, wrapping arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest, and letting his head drift down to your shoulder.
"are you going to fall asleep right there?" you ask him.
"i might," peter leaves a kiss on the skin of your neck he can reach. "speak now or forever hold your peace."
you say nothing. simply take the bag of chocolate chips next to you and pour it into the dough.
"you know i'm not going back to bed until you do, right?"
you nod your head against him, pushing yourself as close to peter as possible.
peter closes his eyes, breathing you in for a moment.
and a couple of minutes when he opens them again, he frowns, reaching around you to grab a mug.
"is this coffee?" he sniffs at the cup, spinning you around.
you're trying not to smile. so guilty.
"baby," he sighs, throwing his head back.
"i just needed a little kick when i was cleaning--"
"we've talked about this."
you frown and cross your arms. "when?"
"when we talked about getting enough sleep, and not sabotaging yourself--"
you tap a finger on your chin. "do not recall."
"you're not getting out of this one."
"we'll go to bed when the cookies are done," you say, so simply, turning back around, purposefully avoiding his eyes.
"hey," he says, tilting your head back towards him. "what's with that?"
"what?"
"your mischievous little smile."
you pull away from his hands, shrugging. "don't know what you're talking about," you mumble.
peter pulls you away from the counter again, moving so that he can see you. "you planned this out."
"hmm?"
"being loud, the music, my favorite cookies..." peter stares at you, maybe amazed, maybe annoyed.
you are completely silent.
"oh, you--" peter laughs, digging a finger into your stomach to watch you squirm. "waking me up because you missed me, huh?"
"peter--"
he laughs when you giggle hysterically, trying to push his hands away.
"what'd i do to deserve that, bub? you're always talking about--"
"you win!" you gasp, "baby, i don't--"
"--how important sleep is."
"peter, c'mon, i can't--"
"and what was that about 'you should go back to bed?'" peter demands, a smile playing at his lips. "you're the one that woke me up--"
"mercy," you plead. "i'm sorry," but you're laughing so hard that peter can feel your body shaking.
one of his hands moves to cradle your cheek, getting you to look him right in the eyes.
face bright and warm and every beautiful thing that peter isn't sure he deserves.
"you're sorry?"
"so terribly."
"and you're going to stop drinking coffee this early in the morning?"
you pout. "i didn't say anything about that."
peter's hand reaches for your ribs again, and you squeal.
"okay," you move away from him--not that he's letting you go. "okay. no more coffee."
"good."
and then peter stares at you, trying not to burst into laughter.
you look like you're doing the same.
peter raises a brow.
"okay, to be fair--" you begin.
"here we go."
"you fell asleep so early. like, how old are you actually? because i thought you would at least make it to eight, but--"
peter's jaw drops.
you giggle at him, eyes crinkling at the sides.
"did you just call me old?"
"not explicitly."
and then he pulls you even closer, tilting his head so he can whisper in your ear. "now you're in for it."
the next morning, peter doesn't remember if you finished making the cookies.
*
"peter," you whisper, almost close enough to taste his skin.
to watch him breathe and wonder what it would be like to never stop.
he doesn't budge. moves over and continues snoring into the pillow.
so you laugh at him, sit down on the space he's so considerately made for you on the bed.
you rub at his shoulder, frowning at how warm he is.
"hey, kid," you say to him, glancing at the clock. "wake up."
peter's eyes flutter the minimalist amount.
you snort.
"c'mon," you say. "it's almost noon. i would let you sleep but you're going to mess up your schedule..."
he sniffs. tries to roll over again.
you poke his cheek.
"you should know that there is a water bottle right on your desk," you say, softly. "and that i am not afraid of you. or the water. at all."
peter peaks an eye open.
"there he is."
he frowns. "would you really dump it on me?"
you pretend to think about it. "i would kiss you awake first."
"is that still an option?"
you laugh and fall over him, cuddling deep into his skin.
"woah," he says, but wraps an arm around your back, holding you closer. his fingertips tease at the back of your neck, daring. "have you been up long?"
"since nine."
"what'd you do?"
"watched some tv. made breakfast. drew a mustache on your face in sharpie."
peter's head lifts up, meeting your eyes. "really?"
you laugh, trace his cupids brow.
you admire the soft color of his skin. the pink to his cheeks and the flush that he has only this early in the afternoon. only after you've been laying on him.
only with you; only with him.
"shame," peter sighs. "i've been trying to grow it out."
his nose meets yours, sweet and soft, and he's so close that you almost don't remember how to speak.
how to breathe and pretend that it's normal.
"i'll keep that in mind tomorrow morning," you whisper, just barely.
peter lays back, pulling you with him. you watch the dimple on his cheek twitch and forget about doing anything else.
*
peter doesn't bother to knock on the window when he gets in this late.
he doesn't want to run the risk of waking you up--of worrying you with bruises that will be gone by morning, and making you leave the secure cocoon you've collected around yourself.
blankets and wonderful thoughts and feelings that peter misses just a little bit too much right now.
as soon as he's in your room, he's slipping his shoes off.
he's looking at you and wondering how he ever managed to leave.
he's taking off his jacket, dropping his bag on the floor, and trying not to shiver from the cold.
he's staring at you, for just a little too long.
he watches your face as you twitch in your sleep, a soft curve of your lips. a blank and peaceful face.
peter's chest pinches at the idea of watching this any longer.
so he crawls towards you, leaving a short and yearning kiss on your cheek.
moving the covers just a little bit. so that he can fall into them with you.
"hey, bub," he says to you, knowing that you can't hear.
he lets himself fall into your bubble, taking up space that he knows you don't want.
he moves some hair out of your eyes; smiles at the subtle twitch of your cheek.
and then he kisses your hairline, wanting to spend all night staring at you.
talking to you and listening to you speak back. memorizing the sound of your voice and every little thing that makes you laugh.
he wants to fall asleep right here. right now.
he wants to avoid the world and pretend that there isn't anything else.
because maybe there isn't.
even with the light from outside shining on your face--ruining the illusion--he smiles.
he pulls you closer to him, cooing softly when you cuddle close to him, smiling in your sleep.
"he couldn't stop staring at you. i thought his eyes were going to fall out of his head."
warnings: pure fluff, baby.
"hey," peter whispers to you, a bit urgently.
you don't look up from your menu, thinking fanciful thoughts of bankrupting peter. "hmm?"
"we have to go."
you look up, frowning.
peter's got an urgent look on his face. his frown matches yours.
if he didn't look so disturbed you might take the moment to appreciate the shirt he's wearing, sleeves rolled up past his forearm. you might even stare a little bit.
but peter is frowning. and there is something wrong.
"what?" you ask him, looking around. "what's going on?"
"we have to leave."
peter does not elaborate any further, because why would he?
"okay..." you drawl, blinking at him. "why?"
you look out the window to your left for any incoming disasters. if there was a possibility that anyone in this restaurant were to get hurt, you're sure peter wouldn't be just sitting there, waiting to have a conversation about death.
but there's no monster outside. no robberies. no impending doom that he might need to tend to.
your brow furrows even deeper. you stare at him, expectant.
"the waiter was flirting with you," peter mutters, casting a glance toward the man on the other side of the restaurant.
the man who you thought was perfectly pleasant, thank you very much.
"what?"
"he couldn't stop staring at you. i thought his eyes were going to fall out of his head."
you snort, a bit confused. "peter," you say, a strange sort of smile on your face. "what?"
"if i have to watch him drool all over you again, i might spontaneously combust."
you close your menu, staring at him.
"i'm serious, babe, we have to go."
"we already ordered bread. and drinks."
"i'll pay triple however much that cost. the waiter gets no tip," peter furrows his brows, considering. "okay, fine. he gets fifteen percent."
"how chivalrous."
"baby," peter whines, like a child. you might find it a little bit cute. "please? i'm having a hard enough time already."
"what?" you frown. "why?"
he blinks at you. does a slow up and down your body, raising his eyebrows.
you think back to hands that had lingered on every inch of skin they could find on the way there. about eyes that could've burned you to the core.
"oh," you cross your arms, self-conscious. "i thought you were kidding earlier when you said that--"
peter stares at you blankly.
"okay. not kidding."
his head drops down to the table, and if not for his muffled voice you might hear him groan.
"leaf pile," you coo, softly. "i think it'll be alright. i'll even hold your hand when he comes back over."
peter does not budge at the nickname, but you snicker internally, reaching a hand out to mess up his hair.
he sits up, fixing it with a frown--as if it's at all salvageable.
"is this what we've come to?" peter asks you, shaking his head. "you have to bribe me with affection? you only want to hold my hand to turn away the poor waiter--"
"it's always been like this."
peter points a finger at you. "not true."
you scoff. "on our first date you tried to get me to stay up all night so we could watch the sunset--"
"--that would've been romantic."
"--and i had to bribe you with a goodnight kiss. just so you would let me go home."
peter smiles like he's still pleased with himself. "you didn't want to leave. i was trying to help."
"you just wanted to make out on the subway."
"that's disgusting," peter says, looking away from you finally. his menu is still open, on the table, waiting to be looked at. "we could go to the diner across from your apartment."
"we went there last week."
"great service," peter says, nonchalantly.
"this is supposed to be a fancy date, peter."
"what's fancier than sharing a milkshake?"
"crème brûlée."
peter purses his lips, a hand going to scratch at his lips. there are about ten seconds of silence.
you use it to stare at him and wonder how he could possibly feel intimidated by anyone else.
"fine," peter says, "we'll order dessert to go. and then we'll go get pizza."
you open your mouth. close it.
"you like pizza," peter reassures you.
"i also like having a nice dinner with my boyfriend."
"that can be arranged."
you sigh. "even if we order dessert to go, we'll still have to talk to david again."
peter gawks at you. "you know his name?"
"he literally introduced himself. it was the first thing he said."
"you remembered his name?"
you wave a hand. "peter. you don't need to be jealous. maybe he just saw something on my face."
peter sits back and crosses his arms. he raises an eyebrow at you, to which you smile back innocently.
he says i know what you're doing without the words.
"there's nothing on your face," peter says, dryly. "besides pure perfection."
you giggle.
peter runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "you're right," he relents, sighing.
"it's okay, baby, like i said--"
"it doesn't matter where we go," peter interrupts. "everyone's going to stare at you anyway."
"...not where i was going with that."
"i guess i just need to accept reality."
"i don't think--"
"i mean," peter finally looks you right in the eye, a hint of a smile playing on his face. "how lucky am i?"
your face goes blank, for just a moment.
and then, completely despite yourself, you smile at him, skin tingling at the intensity of his stare.
of his teasing and gentle laughter as he smiles back.
and, really, it's not your fault that you have to lean across the table to kiss him.
he's just so goddamn irresistible.
after a couple of seconds--and an ahem from the table beside you--you sit back down, opening your menu once again. you smile while you try and decide what to eat.
and try to come up with the perfect way to get peter back for all of that. you've gotten as far as thanking the waiter profusely when he comes back.
it's only a minute later when he whispers to you:
"can i at least order the most complicated thing on the menu just to mess with him?"
a/n: welcome to “verity is sick in bed so here comes an influx of blurbs”
*
when you wake up, it's to peter's heart beating beneath your ear.
a gentle lull in the dark; a trick he's playing on you.
because you really shouldn't be asleep at three in the afternoon. and you'd promised him that you'd finish the movie.
these are the thoughts you wake up to--head throbbing a bit more than it usually does.
peter's heart laughs at you. it responds with a gentle call back to sleep, telling you that there's no need to be awake when you can fall back into the arms of not having to do a single thing. it sings to you, knowing how fragile your resolve is.
and it would be nice.
but you flinch awake, eyes opening all at once.
you're right on top of peter, so he jolts with you, releasing a breath into the world.
"woah," he says, hand around your back pulling you even tighter. "you okay?"
his other hand is on your head, drawing a picture you'll never get to see. you almost keen into the touch.
you blink away the sleep, looking up at him to find soft eyes on you, a smile, and a crinkle of concern.
"how long was i asleep?"
peter hums, rubbing a hand on your back. "about a half hour. not long."
you frown. "is the movie over?"
"i turned it off. we'll finish it some other time," he's smiling at you, just enough to ease that shame into your chest.
you groan into his, tasting cotton.
"i'm sorry, peter," you say, not that he can hear you, "we were going to finish it."
peter laughs. his hand is still on your head, still tempting you with the idea of letting it drag you back down. he pulls you even closer, letting a kiss fall right beside his hand. "we were never going to finish it."
"what'd you mean?" you mumble, into his shirt.
"i just wanted you to lay down."
you lift your head, only slightly. "this was a trap?"
"yeah," peter purses his lips. "you weren't going to settle down any other way."
"you tricked me with cuddles?"
you can see it on his perfectly sculpted face--the effort not to laugh.
"mutual benefits," peter says, simply.
you push his hand off of your head and he scoffs.
"i'm not cuddling with you anymore," you tell him, pouting.
you both know that his hand is still wrapped around your waist in a makeshift hug. and you both know that you haven't moved an inch.
still, peter's eyes soften. "i did it for you," he claims, with a face that is too sweet.
you scowl. "you're a liar."
he only smiles, brings his spare hand to trace your jaw. and he doesn't answer, because he has no excuse.
"you wanted me to fall asleep so that you didn't have to spend time with me."
peter laughs at the pure absurdity of that sentence.
but you're still frowning, so he ruffles your hair.
"on the contrary," peter says, close to your ear now. voice low enough that you know he's only saying it to you. "i wanted to cuddle with you on the couch for a little while."
"you lured me in with a movie."
his sweet words hold nothing to your stubbornness. especially when you've only just woken up.
and you just completely ignore the hand on your back, rubbing tense places you'd forgotten existed.
"you didn't want to watch a movie," peter claims.
"maybe i did."
"you fell asleep."
"maybe i was listening to the movie."
peter snorts. "you were snoring."
"i do not snore, peter parker."
the corners of his eyes crinkle, amused at you. at the angle you're at, you can see when he swallows. you can memorize the indents on his skin, sculpt him out of nothing.
"you do snore," he says, softly. "it's adorable."
"it's not adorable."
peter looks up at the ceiling, and you watch his eyes as they move from place to place. "how would you know?" he asks, looking back at you.
and you just about forget that you're arguing with him.
you swallow. "i have an app."
peter raises a brow. "an app?"
"yes. it records me while i sleep."
"does it?"
"and i don't snore."
at least peter's laugh is quiet. "you trust this app more than you trust me?"
you pretend to think about it for a moment.
to think about falling asleep at just the sound of his heart.
"yes."
peter mock drops his jaw, frowning. "and i thought you loved me."
"what gave you that impression?"
peter proceeds to stare at you for so long that you burst out giggling into his chest.
and you can't see it, but he's smiling at you in a brand of adoration that is completely his own. he's completely entranced in every single beat of your heart.
"i'm sorry for tricking you," peter says, to just your head. "but you were tired."
"i thought you wanted to cuddle."
"like i said: i got to cuddle and you got some more sleep. joint interest."
"a breach of contract," you argue, looking back up at him.
"how?"
"you're supposed to bring me to bed when i fall asleep on the couch so that i'm not sore. paragraph seven."
you feel peter's chest vibrate in a silent laugh.
"i was acting as your bed. that's better than just throwing you on some mattress."
"you are literally hard as stone."
"...i'm going to take that as a compliment."
"there is no fat here. just rock-hard abs," you poke his chest, laughing when he squirms just a little.
"you know, you weren't complaining earlier when--"
you groan into his chest and peter wraps you in his arms again, hugging you like he's not sure what else he can do.
you lean into him, enjoying the warmth.
enjoying the sound of his heart as it races below you.
peter mumbles something that you can't hear, but you look up at him, questioning eyes.
he shakes his head like he's changed his mind about something. "do you want to go to bed?" he whispers, thumb rubbing against your cheek, laughing when he feels you twitch beneath it. "you didn't sleep for very long."
"can we just stay here?"
you cuddle into his chest again, now allowing his heart to lure you.
"sure, bug," peter says, softly. "whatever you want."
and you fall asleep to the sound of his heart; clenched in your grasp.
warnings: fluff, mild teasing, angst (if you read between the lines), fluff
a/n: i take no responsbility for the typos because it is five in the morning
gif credit: @peterparkcr
*
your eyes stay closed even when a cold hand wraps around your waist, gentle and buckling.
your breath is smooth, not stifled by the sudden presence behind you.
your legs curl, wrapping with others, toes scratching at a very familiar calf.
still, you attempt not to move, and absolutely not flinch at peter's fingertips--just barely--brushing against the skin where your shirt has ridden up.
his shirt, you guess.
and then there are lips on your ear, a chuckling breath climbing down your skin. "and why are you still awake?"
peter's voice is a bit rough. his nose is a bit cold as it trails down your neck.
he's breathing in your ear, and you hadn't even heard him come through the door.
"why are you so late?" you return, tilting your head, not really minding his stroking of your.
peter hums and goosebumps follow. he moves and you go with him. "subway malfunction."
"peter," you chide, snorting.
"i'm being serious. i had to pry the doors open and gently console the terrified passengers."
"anyone faint?"
you feel peter lean up, his finger poking at your stomach. "that's not funny."
"it wasn't a joke. i've seen the videos, you know. you're a celebrity."
he sighs from behind you, and you push back into him, warming him up with your body heat and secretly pleading with him not to go. peter follows along, laying down again so he can kiss at your shoulder.
"i'm sorry i'm late," he whispers, mostly insincere, to you.
"i'm sorry i'm not asleep," you return, nuzzling the back of your head into his.
peter is made of muscle, undeniably strong, but he's so soft when it's late, when the two of you can just lay there and look out the window and pretend that neither of you are tired.
maybe it's his voice, or maybe it's the eyelashes you can feel on your cheek. or the smile you can taste in the air.
peter grumbles something, a question in his throat.
"well, 'cause, i know how much you like to scare me when you get home."
peter scoffs. "not true."
"really?" you say, a bit of a smile in your voice, on your face, "because yesterday you were laughing when i tried to push you away cause i thought you were a ghost or something."
"a ghost? that's your first assumption?"
"or a demon. i'm not particularly familiar with supernatural beings or of their fondnesses for cuddling."
"i'll get you a book," peter says, kissing up your jaw, mostly laughing at you.
you groan, but tilt your head so he can continue.
"and for the record," peter whispers, "i was laughing at your poor self-defense skills."
you lift a hand to push his shoulder back.
peter grabs your hand and intertwines his fingers with yours. "i'm just saying. you didn't scream or bite or anything."
"i can bite you now if you'd like."
peter takes a deep breath in, stifling a cough or a laugh. "not now," he answers, "i'm too tired to bite back."
"i think you mean to say that you're too baby for bite marks."
"we can test that out sometime."
and then you turn your head, move the rest of your body to go with, and smile at peter as he accommodates you, now leaning almost directly over you.
you're on your back, hair in your face, blankets strewn haphazardly over your legs.
"hi," you say to him, barely just catching his teeth in the dark.
"hello," he whispers, leaning a bit closer. "tell me about your day."
"peter."
"i want to hear it all..." his hand is dragging over your stomach, playing with the hem of your shirt. his lips are a mere millimeter away from yours. "when you woke up, what you had for breakfast, what time you laid down without me..."
you breathe out, sharing a bitter laugh with the world, and try to tilt your head up.
but peter moves back, and you watch his brows furrow in the dark. "hey, i'm serious, bub."
you frown back. "don't be mean."
peter snorts. "i'm literally trying to get you to share about your day. most people would consider that a nice thing to do."
"you know what i mean," you answer, trying to lean up again.
but peter is too far away. he's trailing his fingers up the skin of your neck, brushing the hair from your cheek, playing with the curve of your jaw.
"i don't think i do," peter answers, not looking at you, really, but staring so intently at something. "you should explain it to me," he whispers.
"you should kiss me," you whisper back.
peter's jaw drops and his eyes meet yours. "are you trying to shut me up?" he asks, mock offended.
"i'm trying to kiss you."
"i'm trying to have a conversation," peter claims.
"you're interrupting important business."
peter raises a brow. his eyes are flickering from yours to your lips, and even though you know he's teasing you, it just makes you want to tackle him more.
"important business? more important than healthy communication, and connection, and appreciation--"
"peter, i might fall asleep before you get the chance to do any of that."
he laughs and leans down so that he can kiss your neck again. so that he can tease you with more than words now.
you can still feel your lips tingling from his breath against them. from the movement of him so close to you, so close...
"are you tired?" he asks.
"tired of you."
you feel him roll his eyes but say nothing, nibbling at a spot on your neck that you weren't even sure existed a moment ago.
"are you tired?" you ask, being very careful with how you breathe in and out.
"i missed you," peter answers instead, "it's been a long day."
"you should kiss me then," you smile, tilting his head back towards you. "that'll help."
peter laughs. and then he leans up again, hair in your eyes, eyes right next to yours.
"yeah?" he asks.
"i promise."
peter is just staring at your mouth. "i'm not sure how much your promises are worth,"
"five bucks."
"fifteen."
"none, but i'll let you be the little spoon."
peter laughs, but he shakes his head, tickling you with his movement. "no deal."
"peter," you whine. "c'mon."
"you just want me for my kissing skills."
"yes," you answer, almost irritated. "because i dream of your slobber all over me at every moment."
peter pinches your side and you yelp.
you scowl after a moment of staring at him. "will you just kiss me already?"
"they say that anticipation is the best aphro--"
"this is a goodnight kiss, just to clarify."
peter pouts. "but we haven't seen each other all day. i have more stories to tell you."
"you'll have the stories tomorrow."
"not if yellowstone finally erupts."
"peter, it's too late for possible doomsday situations. and also we'd be fine if that happened because you would feel it and then swing us up to the moon or something."
peter considers this for a moment. "true. anything for my baby."
"except a kiss, apparently."
peter chuckles.
and really, even his laughter this late is a tiny little blessing, a crumbled-up 'forgive me' note, making you love him even more than you thought possible.
"you really want me to kiss you?"
"haven't i made that obvious?"
"well, you did compare me to a dog a minute ago..."
and then you move your hands up his back, scratching at his scalp and grasping at soft strands of his hair. "i could not be more serious," you say to him, a soft crinkle in your eyes as you say it.
peter almost copies your movements, one of his hands going to the spot right by your jaw, fingertips resting behind your ear, effectively fating you to look at him forever.
which you wouldn't complain about, honestly.
and he's smiling, so it's even harder to look at him. "i think you could try a little bit harder," he teases.
"peter," you say, sternly, just one more time.
and then, curling his hand around your head, he finally kisses you. and you barely even notice when your body lifts, unconsciously meeting his.
but you can feel him smiling against you.
*
(also i just realized that i didn’t even add in the news guy which was an essential point to the plot when i thought of it (so sometime when i’m less sleep deprived someone remind me of that and i’ll fix it))
summary: in which peter is terrible at keeping secrets. and socks.
warnings: idiots to friends to lovers, no angst just pining, arguments, fluff, ahhhh
a/n: heres the link to the playlist. for a real time experience, listen. (this makes it sound like an amusement park which i think is funny)
word count: 10k
the first time you meet him, you're listening to sad music.
it's unclear which song--being that it's late enough that they've begun to blur together, instrumental shifting to piano and soft sullen voices and heartbeats you can't hear but feel--but it rings in your ears as he walks by.
as spider-man is suddenly in front of you, suddenly right in front of your bench, flashing blue and red and ego and playing with some weird white string between his fingers.
you're also fairly certain that he's cursing.
so, quietly, you hit pause on your phone, taking out an earbud. you watch him, hoping that he's already noticed your presence.
hoping that maybe he'll leave and there will be no questioning--from either of you--about what you're doing out this late on a night like this.
the snow on your head has melted, turning your hair several different forms of wet.
and when spider-man has not looked up, or any other place he might be mugged, you, graciously, clear your throat.
alerting him of your presence and beginning an attempt to beg him to leave.
spider-man, unsurprisingly, jumps back.
his white eyes are wide, but that might just be the costume.
you smile and wave.
"wha--" he looks around, behind himself, like you might be waving at someone else. "when did you get there?" he asks.
his voice is quieter than you've heard it before. less animated. maybe a bit rough, or sore.
you tilt your head, lifting a brow. "about an hour ago."
spider-man stares blankly at you. "no."
you contemplate laughing, or maybe tripping him with your leg as he peers closer at you, but ultimately hum. "okay." you drawl, "maybe i didn't."
your smile is soft. your voice is abundantly sweet.
you do not doubt that if spider-man wanted to, he could make both of you disappear in an instant.
not that you're afraid, of course. you've seen the news. and experienced an average day in new york.
spider-man tries again to pull his hands apart. fails.
"sticky?" you ask him, swinging your legs.
you think--but really just know--that spider-man glares at you.
and then, with the subtleness of a child, he leans up again, straightening his back. clears his throat like he's got a lot to say. "what are you doing out so late?"
his voice might be even deeper now, as some method of intimidation.
unfortunately for him, you got over your fear of spiders a couple of months ago.
"i could ask you the same thing," you respond.
spider-man does not find this amusing, apparently, because he just stares at you. waiting and watching.
eventually, maybe just to evade some awkward silence approaching, you sigh and relent. "i was drawing," you say, gesturing to the notebook you set aside.
you don't tell him about the music, or your sore eyes.
or about how when he first showed up you almost fell off the bench.
these are things he probably doesn't need to know, you think.
spider-man must frown or something because he grumbles out his next question. "drawing?" he repeats. "at three in the morning? in the dark?"
"there's a light right there," you point to the streetlight above your head, the picture of innocence.
you continue to smile at this man, if only because he seems to find it immensely irritating.
"aren't you cold?"
"the weather?" you furrow your brows, criticizing him. "c'mon, i thought you were better than that."
"it's snowing."
"i hadn't noticed."
"your paper is getting wet--" he points to your notebook, to the soiled edges.
it's the first thing to make you frown since he's shown up.
"shit," you whisper, brushing some snow and lead off of the paper. "i liked this one."
"sorry." spider-man clears his throat again. he bounces between feet like he's freezing.
"is spandex warm?" you ask him, leaning forward.
"i'm fine."
you frown. "are you always this grumpy? or is it just cause i scared ya?"
"you didn't scare me."
"must be the hands then," you say, leaning over so you can try and see the hands he's kept hidden behind his back.
but spider-man pulls them out--two of them--wiggling his fingers.
you frown. "how'd you do that?"
spider-man doesn't answer. instead, he looks around, probably for someone to rescue him.
unfortunately, everyone else went to bed hours ago.
you grin at him, suddenly and smoothly, holding your notebook out to him. "wanna see?"
spider-man is definitely judging the mess of a journal you have, but he takes it from you anyway, if a bit hesitantly. "whoa--" he says, turning it over. and then he pauses.
he looks back to you.
you smile.
"this is a penis."
you and maturity have never gotten along.
you make an effort to keep a blank face--snickering internally at the dry way he says it--and shake your head. "no," you say, "if you turn it over it's a smile."
spider-man does so.
and surely behind the mask, he's doing a slow blink, probably scowling at you.
"do you like it?" you ask him, keeping your voice soft and sincere.
he hands it back to you, sighing. "you should head home."
"so, no?"
"really," he says, almost gently. "you'll get frostbite. there's a reason no one else is out."
you blink, leaning back. "except you?"
spider-man swings his arms back and forth. he looks away. "except me."
"you can't get frostbite?" you guess.
and spider-man, despite himself, tries to smother a laugh with a cough. but you hear it clearly enough.
you furrow your brows as you peer at him.
and so he points a finger at you, stern. "get packing."
"what if i live on this bench?"
he doesn't laugh this time. he just starts to walk away, eyes still on you. "if you're not gone in five minutes i'm swinging you home."
"you don't know where i live," you say, calling his bluff.
but he turns around, waving nonchalantly.
you watch him, maybe surprised or irritated.
either way, you call after him.
and he spares you a glance.
"maybe i'll draw you next time," you say.
and then he's gone, and you're switching playlists.
*
when peter runs into the bathroom he's not really thinking about germs.
or toilet seats or washing his hands, or, obviously, checking the stalls for anyone else in there.
the fire alarm went off two minutes ago; anyone who remains, peter thinks, is probably not going to connect any dots between him and spider-man.
and when he unzips his backpack, digging his suit out of one of the pockets and cursing as pencils and pens fall onto the ground, he wonders why he didn't iron it this morning.
why he even tried to do laundry yesterday, considering that he's not very good at it and may has definitely noticed.
still, he kicks his shoes off.
the floor isn't wet this time, peter's thinking, so thank god for that.
he swings his jacket off of his shoulders and hurries to unbutton his pants.
there's a gentle buzzing of a fan in the corner, only slightly drowned out by the siren that is giving peter a headache. and flashing lights. and people running by.
and lots of chances to get caught, but not enough care in the world.
and if peter focuses enough, he can hear some type of music playing, somewhere close.
loud bass, quick rhythm.
he almost pauses to think about it, and then decides against it.
he flings his pants onto the floor, folding his shirt over his head.
it is very cold in this bathroom.
still, peter slides his socks off, hating the tiled floors, and internally screaming when one of the socks falls under the stall, disappearing to places that peter does not have time to look in.
and then he's squeezing into a very irritating suit.
trying to remind himself what the greater good is and blah blah blah. . .
but his arms are sore as he tries to zip it up, jumping to reach.
peter is insanely grateful for doors and peace and quiet and advil, of course.
and finally--finally--when he has the suit on, he scrambles to pick up everything he left on the floor while also putting his web-slingers on.
a good effort, really.
he sticks his backpack to the wall, promising himself that he's not going to forget it.
and then he unlocks his stall, beginning to step out when he catches a glance of you.
standing right in front of him, white earbud dangling toward the ground, proud smirk as you hold his sock up.
peter pauses. he stares at you.
you tap an innocent finger on your chin. "aren't you supposed to check the bathroom before you change?"
peter's first move is to try and grab the sock from your hand. but you, swift on your feet, duck away, humming to yourself.
"you're gonna go save a bunch of people with a sock in your hand?" you ask him.
peter thinks for a moment--not about socks, thank god--if you were standing in there when he walked in.
if you had paused when he burst through the door, not thinking about what bathroom this was or any person who might've stuck around. if your eyes were wide and mischievous--as they are now--when he quickly ducked into a stall.
but he knows, really, that you weren't there.
because, peter recognizes, he wouldn't have been able to miss you.
still, you're smirking at him.
"better get out there, spider-man," you say, gesturing towards the door.
and peter doesn't have the time to curse at you because you're right.
he doesn't bother to try and grab his sock again.
and when peter opens the door he can hear it--
your laugh.
and a gentle throbbing of another one bites the dust coming from your headphones.
*
you're trying not to laugh.
really, it's an extreme effort as you store the snort deep inside your chest, trying to melt the smile off of your face.
you are squirming in your seat as your sternum begs for some sort of relief.
and you contemplate leaving the library before this goes too far. before you start cackling in his face, unable to hold back--even if he gives you a weird look and everyone else around you starts complaining.
there's not much you can do to stop it, honestly, not when you've been sitting here, studying, for the last hour, music lulling you almost to sleep. and not when the boy who is now sitting in the cubicle next to you kicked his feet out, revealing some scruffed up converse.
and of course, some mismatched socks.
when you looked down--in a moment of weakness, dropping some type of pencil--you had to do a double take.
not that you can judge this boy, who you've been studying for the last five minutes and his choice of attire. you lose your own socks all of the time.
but there's a grey sock, plain and casual and not unlike your own. and then, just a couple of inches over, there's another sock. this one with a striped, colorful pattern, and words on the other side that you can't really read--for lack of view--but recognize almost immediately.
because, coincidently, you have the same sock in your backpack, awaiting a certain visitor.
and so, as soon as you looked up at this boy, the amusement crowded your not-so-subtle eyes.
he's got brown hair, a frown on his face as he reads a textbook that looks much more than dreadful. his chin is jutted out, his teeth idly munching on the lip between them. a headphone in one ear.
and, of course, this boy doesn't look over. he seems almost unaware of your presence.
and maybe that's what makes this so funny.
being that you've experienced this a couple of times now, and it's getting really hard to not say anything about it.
synchronicities, you know, can only go on for so long.
and this boy--this strange, somewhat attractive boy--is blissfully ignorant.
and you can't believe that he's wearing those socks in public.
you clear your throat, smile unstoppable now.
but he doesn't look over.
and you cover your mouth, shaking your head and turning yourself completely so that when he finally does decide to look over, he will know that you've been staring at him.
he will know that there's no avoiding this interaction.
which, for some strange reason, you're getting immense pleasure out of.
if you listen close enough you can hear the music he's playing.
some melancholy guitar music, completely what you would've assumed from him.
it makes you smile even wider.
you clear your throat again, leaning forward, legs crossed on your chair.
you kind of want to make him jump.
"excuse me," you say, softly. good enough to not draw any attention in this library.
though, your smile might be enough to raise some eyebrows.
the boy looks over, eyes wide and attentive.
you note his face as he takes you in.
"i was just wondering," you continue, innocently, "where you got your socks?"
you have rendered this boy speechless. which you seem to do a lot of.
you cough. "i mean, sock."
he looks down, to his feet, and then to you, seeming to understand. you catch a smudge of panic in his eyes, carefully glazed over as he opens his mouth, trying to say something.
he scratches his neck. blinking, with his mouth open, like he's trying to make sure that you're actually there.
and, to be honest, this is exactly what you imagined of him.
"lose all of your other pairs, too? or do you just like the look of clashing colors?" you blink at him, leaning back.
he takes a deep breath. "i'm sorry?"
"i mean," you shrug, turning back to your desk, "if it were me, i probably wouldn't wear those. especially when someone might have the exact same sock. but, to each their own."
"you--" he awkwardly laughs. "i just, um, found this. in the bathroom."
"was it in a backpack stuck to the wall?" you look back to him--his wide, scared, doe eyes--polite smile on your face.
"actually, i bought them yesterday. they came like this."
"interesting design choice," you respond.
and the boy, who is still staring at you, though not quite as breathless now, ducks down, leaning closer to you. "what do you want?" he whispers, eyes glaring.
"excuse me?" you whisper back.
"i'll--whatever it is, i'll try and get it. just don't--please don't tell anyone."
you frown, resting your head on a hand. "tell anyone what?"
"what you--" he looks around for anyone who might be listening. "what you know."
you tilt your head, questioning, and amused eyes.
"about me," he clarifies, almost hissing.
you lean back, studying him. "we just met," you say, with a hand to your chest.
he glares back.
"i won't spread your questionable fashion choices around the school if that's what you mean."
this boy still doesn't laugh. just like the first time, and the second, he seems to find you distasteful. almost annoying.
and honestly, that might be the only thing fueling this fire in your veins. this want to mess with him until he drops.
"seriously," he says, angry, "what do you want from me?"
"just to know where you bought those."
and then, as quietly and quickly as possible, you bend down to dig into your backpack, smiling in satisfaction as you find it, and then leaning back up, handing it to him.
"i wouldn't leave those around," you whisper. "you never know who might try and copy you."
you are almost threatening him.
the boy glowers. "i don't know what you're talking about."
you shrug, turning away again.
but he grabs your arm. "what?" he demands, again and again.
his eyes are angry, his face is hard and he's leaning away from you like you might reach out and turn him to dust.
but you only smile, asking sweetly "what's your name?"
he stares for a moment, blinking. "what?"
"i think maybe we have met before," you answer. "you seem familiar."
the boy grinds his teeth together.
but you wait, shoving that chuckling down your chest.
"peter," he says, the word mad and tough.
"peter," you repeat, looking away from him. "nice to meet you. i'm y/n."
you reach to shake his hand, and he stares at it like it's poison.
you roll your eyes. "don't worry," you add, softly. "i haven't forgotten. i still have to draw you."
his frown increases.
and you laugh as you turn away, thinking about secrets.
and listening to the music in peter's ears, still drifting over.
*
peter is not really paying attention tonight.
he roamed around all day--because there was nothing else to do--talking to strangers and not having to smile for pictures, just hoping for something to pop up.
and it did, and then it didn't.
when the problems are easy to fix, peter knows, they're less enjoyable.
still, the distraction was nice.
and you are not as you sit on a bench in front of him, smiling.
you've got that look on your face--the one that makes peter want to run away.
especially because you know who he is.
because he's been especially reckless the past couple of weeks, and as a consequence, you have shown up. you have smiled at him, whispering gentle words and even gentler promises.
and you've got a pencil in your hands.
a glint in your eyes that peter's seen somewhere before.
"fancy seeing you here," you say, amused. this is the same bench he passed by on the first night--when he was thinking about going home but didn't.
peter curses his own stupid decisions; the difference that they could've made.
"are you going to threaten me again?" peter asks, not really joking, though his voice gives nothing away.
"i don't know what you're talking about."
you're shrugging, looking away from him as your lips curl at the corners.
and then you look back up. "you never did answer my question about the socks, though."
peter rolls his eyes, though he doesn't miss the way he moves forward, trying to catch a glance at the surely explicit picture you're drawing.
curiosity is a curse.
"aren't you cold?" peter merely repeats.
"it's not snowing. so, no."
peter grunts. "another body part?" he nods toward the picture you're drawing, the thing you've chosen to look at instead of him.
"a foot," you grin up at him, eyebrows raise. "though, if you wanted. . . i could get started on my picture of you."
peter wishes you could see his frown.
still, he takes another step towards you. "how much?"
"hmm?"
"how much are you charging for it?"
peter watches you stifle a laugh, feels the pin-prick of pleasure in his chest. "only a smile," you say, head tilted.
"no thanks, then."
"c'mon, spider-man," you complain. "you're so much nicer to everyone else."
"everyone else hasn't threatened me."
you pout. "i won't tell anyone," you tell him, eyes wide, "if that's what you're worried about."
peter doesn't answer, just stares at you. looking for any tells.
"i mean," you continue, shrugging. "not that anyone would believe me. you've got enough frown lines to put me to shame."
as if to prove your point, peter frowns. "what's that supposed to mean?"
"well, i don't think anyone else has ever heard spider-man so much as grumble. so you. . ." you scrutinize him, nose wrinkled. "you couldn't be him."
peter narrows his eyes.
but you smile again, patting the bench next to you. "sit."
"i can't. i'm working."
you roll your eyes, sighing. "i'm the only one here. wouldn't you be better off watching me? just to make sure i don't do anything."
you smile at him, and it's more vicious than kind.
peter notes your eyes and the secretive glances you're giving him.
you might be right.
so he shrugs and moves to sit down next to you.
he's been closer, anyway.
you flip to another page, looking up at him, then down.
and so it begins.
you hum as you draw him, and peter taps his fingers on the bench, feeling nervous and uncomfortable, and mostly, hating that he's allowed himself to do this.
maybe just to keep in your good graces.
"what classes are you taking?" you ask him after a couple of minutes go by.
"what?"
"last week," you say, head tilting. erasing something on the paper. you've tilted it up on your knees, leaning against the arm of the bench, so peter can't see. "you were studying. that textbook looked horrible."
peter lets his lip perk up.
"what were you studying for?"
"a chemistry midterm."
you look at him, eyes just a bit tired. "you're into science?" you ask, almost doubtful.
peter crosses his arms.
"i mean, no offense or anything--" you smile as you say it. "--but i would've picked you for a music major. or business."
peter understands the implication. he doesn't say anything.
"gym major?" you ask, stealing a glance at his arms, laughing to yourself.
"what about you?" he asks, suddenly leaning forward. "i didn't realize there were classes on how to manipulate someone."
"that's called law," you respond, dryly. "and i'm an art major."
peter is sure you can feel his raised brow.
you roll your eyes, sighing as you relent. "fine. undecided. but i'm figuring it out."
you smile again like you know something he doesn't.
another minute passes, peter listening to the wind and your pencil as you scribble against the page.
"how long is this going to take?" peter asks, looking up, wondering how long he's been here.
"you can't rush art."
"i can when it's annoying me."
you don't look at him, but peter watches as you tense. he almost catches himself--the words he's just spoken and accidentally let out--and decides not to say anything.
maybe you'll forget about it.
"so," you drawl, after thirty seconds of awkward silence. "you're a chemist."
"engineer."
you scoff. "sorry, but that means the same thing to me."
peter snorts back.
"how old are you?" you ask him, brow furrowed as you concentrate.
"i'm not telling you."
you raise a brow, but don't look at him. "why not?"
"you'll just add it to the file."
you don't say anything.
"the file of things you know about me."
there's a quirk on your face, the clearing of your throat. "i was serious," you tell him, again. "i'm not going to tell anyone. i respect your privacy."
peter gives you a dubious look.
"i respect your anonymity," you revise, giving him a grin. "and if you keep moving your face i'm going to mess up your portrait."
"are you actually an artist?" peter asks, "or is this a ploy to get unsuspecting strangers to stop?"
"guess," you say.
"i'm going with the latter."
you shrug, not looking at him. "i've been told worse. but i think you're really going to like this."
peter doubts that, but he doesn't say anything.
and another tens minutes pass--in which you scrutinize everything about the suit he designed, snorting when he argues back--and then you're tearing out a page, smiling at him.
"i mean it," you tell him, "next time i see you i want a smile."
"i could be smiling right now."
you stare at him.
"just give it to me."
you laugh, putting your notebook in the bag next to you. "just don't look until i'm gone, okay?"
"you don't want to watch my reaction?"
"i don't think i need to."
and peter watches as you put everything else away--pencils and erasers and stick of charcoal. he pauses when he finally notices the headphones you tuck into your bag.
"you were listening to something before i got here?"
you just nod, zipping up your bag.
"what?"
you look up at him, eyes daring. "guess," you say.
"kanye?"
you scoff. "please."
"miley cyrus?"
you tilt your head, "i would be more likely to listen to the hannah montana soundtrack."
"metallica?"
you nod, lips pursing. "you got it, spider-man. i'm a metal kinda girl."
peter could've told you that.
but you're smirking before he can respond, pulling the pencil back out, flipping over the paper, and concealing it with your hand so that he can't see.
"there," you say, after forty-five seconds of scribbling. "now it's finished."
you put the pencil away, standing up.
"i'll see you soon," you say to him, nodding. "and that smile."
peter snorts.
and then you're walking away, waving an idle hand goodbye as you turn the corner. peter watches until you're gone, making sure that you're not going to pop back out when he least suspects it, and then he slides over on the bench, finally grabbing the paper.
he flips it over to find a black-and-white picture of himself, every slope and curve of his suit that he recognizes in the mirror.
and he knows, for sure, that you lied to him. or he lied to you.
it wasn't the latter.
still, somewhat amazed, smiling under his mask, his eyes drift down to the words you've written at the corner of the page.
you are a call to motion, it says. there, all of you, a verb in perfect view.
and then another foul "smiley face." peter almost laughs.
when you move, you've written, i move.
and your number at the very bottom, scribbled a bit recklessly.
peter memorizes the numbers before he swings home.
*
you get the first text three days later.
your phone vibrates in your pocket as you're waiting in line at a coffee shop, watching the people around you move with creases in their brows.
your fingers itch for the notebook in your bag.
and when you read the screen, you're a bit confused.
a text from an unknown number, and all it says is:
you lied.
you frown, thinking of who you might've irritated in the past couple of days.
it only takes a couple of seconds to recall the boy who you've messed with the most.
peter and the scowls he's given you.
you smile, knowing what he means.
and then you send him the spotify link to enter sandman.
*
peter rolls his eyes when he gets the message. still, he clicks on the link, plugging his headphones into the jack.
he walks while he listens, wincing at the words.
and when it's finished--when peter officially decides that he's finished with you--he sends back another link.
one to the song you wrote out for him, the song you happened to lie about.
are you flirting with me? he asks, trying not to let himself regret it.
or smile as he sees the little bubble at the bottom of the screen, letting him know that you're still there.
you send an emoji of a spider back and peter's smile fades.
*
you're laughing as you type, you still owe me a smile.
you move up in the line, trying not to stumble over the shoes of the person in front of you, scowling when peter sends you a scowl back.
not literally, of course. but it's been two minutes since he read the text, and he has not answered.
which, you think, is very rude.
is that a no? you type out.
peter merely says: you owe me a song.
so you send him knee socks, by arctic monkeys.
and you forget what to order when you get up to the counter.
*
peter begins to look for you before he walks around any corner.
he's avoided that bench, thinking that if he gets too close, too soon, you will get bored.
that you might've already after you sent him that song and he had nothing good to send you back.
he's been thinking about it for the past couple of days.
while he studies, and showers, goes to class, and swings from building to building, staring down at tiny people and thinking that one of them might be you.
but you haven't shown up. peter thinks maybe you've been hiding out too.
maybe worried because he hasn't texted back.
but then he corrects himself; he can't imagine you worried about anything.
still, he peeks around the corner before he moves, waiting for your cheeky smile and irritating laughter.
instead, he finds a crowd of people that he doesn't know, and who don't know him.
not that you do either.
peter is listening to music as he walks. trying to pretend that there is no correlation between you and this song.
he moves around the people, keeping his eyes low. he says hello to anyone who says anything to him. he smiles at strangers and reminds himself how to be polite.
he thinks about how mean he's been to you, and wonders if it just comes naturally.
and when he gets home, kissing may on the cheek and walking up to his room, happy to finally put down his backpack and all of the books in it, he's still thinking about you.
thinking about the picture he's put on his wall, and your simple handwriting underneath it. neat and smooth, nothing like he'd expected it to be.
he's thinking about you as he gets undressed, sliding on his suit and staring at the socks he's left on the floor.
when you know who's callin' even though the number is blocked. . .
peter shakes his head, kicking them under his bed.
but, right before he leaves, he grabs his phone from his bed, angrily clicking on a playlist.
and then he sends you another link, about a week later.
and he doesn't have it in him to question it.
*
you awake from your nap to a text.
the name at the top of your screen just says "itsy bitsy," because you were a little bit delirious and thought it was hilarious when you put him in your contacts a week and two days ago.
you almost smile at the notification, and then catch yourself.
spider-man, peter, has sent you a link to love grows (where my rosemary goes).
you click on it, smirking as you do so.
and then two minutes and fifty-four seconds later, you finally text him again.
are you busy tomorrow?
*
"you're my muse now," you say to him, pointing to a stool.
you sent peter the directions to an art studio, about three minutes off campus, and told him to come at noon.
it is 12:23 and you haven't stopped smiling at peter since he walked in.
"any song suggestions?" you ask him, wide eyes and tilted head and that devious smile that runs goosebumps up his arms.
peter clears his throat.
"no," he says. "pick whatever,"
you asked him to pose for you. told him that he owed you at least that, if not some laughter.
and peter disagreed, but didn't argue.
and now he's not quite sure why.
you put on some soft guitar music, going to a shelf in the corner of the room to grab something.
"how's my bench?" you ask him as you move back over to him and sit on the ground.
peter frowns. "i don't know."
you pull out a notebook, scoffing. "you're telling me that you haven't checked it once in the past week?"
"nope."
"aren't you supposed to be like the protector of new york city, or whatever?" you blow some hair out of your eyes as you say it.
"that typically applies to people."
"except me," you grumble, under your breath.
peter's lip twitches.
"what are you doing, again?" he asks.
"well, i figured since i drew spider-man, the least i can do is also draw peter."
"you said i was a terrible statue."
"you are," you laugh at him, "but you've got a nice face."
peter pretends not to feel it as he flushes.
"i won't show anyone," you tell him, "if you don't want me to. but it would be nice for my still art class."
"so you are an artist," peter says, attempting to evade your subtle question.
"only in my dreams. i'm also taking algebra, economics, and philosophy 101."
peter frowns.
"i'll declare next year," you tell him, frowning as you erase something.
"as an art major?"
you grin at him, but the peter that's on the paper. "wouldn't you like to know?"
peter doesn't answer that.
he watches you as you draw him, peeking an eye on the side of his face every couple of moments, and smiling when you catch him staring at you.
"what's your last name?" you ask him, breaking the silence.
another song plays, and peter still doesn't recognize it.
"parker."
you snort. "figures."
his brows furrow. "what does that mean?"
"of course, you would have a superhero-ey name."
"what's yours?"
"y/l/n."
peter laughs.
you frown. "what?"
"of course, you would have an annoying-sounding name."
you glare at him, but peter doesn't miss the twitch of your lip. "don't copy me, parker."
"don't make it so easy."
and you don't say anything back, instead choosing to focus down at the paper, but peter notices the little chuckle that falls from your mouth. the silent sneer in your eyes.
"what?" he asks after it doesn't go away.
"i think that was the first time you've actually teased me."
you don't say the rest of it. and peter doesn't acknowledge how comfortable he feels, sitting on this stool as you stare up at him, watching you as you look back.
"you can use it," he says, suddenly.
"what?"
"the picture. for your class."
you don't say anything, but nod in acknowledgment.
and peter feels like an idiot as the silence drifts. feels like he shouldn't have said anything, shouldn't have agreed to this.
and the song changes again, a soft, melodic sound.
peter almost smiles.
"is this opera?" he asks, heavily judging you.
you grin, dropping your notebook on the ground and standing up. you take a step closer to him, leaning in.
"shut your mouth and see," you whisper to him.
peter is almost offended, brows furrowed as he stares at you and how close you are.
but then someone else echoes the words back, and you begin to dance, holding a hand out to invite him to join.
peter does, memorizing the slow movement of your hips as he stands up, feeling like his limbs are heavier than they were only four minutes ago.
and the two of you dance to only angel like no one's watching.
peter listens to you sing the words under your breath.
i must admit i thought i'd like to make you mine.
*
you are humming to yourself when you get the phone call.
when your hand stumbles, pencil creating a harsh line over the drawing you've spent the last twenty minutes hating. you scowl at your hand, and then your phone, for interrupting.
until you see peter's face on the screen.
the picture you took of the picture you drew of him, scowling at you like he seems to do a lot of.
you don't smile, but bite your lip as you press the little green button.
"hello?"
"hey," peter says, voice soft. he clears his throat. "what're you up to?" his voice is suddenly louder like he's using a microphone.
you smile, glad that he can't see it.
"just laughing at this picture of you."
"from last week?"
"yup."
"really?"
you roll your eyes, hoping he can feel it. "no," you drawl. "i was just working on something new. what's up?"
"do you like movies?"
*
after that, peter doesn't have to avoid you.
he doesn't look for you around any corners, because you've already leaned forward, already allowed him to see your smile and guess what you might be thinking about.
"hey," you say to him as you match his stride. "how was class?"
"boring," peter answers, accepting the earbud you hold out to him.
"of course, it was," you grin at him, "i wasn't there."
and peter just barely laughs, feeling a bit light when you smile back, face full of some sort of victory.
you play a song about being cold, and peter completely understands.
*
"i can't believe you got me to agree to this," you say to him as you open the door.
you're wearing a dress. pretty and flowing and completely surprising peter, if his face says anything.
"wow," he says, coughing. then clearing his throat. then coughing again. "it's--you look nice."
you scowl. "i look terrible."
peter just chuckles, looking down again, then at your eyes like he's forgotten something.
you just glare at him, waiting for him to tell you that you don't have to come.
but peter holds his hand out to you. "ready?" he asks.
"no. because i'm not going." you try and close the door in his face.
peter pushes it back, just smiling softly at you.
finally, you understand why he's been so irritated and cruel to you. if your smile is anything like his, then his reaction is completely rational.
"it'll be fine," peter coos, reaching a hand out to comfortingly--and condescendingly--rub your shoulder.
"it's a banquet," you say, just barely getting the words out. "for science."
"it's a party for engineering majors. i invited you a week ago and you didn't say anything--"
"all of your teachers will be there," you correct him, staring daggers. "if there are adults there, then it's not a party. and you made it sound fun."
"we're adults."
"i'm an adult, peter. you are a child. you are childish for tricking me into this."
"tricking you?" peter laughs, eyes gleaming. "i don't remember that part of the conversation."
you, suddenly, smile sweetly at him. "i don't know if you've heard," you whisper, smoothly, "but this is going to be terrible."
he grabs your hand, rolling his eyes. "it'll be boring, maybe, but not terrible. i'll stay with you the whole time."
you frown. then say again, in the same, all-knowing tone, "i don't know if you knew this about me, peter parker, but i'm terrible at boring. or being serious. or talking to people."
"you talk to me just fine--"
"as soon as anyone says anything i'll start laughing. it's a nervous reaction, i can't control it."
"i'll put a hand over your mouth."
"that's a violation of my boundaries."
peter snorts, "look, not that i'm not enjoying this--"
you pinch his arm, shaking your hand out of his.
"--but we're going to be late. we can talk about your chortling on the way there--"
"chortling?!"
"witch cackle, guffaw, whatever," peter corrects.
"you are not making me want to go with you."
"c'mon," peter whines, catching your hand again. "you're my plus one. everyone will think i'm a loser if i show up without you."
"they already think that," you hiss at him, moving back again. "and anyway, i can't walk in these."
you gesture down to the heels you dug out of your closet.
it took you two hours to get ready, simply because you were stressed out enough to absolutely ruin every outfit you put on.
"i'll die, peter," you say, staring at him desperately. "die."
he raises a brow. "you can put on different shoes."
"you're a man." you wave a hand, scoffing at him. "what do you know about fashion?"
peter shakes his head. "okay, if your feet get sore, i'll carry you."
you stare at him blankly. "i highly doubt that, noodle arms."
the smile that appears on your face is one of satisfaction.
but peter rolls his eyes and doesn't bother to correct you.
"look," he says, pulling his phone out. "i brought my phone so we can listen to music. i'll let you pick."
you look away from his eyes to the strand between his fingers. then back to him. "you promise?"
"sure," peter says, almost snorting. "and anyway, i heard that there might be karaoke and you know that--"
as soon as he says the words, you're turning around, grabbing your purse from the table by your door, and locking it. you shut it, reaching for peter's hand.
"alright," you smile, easily. "let's go."
peter laughs as you begin to drag him along.
you sing along to sexy silk while you walk with him, just to keep the smile on his face.
*
"hey," you say to him as you pick up the camera on his desk. "you didn't tell me about this."
peter looks over, noting your frown and the furrow between your brows. he's sitting on your bed while you canvas his room, making fun of everything he's got in there.
not to mention the way you almost died of laughter when you saw your drawing on his wall, telling him that he's a dirty little liar, then smiling a secretive smile at it.
not that peter noticed.
still, he sits up, watching as you click on some button.
"there are lots of things i don't tell you about," he says, smoothly, and smiles at you.
your scowl grows. "you've got a camera?" you ask.
and then, after peter doesn't bother answering that and another moment passes, your jaw drops.
"you've taken pictures of me?" you demand, pointing to a moment he got a week ago, minutes before he met you for lunch.
"that's not you," peter lies, and goes to take it from your hands.
but you pull away.
"when did you do this?"
peter hesitates for a moment, but he sees the look on your face. "last week."
"why didn't i notice?"
peter smiles. "because you are particularly unobservant."
you glare.
". . . and because i was about twenty feet away, and ten minutes early."
"peter," you complain and whine. "why wouldn't you tell me about this?"
"didn't want to steal your thing."
"i don't have a camera."
he shakes his head. "no, art, or something."
"you're lying," you say, peering at him. "that's your lying face."
he holds a hand to his chest, mock offended.
but you don't say anything as you put the camera back on his desk, frowning at the window and avoiding his eyes.
peter watches for a moment, at the pout on your face and how soft and smooth your skin looks.
he thinks about you dancing and almost forgets that you're mad at him.
"hey," he whispers to you, hand reaching out. "i'm sorry i didn't tell you. i didn't realize that you'd want to know."
"of course, i want to know," you mumble. peter thinks you might be saying something else.
"well, now you do."
"i also know about your ninja turtle underwear," you say, with a hint of a smile on your face.
"yeah," peter says, standing up. "and you can hold it against me forever. i won't even complain."
you look over at him, raising your brows. "really?"
"mhmm."
and then you purse your lips, pretending to consider it. "okay, i guess," you say, as a means to forgive him.
and peter is glad about that. glad when you walk over to him, pushing his shoulder.
"but don't do that again," you tell him, almost as a threat.
"do what?"
"keep a secret from me."
peter almost winces, but decides to smile instead. "you already know all of them," he says, simply.
and you smile back.
he doesn't quite let himself believe that it's a lie. doesn't think about you being mad, or what you might do if you found out.
he just sighs, reaching over you to pick up the camera.
"do you want to see more pictures?" he asks you.
and then delights in the eager way you nod back.
*
you are humming along to the song playing from peter's phone as you doodle on the piece of paper in front of you.
you don't know the name, but peter's played it often enough that you know the words.
and, coincidentally, he's laying his head in your lap--claiming a headache--as you play with his hair.
he is almost distracting you as you attempt to draw a pretty little spider on his bedside table.
peter hums back, but it's not to the song.
"what?" you ask him, pausing your hand.
peter reaches up, moving it for you, and you snort.
"okay, okay," you say to him, and scratch his scalp some more.
"are you ruining my table?"
"no more than you already have."
peter groans, but doesn't bother to look up. you know that he knows that you're not drawing anything on it.
you smile down at him, then get back to the tiny sticky note you found in his drawer.
the pen you stole from the dining table downstairs.
you sing to him, to yourself, and minutes pass, and the song changes.
but you picked this one, and peter doesn't complain.
"do you feel any better?" you whisper to him, refraining from calling him a big baby.
"no. keep going," peter grunts.
you scoff but listen.
"look," you tell him, holding the drawing in front of his face. "do you like it?"
"pretty," peter mumbles.
but he doesn't even open his eyes.
so you flick him in the nose, raising a brow. "you didn't even look, you idiot."
"don't be mean to me," peter whines, "i'm in pain."
"you refuse to take any medicine."
"you're close enough," he whispers, and you try not to feel anything at the words.
"just one eye," you say to him, pulling at his skin.
and peter relents, staring at the picture you've drawn for him. "are you trying to be funny?"
it's a spider, sure, but a very hilarious interpretation of it swinging and falling off a building, and then, a couple of feet away, a picture of it being smooshed.
you grin. "i think you should put it on your next suit."
"i'll think about it," peter says, and closes his eyes again.
you laugh at him and hope he can feel it.
sing along to the song until peter falls asleep.
i wouldn't fall for someone i thought couldn't misbehave.
*
when peter wakes up, he's alone.
he wonders when you disappeared and where you went. he aches for the feeling of your hands in his hair and your smile and laughter as he wakes up.
it's dark outside though, so peter's glad that you're at home, at least, hopefully sleeping.
he looks at the clock, frowning at the numbers.
he sits up, head buzzing and blinking until he can see.
and then he walks over to the bathroom, figuring that he should probably brush his teeth.
and when he goes back to his bed, back aching and thinking about you, he notices the sticky note you've put on his wall, right next to the picture you drew of him.
he smiles at it, glad you put it there, where he probably would've put it anyway.
and there's another one, right next to your bed.
you're lame and you fell asleep, it says, don't worry, you didn't drool.
peter smiles, appreciating your handwriting. he puts it on his wall, right next to the other one.
and then he texts you.
when did you leave?
you answer almost immediately: about an hour ago.
it's one in the morning, and peter frowns.
did you walk home alone?
yup!
he scowls, immediately dialing you.
"hello?" you say, singing it.
peter wonders how you have so much energy, but doesn't give himself the time to dwell on it.
"you walked home alone?" he asks again.
"yes, peter."
"in the dark?"
you hum.
he's scowling, wishing you were there so you could see how serious he is. "don't do that," he says.
"peter," you sigh, snorting a bit.
"you shouldn't be walking home by yourself."
"might i remind you that you fell asleep? who else was i going to ask at midnight? may?"
"you could've woken me up."
peter hears you laugh.
"aw," you say, "but, baby, you just looked so peaceful."
peter almost flinches at the words, because you're not being serious and still--
"promise me that you will, next time."
you laugh again. "okay, peter. i'll uber home next time."
"you'll wake me up."
"please," you tell him, "i don't have a death wish."
*
you are frowning as he sits in front of you, but trying not to.
you're trying to keep a calm face and a smooth mind and repair peter without him figuring out a single thing about you.
without getting into another fight with him.
but he knows you, much better than you'd like.
"what?" he whispers to you, the words soft on your cheek.
he's got bruises sprinkled over his abdomen. a bright red cut on his cheek. a black eye and fingers that look more like pens than limbs.
still, you're trying not to be too rough with him.
trying to clean these wounds without opening up any others.
"nothing."
"you're frowning."
"you've got a big cut on your face."
he grabs your hand, stopping your movement as you dab at it. "you're frowning," he repeats, a bit louder.
you sigh and look away. "peter. . ."
"you're mad at me?" he asks, tilting your head back to him.
you're three inches away from him, staring.
and you don't even need to answer, because it takes one look from you, and peter nods.
"okay," he says, turning his cheek so you can clean the cut again.
you do.
and you listen to his breathing, hearing your own heart pound in your ear, staying silent.
there's not much you can say to him without wanting to scream.
"are you going to tell me why?" he asks you, minutes later, when you've had to replace the water so it's not so cold.
you hum. rub some ointment on the wound, apologizing when peter winces.
"y/n," he says, tilting his head. he's smiling at you like it might get you to break.
"you're not taking this seriously," you complain, closing your eyes. you move back, just for peter to move forward.
"hey," he says, grabbing your hand again. his eyes meet yours. "i'm okay."
"you're hurt," you argue, frowning, concern piercing your brows. "you had to come here so i could patch you up."
peter swallows. "i wanted to see you."
"no," you shake your head at him. "you can barely move that arm. you limped in here."
"it'll be fine by tomorrow."
you scoff. "but it's not fine now peter!" you whisper the words, but with enough force that he moves back, his eyes wide and his brow furrowing, as if he's just realized how serious you are.
"you're really mad?"
you shake your head, looking away from him. "i'm scared for you, and i'm mad because you don't even care. every time," you say, "you just brush it off. tell me that it'll be fine."
"because i will," peter swears, trying to catch your eyes.
"but what if you're not?" you ask him, just whispering the words, your voice breaking. "what if you come here," you look back to him, tears evident. "and i can't do anything to help you?"
peter starts to say something, tries to brush the liquid away, but you flinch back.
"no. what if someone else has to move the mask? what if they see you, but you're already--" you stop, not wanting to say the words.
and before you can blink or breathe, peter has wrapped an arm around you, crushing you to his skin.
he apologizes and holds you close, breathing slowly as you try to catch your breath.
he whispers in your ear, rubbing your back.
"i'm sorry," he says, "i didn't realize."
and you know that. and you know that this argument isn't quite fair.
"i promise i'll be careful. i promise, okay?"
you nod against his neck, breathing him in.
and a moment passes, and you try to memorize the feeling of being this close to him.
and then you whisper, "you're my best friend, peter. i don't know what i would do without you."
and it's only partly a lie.
"i know," peter says, moving back so that he can look you in the eye. "i know."
you try and smile at him, and he tries and smiles back.
"okay," you whisper.
and then you notice the small wince on peter's face.
you frown. "what?"
peter looks down to where your stomach has brushed against the cuts on his and clears his throat. "ouch," he says.
you meet his eyes and laugh.
*
peter knocks on your door, waiting.
he hasn't seen you in a couple of days, and you haven't been answering the phone.
he hears someone move around. hears a lurking at the door.
"y/n?" he calls. "i can hear you."
but you don't answer.
so peter knocks again, checking his phone for any sign of you, and staring at the door.
all he gets is a quick "read" message, and then silence.
he sighs.
"c'mon," he calls again. "just open the door, or text me, and i'll leave."
but you do neither.
peter scowls. "i'm not gonna go," he tells you. "i'll be out here until you are, and when i freeze to death you're going to feel really bad."
he might hear a scoff, but the only thing that follows is some silence.
he says your name again, leaning against the door.
and then he scrolls on your phone, sending you another text.
he hears your phone ring on the other side of the door.
and he can hear you sighing because he's just sent you a link to door.
there's a moment that passes, where peter is just a bit proud, and then you open the door.
"that's not even what that song means," you tell him, glowering, but you let him in.
peter just smiles at you.
*
you're drawing him again. laughing as he teases you and listening to a playlist that he's made for the two of you--promising that it was great and that you'd enjoy it very much.
this time, though, it's a bit different.
you haven't asked to draw him since that day when he met you in the studio and finally looked comfortable enough to sit still. you haven't wanted to push that line, again, because you knew that it would be different.
and that last picture of him, well. . .
it's not the same as now. not the same as peter is when he's smiling at you.
when he's singing along to a song that he's chosen and rolling his eyes when you say something, or make fun of him.
it's not the same, you know, because last time, it was merely some strange sort of attraction to him. some want, or need, or crazy, fantasy thing.
but now. god.
now you know peter. now you know what he looks like when he's upset, how he acts when he's scared, or what he cares about, or who he truly is, behind the mask.
now you're in love with him and trying to hide it.
unsuccessfully, you're sure.
"how much longer?" peter asks you, spinning around in your chair as you sit on your bed.
it's also different because he's in your room, messing with your things.
"i've already told you, peter, that you can't rush art."
"you're probably not even drawing me."
you grin down at the paper.
peter continues to sing, continues to flip through an old notebook of drawings.
"you know," you tell him, just glancing up to meet his brown eyes. "i don't like this song very much."
peter raises a brow. "really?"
you nod, pursing your lips.
and so he sings even louder.
"a zero, zero," peter says to you, laughing. "now he's a--"
you throw a pillow at him, smirking.
peter frowns. "that's going to ruin the drawing."
"so is your singing," you tell him. "stay still, peter."
"can i at least see?" he asks.
"not till i'm done."
and then the song changes, and suddenly, you're grinning at him.
just like that first day.
*
as soon as peter hears the opening chords, he's cursing himself for putting this song on the playlist.
for letting himself be manipulated at the thought of your smile, and funny laugh as you danced around to this one the first time. for allowing himself to give in to it.
because your smile is nothing but evil.
and suddenly, you're not drawing, but standing up, biting your lip.
"hey, good lookin'," you croon. moving your hips and your shoulders and smiling at him because you just know. "whatcha got cookin'?"
peter throws his head back and groans.
but you're singing along, dancing around him, and whispering the words in his ear.
"there's soda pop and the dancing's free," you whisper, the goosebumps much more than a physical reaction.
and, really, peter's trying not to smile as he watches you dance. as he watches your smile ebb and flow and listens to your voice, to your accent as--
"--so we can go steady," you gesture at him, smiling sweetly. "how's about saving all your time for me?"
you are a monster, an absolute devil as you pull peter up, as he goes so willingly, and begins to dance with you.
his hands around your waist and yours wrapped around his neck and that goddamn smile.
and your voice, and every single thing that you mean to him.
"c'mon," you say to him, giggling. "dance."
and he does. he can't stop.
then, when the song begins to fade, and you whisper a last "how's about cooking something up with me?" he pulls you down to your bed.
he's almost breathless and laughing at you as you try to squirm away.
he's absolutely gone as you still against him, suddenly realizing where you are.
that he's pulled you so that you're laying right against him. and, peter is three inches away from you, and he can feel your breath against him.
he can see your smile as it almost fades.
as you watch his eyes, but falter, and look down.
down and down and peter's eyes follow.
he's staring at your lips, and he almost doesn't notice it as he leans in, as your breath hitches.
and he kisses you.
finally. finally.
he pulls you as close as he can get you, hand wrapped around your neck, and at the base of your head, and digging into you, and your hands are on his face, they are still and alive as you grip onto him just as tight as he's got you.
as you pull him, push and pull his lips, and breathe into his mouth.
as he finally feels all of you, and thanks god that you're there.
and when he pulls back, almost disassociating, eyes wide, he's staring at you.
he's listening to a song in the background but he doesn't know the words.
he can't think at all, can't breathe with you right there.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, as he suddenly remembers who you are and what you mean to him.
but you--you smile at him. you laugh like you can't believe it.
you look into peter's eyes and you see all of him.
you shake your head, one hand drifting to your lips like you can feel something new.
you laugh again.
"peter," you whisper to him, and he's staring back. "do it again."
if you were a waiting room, i would never see the doctor.
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.
when the two of you walk into the office, peter will linger a couple of feet behind.
he'll get the next elevator up. he'll wait a few extra minutes and give you the time to sit down at your desk before he even moves to his.
and most importantly, he'll spend two minutes trying to wipe the smile off of his face.
it seems to be glued there, stretching into wrinkles, pulling at his teeth, and making his jaw ache. he tries to scrub it off with a hand, but as soon as it's gone, it comes right back.
especially when you're right next to him, almost holding his hand.
"are you going to go take photos of the train station?" you're talking to him and peter is...
well, he's not really paying attention.
he shakes his head at you, still smiling. "what?"
"did you sleep at all last night?" there's a frown on your face, a wrinkle between your brows.
peter would like to kiss it away.
he would like to kiss every inch of you, actually.
"no, i--" he clears his throat. "i got a couple hours. i'm okay."
"you're distracted," you correct him, stepping out of the way for a woman hurrying down the sidewalk. and then you come right back to him, almost leaning in far enough for him to feel you.
which he can, already, of course, because he can hear your heartbeat and smell your body wash and taste the chapstick you were wearing when he showed up at your apartment. still, he likes this proximity.
he wonders how he ever lets you get more than a foot away.
"well, you're distracting."
he's grinning at you when you look away. he allows you the moment to let the compliment sink in, and then he reaches down, touching your palm to his. "what were you saying?"
"i was asking if you're supposed to go take pictures of the train station today? the one that got destroyed on monday."
you squeeze his hand, giving him a look that translates more than words can. especially in public. he's grateful for your indiscretion, even when he feels it goes too far (for instance, yesterday you told a waiter that you thought spider-man was a self-righteous pest. he got a kiss for that though.)
finally, peter winces. "yeah, i'm heading there at noon."
when he looks over at you, you're pouting.
he raises a brow in question.
"so no lunch today?" you ask, almost whining. and then you tilt your head back, making a displeased noise.
peter almost laughs, but corrects himself before he can. "i'm sorry, baby, i tried to get an earlier time."
"how long will you be there?"
"probably till three, at least. i'm not sure how many other photographers are going to be there."
your hand slides out of his and you look at him accusingly. "are you even coming back to the office after?"
he bites the inside of his cheek, looking away from you.
"peter," you groan, hanging your head. "why didn't you tell me this? i thought i was going over to your place tonight."
"jameson said that any break away from my face was a good one. i can just edit the pictures on my laptop. and," peter adds, trying to reach for your hand even when you push him away, "you are."
you scowl. "you won't let me walk there by myself."
and then the smile is back on his face. "that's why i'm coming to pick you up."
"do you mean that literally," you squint at him, distracting peter with the look on your face. "or figuratively?"
peter shrugs.
"you don't have to come all the way back," you tell him, voice soft and sweet.
"it'll take ten minutes."
"yeah, but you're already tired. you should sleep until later tonight."
"i'd rather walk with you."
you roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. "well, i'd rather have a sane boyfriend, but we can't all get what we want."
peter pokes you in the side, delighting in your giggles, and you finally take his hand so that he'll stop.
but it's a little too late because the office is twenty feet away from you both.
you're looking at him with a smile, but it's a different one than usual. a bit sullen. he can see it in the way your lips are turning down.
"i'll go first?" you ask him, nodding towards the door.
peter nods. "i'll come say goodbye before i leave."
you blink at him, eyes and lips, and smile far too dangerous for him to look at for much longer.
he kisses the top of your head before you go. getting goosebumps when your fingers graze past his as you walk away.
peter watches you trip over a crack, almost reaching out to catch you before you find your balance again and look back at him with a grin.
peter shakes his head.
but he can't help it; he's grinning back.
*
he's already smiling when you walk through the doors. he knows you're close, if by nothing but intuition.
and he's almost pushed over--nudged, at most--by you crashing into him, hands around his neck, breath on his ear.
"hey," you say to him, a moment too late.
peter wraps his arms around your waist. he leans into your hug, holding you there for just a moment. and then you push him away, giving him a strange look.
"you're early," you tell him.
peter is still smiling. "so are you."
"yeah, but i have an excuse," you lean into him, eyes grinning, "jameson said i was a disgrace to the office, and that i should leave before i broke anything else."
at that, peter frowns. "what'd you break?" one of his hands goes up to your face, moving a piece of hair away from your eyes.
"the coffee pot."
peter blinks.
"to be fair--" you begin to say, almost pulling away from his grip, but not quite. "rita was walking right behind me and what was i supposed to do? throw it up and catch it?"
peter runs a thumb over your lip. "did jameson actually say that?"
you scrunch your nose at him. "he's said worse."
"yeah, but he doesn't usually say it to you."
"well, i broke the most essential piece of equipment in the office. it was an accident though," you tilt your head to the side, finishing the sentence without getting peter to argue with you.
like everything i do.
"i don't like it," peter says, still frowning, even though your skin is so soft and he can feel you smiling against his hand, and you're looking right up at him.
kind of like he's the only thing you'd like to see.
"great!" you pull away from him, spinning around so you're walking backward, "because i don't like it when you're gone either. if you were there i probably wouldn't have dropped it."
"yeah, 'cause i would've grabbed it before you could."
"exactly."
peter smiles again, leaning toward you. "is that your way of saying that you're still mad about this afternoon?"
you hum.
"how can i ever make it up to you?"
your cheek twitches. "i can think of a few ideas," you say, with a tilt of your head.
and then you almost crash into someone walking behind you, but peter pulls you in, eyes right above yours.
"you'll have to share them with me," and then he kisses you, short and sweet, turning you so that he can put an arm around your shoulder. "let's go home."
*
you're dozing off on peter's shoulder when he finally looks at the clock.
the two of you have been sitting there, trying to see who could catch more popcorn in their mouth--peter won with an unfair advantage--and then watching whatever was on cable.
peter honestly didn't care, nor was he watching it. you were far more entertaining.
but now it's eight o'clock, and it's getting dark.
so he kisses your forehead and feels you hum. and then groan.
"already?" you ask, voice rough.
"it's been three and a half hours."
you turn your face into his neck mumbling "i deserve five times that."
peter is smirking at you. "i'll be back before you know it," he says, "and then we'll do whatever you want."
"i'll be asleep."
"then we'll cuddle."
"can't you figure out how to clone yourself?" you grumble, leaning back. "you're smart enough."
"which one would you want? me or the clone?"
you look away, contemplating. and then you half grin. "i don't know. which one of you kisses better?"
peter laughs, hand moving to your chin so that he can force you to look back at him.
and then he answers that question without any words.
*
when peter gets home that night, he can smell blood.
and not his own, because he can feel it cracking on his knuckles and his chest, already dry. and not some thief's because he'd managed to avoid breaking any skin.
no, this smell is potent. sort of sweet and metallic, familiar and not.
when he climbs through the window, looking to the bed where he'd expected to find you, you're not there.
he can hear rustling in the kitchen, a drawer opening and closing, and the click of a tongue.
peter walks out of the room before he can even think about it, just barely keeping the mask on his face.
but when he walks into the living room he only finds you, sitting on the couch, applying something to your hand.
you look up with a smile, then furrow your brows, gesturing to your face.
oh. peter still hadn't taken off the mask.
he does, frowning at you, and taking a few steps forward.
"there you are," you say with a grin.
and despite how happy you look to see him, and how much he's missed you just in the last five hours, peter is still frowning. he bends down in front of you, biting his lip. "what happened?"
you tilt your head, then follow his eyes. "oh. did you know that bread knives are sharp?"
peter sighs, grabbing your hand. "how did you even do this?" he asks, turning your hand so that he can see the cut fresh on your palm. "i thought we talked about not going into the kitchen when i'm not here."
"and i thought i said that it was a ridiculous suggestion and you were trying to starve me."
he holds your hand up in front of your eyes, raising his brows.
"it doesn't even hurt that bad."
"really? cause it smells bad. and i'm pretty sure i can see bone."
you laugh at him, taking your hand back. "i already washed it, i just need a bandaid. how are you?"
he blinks at you.
"peter," you groan, rolling your eyes. "it's not a big deal. but i'll share the bandaids with you."
there's a question in your eyes, alight with the same eagerness peter has found to love.
"i don't need 'em," he tells you and then stands up. "i'm going to go change. then we'll talk."
"about dinner?" you call back.
when peter comes out of the bathroom a couple of minutes later, you're already sitting in bed.
peter finally looks at you, almost smiling at his shirt and your spare pair of shorts you keep here, but then looks back to your hand.
he crosses his arms.
"can i help you, peter?"
"do you see my point now?"
you blow a raspberry, crawling towards him so you can reach his hand. "everyone gets a little banged up. i don't think you're one to talk."
"what if you'd cut your finger off and i wasn't here?"
you roll your eyes, again. "then i'd knock on mrs. robinson's door and ask her to sew it back on. besides, i'd look good with nine fingers."
peter stares at you.
you move up so that your face is close to his, and you're still smiling. biting your lip as you look at him. and then you poke his cheek. "you worry too much. also, i think this argument is hypocritical."
"i'm fine the next morning."
"don't brag."
peter sighs again, and then he's taking a step towards you, one of his hands going to your back to keep you up. "i don't like leaving you."
your lip curls. "i know. but it's good because then we have something to argue about when you get back."
peter smiles at you, nudging your nose with his.
you close your eyes, tilting your head up to meet him better. "i missed you."
"yeah?"
you're smiling against him, leaking joy and contentedness and every ounce of adoration you have into him. peter knows because he can feel it.
in just your skin on his fingertips, he can tell that you've poisoned him. and he doesn't really mind.
you nod against him.
"a lot?" peter prods.
you seesaw your head. "mmm, i think i mostly missed how warm you are. 'cause your heaters broken."
"you just don't know how to set it."
"i don't know how to set it because it's broken and you don't want to fix it."
peter shrugs. "can't fix something that isn't broken."
you're shaking your head against him, and then he leans forward, catching you in a kiss.
your mouth is almost unbearable. your smile and the way you laugh when he pulls you even closer, and the way your hands wrap around his neck and fall into his hair.
how he ever lived without this, peter isn't sure.
you break away from him, breathing strained. "you okay?"
peter pushes you down, climbing on top of you. "i am now."
"and there's no other reason i can't go back in there?"
"absolutely not."
warnings: fluff, jealously, holiday party
a/n: happy holidays!
*
"c'mon," you say, in some semblance of a whisper. "we're leaving."
you grab peters hand, taking his cup of eggnog-whatever from the other one and putting it on a nearby table. you pull him along, giving a fake smile to everyone that laughs at you as you walk by.
you're not very familiar with this house--or any of these people--but you're pretty sure that the door was just a couple of hallways away.
and also absolutely sure that if you don't leave right now, the holiday season will be ruined.
"what's going on?" peter asks from behind you, only tripping a little bit as he tries to follow you.
"where was the door?"
"baby," he repeats. "why are we leaving? did someone say something to you? because--"
you wave a hand. turn back to him with a pout. "i'm just tired."
peter raises a brow.
"it's getting late," you excuse, turning away.
peter's hand brings you right back, stopping the two of you in this hallway, hand cradling your cheek--despite your many protests, and pulling on his arm. "it's nine."
you fake yawn. "bedtime."
peter uses his other hand to grab your face, leaning down to get a view of your eyes. "what happened?" he says, slightly smiling, but mostly serious.
"nothing, peter."
"you're pouting."
you pout even harder. "no i'm not."
and then, after a single second of contemplating, you move your hands to peter's hair, messing it up until it falls in his eyes. and then you lean back, taking a second to admire your work before nodding with a smile.
"there," you say, mostly to yourself. "okay, let's go."
"nuh uh," peter says, pulling your arm back when you start to leave. "what was that?" he asks, fixing his hair and staring at you with an amused smile.
a smile that is far too attractive and loving and all the things you usually like about peter but hate right now.
especially because he's looking at you like that.
and because if he asked you to do anything with that smile on his face you would do it.
and so would everyone else.
"nothing," you say, still, frowning just slightly. "can we go?" you ask him now, looking around to make sure that no one can hear you.
peter tilts his head and stares at you. "sure," he says, "if you want. but you gotta tell me why first."
"peter," you groan.
he covers your mouth with a warm hand. "if someone said something to you, i want to know. if they started caroling, i want to know. and if you're not feeling well--"
you say something under his hand.
"what?" he asks, moving it.
"nothing happened. i just want leave."
peter leans back with furrowed brows. "all of the sudden?"
"yes."
"you're done with this party?"
"so done."
peter laughs. "alright, we can go. let me just say goodbye--"
peter starts to walk away but you jump in front of him, hands on his chest, pushing him back.
"what?" he asks, confused and exasperated.
"you can't go back in there," you say, trying to make sense of the words. "because, well, i already--i already said goodbye."
peter puts his hands on your shoulders, leaning down again.
he raises a brow. "you already said goodbye?"
"yup."
"to everyone?"
"all the important people. i told 'em we were leaving."
peter looks only slightly doubtful. "and there's no other reason i can't go back in there?"
"absolutely not."
peter laughs. "you're funny when you lie."
"i'm not lying," you swear, promising to yourself that you're not. that this stupid boy in front of you means absolutely nothing.
and that his smile is rational. and that yours is nonexistent--even though you can feel your lip quirking.
"why won't you tell me?" peter asks.
"cause there's nothing to tell."
he pokes you in the middle of your forehead. "c'mon, we both know you're lying."
you huff. "we both know that we're leaving now."
"i don't know," peter says, looking longingly at the room you've just left. "i think they were about to play charades. wouldn't want to miss that."
"peter," you whine.
"plus, i don't know if i want to go home with a liar."
you cross your arms. "fine. good luck finding a ride," and you turn to go.
"baby," peter laughs, pulling you back again. "i just want to know why you won't tell me what's up."
"you'll just laugh."
"i promise i won't laugh."
you scowl at him.
"what?" peter asks, raising his hands in surrender. "i won't. i won't even smile." then he drops his face so that he's just staring at you.
and you are absolutely unamused.
peter waits, looking around the room.
you sigh. "do you know how many people were flirting with you?"
peter frowns. "what?"
"and making eyes and smiling at you and telling you that you should definitely try this new cafe on broadway, and if they just happened to show up--"
"no one said that," peter says, both eyebrows raised, just a hint of a smile on his face. "are you jealous?"
"yes!" you say hands going to cover your face. you groan. "i was just standing across the room trying to be nice to your friends while watching everyone you talked to drool all over you."
peter laughs.
"see?" you say, pouting at him. "i told you that you'd just laugh."
"you don't have to be jealous--"
"bug," you mock him. "'i didn't even realize if they were flirting with me because i'm completely oblivious and ridiculously handsome.'"
peter scowls. "i don't sound like that."
"i didn't want to tell you cause i knew you'd just deny it and then try to distract me with your eyes or something."
"my eyes?" peter laughs.
"yes. or your stupid smile."
"stupid, huh?"
and you're so busy staring at the ground, feeling embarrassed and dejected--because you trust peter and you love him and you're being irriational--that you don't realize when peter steps towards you, hands wrapping around your waist.
"hey," he says softly, trying to get you to look up at him.
but you refuse.
"nuh uh," you tell him. "you're not going to fix this by being sweet."
peter hums. and then he uses a hand to tilt your chin up towards him.
up to peter with his soft smile and warm brown eyes. staring at only you.
"i was just talking about you," he whispers, finger tracing the slope of your jaw.
"what?" you blink.
peter moves your hair out of your eyes, cradling your cheek. "i was talking about when we made all those cookies last week and got flour everywhere, and how you and may gang up on me about my terrible gift-giving skills--"
"--we don't do that."
"you do. and how when it snows you curl up close to me in bed and stick your cold feet on my legs."
you shrug. "you're warm."
"even if they were flirting with me," peter says, smiling the certain smile he only has when he's with you. "i was just bragging about my baby."
a bit flustered, you look away from his eyes. "really?" you ask.
"yup. i'm sure that they're all glad i'm gone."
you grin, looking back at him.
"there it is," peter whispers, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose.
but you tilt your head, and your lips meet his.
peter smiles into the kiss, a hand on the back of your head holding you as close as possible. your hands curl into his hair, soft and smooth and as messy as it always is.
after a moment too long for this hallway, peter pulls back.
"see?" he asks. "i'm all yours. you don't need to worry about that."