Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Johnny's gone. Oh god, Johnny is gone. Through the ice, just like that. Right in front of Peter.

For a moment he's completely rooted in place, like his brain gets stuck trying to process how Johnny could disappear in the blink of an eye—like maybe it's all in his head. He's always running on no sleep, that's without accounting for spending several hours trapped in the arctic, so maybe it's all an exhaustion-induced hallucination?

Then the seconds tick past and the gravity of the situation sinks in, propelling him into action.

He rushes forward, almost tripping over his own numbed feet, every stiff step feeling wrong all over, like he's not putting the right parts against the ground—like he's mangling his feet without even realizing it. Maybe he is. It doesn't matter; he could be breaking every bone in them and it would mean nothing if it gets him to Johnny.

In his panic he almost runs directly up to the opening in the ice, but the buzzing in his head screams even louder just as he begins to put his weight down on a weak patch nearby. He leaps back right as there's an ominous crack from beneath, then approaches from a different direction, careful to obey any warning from his spider-sense as he edges closer until finally he can see where Johnny fell through—see the water.

It's empty. There's no one in sight, and the dark water is unsettlingly still.

Sure, it could still be his mind playing tricks on him—maybe he's been wrong all along and this whole scenario is an illusory spell cast on him by a Doombot, but it's not, is it? And sure, it could be a big prank that's being pulled on him right at this moment, except it's not, because not even Peter would try for a practical joke at a time like this, and that means Johnny definitely wouldn't.

No, Johnny must have…gone forwards somehow, carried further under the ice by his own momentum when he went through, and that means he has no way to resurface for air, and that means every second Peter wastes thinking is a second Johnny could be drowning beneath him.

The wind still beats against his body. He can barely feel anything now—too much adrenaline in his system—but the cold has caused frost to crystallize on his lenses, obscuring his vision and making it a futile effort to try to pinpoint where Johnny is now. In one furious motion, Peter rips the mask off, squinting against the wind as he tries to spot that bright blue uniform somewhere in a vast expanse of white, but it's no use; the ice is so thick it's almost opaque, and frost covers the surface; it's impossible to make out if there's anyone beneath.

He also can't fucking see anything through the angry, anguished tears clouding his eyes.

The idea of diving in after Johnny strikes him, and even though Peter knows it'd lead to him also dying beneath the ice, it's tempting, just so he could be doing something other than stand there uselessly with his spider-sense ringing through his head like a klaxon.

His spider-sense. It's a last ditch effort, but he tries to reach out with it; tries to focus it into a guide rather than a warning. He's only even attempted it a handful of times before, but right now he's desperate and out of options.

He gets low, dragging himself over the ice as he scans the area, listening for a change in the buzzing—tries to let it tug him forward as if by an invisible string, until…there!

Some 12 feet from the opening, Peter's spider-sense starts screaming. Pain erupts inside his head like a million needles have been shoved into his brain, pulling him towards a spot in the ice. Brushing the frost away reveals a faint shadow, and that's all Peter needs.

He brings his first down hard, just a foot away from the shadow, shattering the ice in an instant. Cracks form beneath his legs, but he couldn't care less as he punches through again and again. Agony radiates through his knuckles up along his arm but he ignores it, instead imagining that he's socking Doom right in the obnoxious metal mask with every hit; payback for bringing Peter here—for bringing Johnny here.

As he angrily punches through one last time to expand this new opening, the jagged edge of the ice carves through the skin of his hand and leaves a red line of blood along the back. It doesn't matter.

"Johnny! Here!" 

He shoves his arm beneath the surface; the salt stings so bad against the fresh wound that he goes dizzy, and the freezing cold makes the blood pound louder against his ears.

The shadow gets closer, and the moment he can make out the shape of a body approaching, Peter grabs onto it and hauls Johnny towards the surface of the water. It breaks in a violent splash as Johnny appears, gasping for air with his eyes clenched shut; his lips have already gone blue.

Peter attempts to pull him up out of the water, but the increased weight makes the ice beneath start to groan; a second later Peter's head aches like someone is boring a hole through his skull and he has to let go and jump back as more ice crumbles into the water.

Luckily Johnny is present enough to keep himself afloat while Peter fumbles for the button on one of his shooters, pressing down and firing off a webline towards the water. 

Despite his clumsy aim he's able to snag Johnny in the chest and can begin to tug him out of the water, shouting for him to hold on as he begins to pull him up. Peter's body sticks firmly to the ice and the aching in his head starts to fade, which is good because he doesn't think he could summon the energy to start over even if the ice had begun to give way beneath his feet. Johnny holds on to the line, helping by kicking and crawling his way up onto the solid ice, then letting Peter drag him away to an area where it's thick enough to fully support their weight.

Then Peter's just watching as Johnny writhes on the ground, coughing up water and panting for air and he—he doesn't know what to fucking do. Every guide he's ever read on cold shock, hypothermia, ice rescue—every bit of information trying to go through his head is drowned out by the sound of Johnny's pained retching.

He tries to help, tries to hold Johnny up so he can expel whatever water he inhaled, tries to ignore how unnaturally cold his skin feels against Peter's already frozen hands, but it's like his body is moving in slow motion, and his brain is lagging even further behind.

Johnny continues to sputter on the ground, his body contorting itself in shivering spasms, eventually managing a, "H–holy shit, Pete," between intense coughs.

Peter nods, a little hysterical. "Y–yeah. Yeah, holy shit. Can you stand?"

Rolling onto his back, Johnny shakes his head violently. That, or he's having cold shakes. "S–shouldn't, right?"

"Oh. Yeah, no, you're right—don't do that." 

Peter runs a hand through cold-stiff hair. Don't let cold blood circulate through the heart, that previously silent, information-retaining part of his mind supplies. No standing, no moving, no stimulating blood flow. The wind is still blowing harshly against his stiff face; his mask is a red speck far off in the distance. It doesn't matter; he's not wasting time going back for it. Add littering in a national park to his list of crimes—he doesn't care. The wind must be even worse for Johnny.

"We're almost at the ship. I'll get us inside, okay?"

There's no response, just more weak coughs as Peter scoops Johnny up into a bridal carry. He ignores the pulsing pain in his feet and his fingers as he hurries towards the ship, careful to listen for any more prescient warnings about where he's stepping and making sure to change his route whenever his spider-sense gets even a little louder.

They can't afford to have a second incident like this. Probably couldn't even afford this one.

It's slow going. His body still hasn't quite figured out how to move right, and with Johnny in his arms he's more unbalanced than ever. He actually does trip over his feet this time, his ankle folding under his weight, making him fall forward and only just managing to catch himself with a knee. It lands hard against the ice, making another wave of pain shoot through him as he takes all of his and Johnny's weight with that one joint. It hurts like hell, almost as if he splintered his kneecap, but at least it means he doesn't drop Johnny—even if the sharp fall and sudden impact can't be good for him.

Johnny doesn't even stir, and that's worse.

—

He's lucky that Johnny hadn't engaged any of the ship's security before leaving. They're both lucky, because Peter's fingers and brain feel like they're in a competition of which one can fumble basic tasks the most. Even getting the hatch open from the outside without setting Johnny down feels like a herculean effort.

The inside of the ship can't be much warmer than freezing, but it feels like heaven coming into a place where they're protected from the wind and the worst of the cold. The interior has the seats by the cockpit and a back area that's a storage room with a low, Thing-sized bed in the middle. 

That's where Peter ends up bringing Johnny, setting him down carefully on the mattress.

After shutting the door to the back room, the light level goes down, no natural light supplementing the dim emergency lights of the ship. The near-darkness makes the cold room feel so much more morbid—like they're in a morgue. Johnny's blue lips and pallid skin makes him look too lifeless already.

Peter peels frozen strands of blonde hair away from Johnny's forehead, carefully poking at his temples to get his attention.

"We're inside, hot stuff. Open your eyes."

Johnny doesn't move. His eyelids don't even twitch. 

Morgue.

"No, come on—" Peter whines, a wet, bubbling inhale following. "No, no, look at me, flame brain. Come on, hotshot, wake up. Johnny."

He wants to shake him awake, slap Johnny until he wakes up, like how he'd wrangle his aunt and uncle's old CRT TV into functioning, but he knows he'd break something if he did—would hurt Johnny even more than he already has by making him come after him and put his life on the line here.

He cradles Johnny's face; the skin is cold and damp. 

Like a corpse.

Peter's hand shakes as he presses it to Johnny's neck in search of a sign of life. Several agonizing seconds pass where he can't feel anything, before the skin pulses beneath his fingers. The next beat comes sooner, and it's clear that he just couldn't tell through his numb hands and his own frantic pulse. Their beating hearts are almost too in sync to feel it, three of Peter's for every one of Johnny's, overpowering his weaker ones. But he's alive.

"Come on, man, you can't just leave me here." Peter shifts Johnny's arms to lay outstretched above his head so he can take his soaked uniform off. "If we're gonna kick the bucket it should at least be together."

He slides his hands beneath the uniform top and christ, the skin there is too cold. It's fucked. It's just fucked.

Then, a weak groan has his heart soaring and his eyes blinking away tears as Johnny finally stirs beneath him.

"…Pete? Are we…'nside?" he slurs, shifting to look around, speech as slow as his movements.

"We—yeah, we're inside." Peter wipes his eyes clear before lifting the hem of the uniform top.

"…home?"

He shakes his head. "No. No, we're in the ship."

Johnny makes a sound that's probably an attempt to blow a raspberry, but can't manage enough force to have it come out as anything more than a puff of air.

"I'm gonna take off your clothes now, okay?" Peter asks as he begins to peel the wet fabric from Johnny's torso.

"'ello, sailor."

Peter gives an amused exhale. "Don't get too excited. We don't want your blood rushing somewhere else."

They get Johnny's uniform and underwear off eventually, with Peter gently shifting him to and fro to get the fabric out from under him while Johnny is only just present enough to not try to hinder the movement.

As Peter's moving to hang the wet clothes over something, Johnny makes a worried noise from behind him.

"Where's Sue?"

When Peter casts a look at him he can see Johnny straining to look around the room. "Not here."

"…Reed?"

Peter swallows as he opens one of the cabinets lining the walls, his throat feeling too dry. "He's—it's just us here. You and me."

Johnny nods solemnly. "Dyman…dynamo…" His face scrunches. "Something…duo," he weakly concludes before a violent shiver wracks through his body, making him seize up like he's in death throes.

That's good, Peter tells himself.

It's good that Johnny's body is still trying to generate heat. 

It still doesn't stop the sight from wringing Peter's heart with worry.

He hangs the uniform over the door, quickly smoothing the fabric out before starting to click open the other cabinets, checking for anything that will help keep Johnny warm.

"Pete. Pete. Pete. Pete." Johnny repeats the word without stopping, even when Peter attempts to answer. "Never been this cold," he eventually wheezes.

"It's okay, we'll get you warm." Peter tears through the storage room frantically because surely one of these stupid cupboards has something.

"…think I'm dying."

That gives Peter pause. He goes to sit next to Johnny on the mattress, putting a hand on his chest. The heartbeat beneath is faint.

"You…" He swallows. "You're not gonna die." 

When Johnny fixes him with his blue eyes it strikes him just how dull they've turned. 

"S'okay for me, but…others'll get upset."

"What kind of an attitude is that?" Peter snaps, slamming his hands down on Johnny's shoulders with what's probably far too much force. "I thought your motto was 'never say die!'"

Johnny stares at him, drawing several quiet, shuddering breaths. "…I've never said that."

"Yes, you have!" Peter yells, unable to stop himself from shaking him for emphasis. "And you're gonna live by that motto now, dumbass!"

There's no response as Johnny continues to wheeze under his breath, but his lips almost seem to curl up. 

Peter smooths his hands down Johnny's arms, feeling the way the muscles are trembling, sometimes jolting at odd intervals. "Now. Can we turn up the heating?"

"N–no fuel."

"Are there blankets we can use?"

Johnny's face scrunches again. "Dunno. In s–storage?"

Peter looks at their surroundings—at storage—and the wall of empty cabinets he's already checked. There's more that he hasn't looked in, but— 

"God," his forehead drops to rest against Johnny's torso. "This is a nightmare."

"S–sorry. I f–fucked up."

"No, it's—" Peter raises his head to look at him. "It was a freak accident."

Because it was. It's not Johnny's fault—he's been fighting and flying and worrying all day; he might've even been running on as little sleep as Peter. The ship was standing just fine on the ice, so who could blame him for thinking it would have supported his weight as well? It's not as if Peter noticed anything before it was too late. Before—

He can't think more on that now; he needs to focus on the present. They're in the ship. The ship which is idle in the arctic with barely enough fuel in its tank to fight the freezing temperatures outside. And inside is Johnny, who's been pushing himself to the limit for far too long, who's so much weaker than he ever should be.

Does Johnny's powers make him resistant to the cold even now? Or is it more like a vulnerability—like him being part flame makes it all the more dangerous if that fire goes out? 

For some reason Pokémon types flash through his head. Fire: weak to water, strong against ice. Not very fucking helpful.

Peter needs to focus. Peter needs to do something.

He gets up to look through the rest of the ship instead of thinking useless thoughts while Johnny is still naked and exposed in the cold air.

Blankets. Blankets. Focus, Parker. Surely there's something.

In a rummaging competition Peter's sure he would have clinched first place with how quickly he manages to upend the remainder of the ship searching for anything even resembling a piece of cloth. He tears through the place in under two minutes, but only finds three things: a lonely blanket and two towels, all neatly folded inside a cupboard in the back room. That's it.

Peter glances at the bed at the center of the room. It doesn’t even have a sheet.

Because the Fantastic Four hadn't restocked the ship yet.

God, Johnny is going to freeze to death.

Briefly, Peter considers ripping all the leather out of the seats in the main room, maybe tearing that mattress open and shoving Johnny inside with the stuffing, but he's already spent too much time just getting Johnny's clothes off, and he's not sure it'll actually help them that much in the end. Instead, he rushes to strip off his wet costume and briefs, grabbing the one blanket and the towels and bringing them to Johnny after dumping his own clothes on the floor.

The blanket is laid out over Johnny while Peter uses the larger of the towels to dry his hair somewhat. After that, Peter works to bundle him up thoroughly while also making enough room so that he can lie pressed against Johnny. The core is the hottest part of the body, and also the one that needs the most urgent rewarming, so that's how they'll be laid out: front-to-front, chest-to-chest. He can do this. He's focused.

Of course, Peter is not that good of a warmer in the first place, but he's the best they've got.

In another rare stroke of luck, the blanket must have been made for Ben or something, because it's more than large enough to cover them both from tip to toe. Meanwhile, the second towel is so tiny Peter doesn't think it can be of any actual use, so he ends up just kind of draping it over Johnny’s hip and crotch as a bit of extra padding.

At some point during all this, Johnny begins to shiver properly again, which somewhat soothes the aching in his chest.

Peter ends up sort of tucking his head beneath Johnny’s so they can be cheek-to-cheek. It’s hardly comfortable, but it gives Johnny another point of warmth and keeps him from getting into contact with the much chillier mattress. Then he wraps his arms around Johnny and lays Johnny's out over his shoulders, down along his back, trying to maximize contact between them.

It's surprisingly easy to manhandle Johnny; his body is malleable and he doesn't strain against Peter's movements. All he does is make a small noise of discomfort when Peter forces his arms up against his armpits because the seldom seen smart part of his brain reminds him that those should also be warmed quickly.

"There we go—now we've transformed into a human burrito."

Johnny makes a weak noise that could be a laugh but doesn’t sound much like anything. He wheezes before swallowing. His voice is weak but impossible to miss now that his mouth is right next to Peter's ear. "H–hey, P–Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"D–don't tell Ben about this. He'll l–laugh."

"I won't."

"And don't t–tell Sue. She'd b–blame herself."

"I won't, don't worry."

"A–and Reed—"

"I won't tell anyone, I promise."

That answer seems to satisfy Johnny, who doesn't say anything back. He gives a quiet sniffle, before becoming silent, his low breathing and clattering teeth becoming the only sounds Peter hears from him. 

And actually, Peter realizes, that's not good enough.

"Johnny, I need to know you're not going to sleep. You gotta keep talking to me."

"A–about what?" Johnny stutters out between shivers.

"Anything. What's your week been like?"

"S–sucked." He sniffles again. "Got rejected for this m–musical—"

"Musical?" It's hard for Peter to keep the incredulous tone out of his voice, but really? Musical theater? Did he hear that right?

"I'm dying, y–you can't make fun of m–me." 

The whine in Johnny's voice is almost enough for Peter to convince himself that they're not here, on board a cold ship in a colder land. It's almost possible to imagine that they're just stretched out on the couch in the Baxter building's common room, somehow both too stubborn to admit there's not enough room for them to share the space; also too stubborn for either of them to move to the second, empty couch right next to them.

"I'm not. I swear I'm not," Peter says, fingers twitching against Johnny's back in an attempt to soothe him. "Why a musical?"

"My m–movies keep fl–flopping. Last d–director said I overact, b–but…"

Several long seconds pass in silence before Peter prompts, "But..?"

"But that I'm not there f–for my acting."

"Oh." Peter tilts his head upwards, pressing their cheeks closer. "I'm sorry."

"It's t–true though." Johnny draws another shuddering breath. "But I thought 'h–hey, musicals like ov–overacting, r–right?'"

"Sure?"

"And I'm a g–good singer, so—"

"You can sing? I've never heard you—"

"B–because you'd m–make f–fun of me. I only s–sing to Frankie and Val. A–and Sue, sometimes."

"That's fair." Peter nods, in whatever fashion he's able to, face lodged beneath Johnny's. "I've never sung in front of people."

"You p–probably suck."

"Hey!"

"S–sorry, are you the one d–dying?"

At that Peter can't help but burst into giggles, because it's all just so absurd. Here they are, naked, frozen and afraid for their lives in goddamn Greenland of all places, and Johnny Storm is talking smack about his singing ability.

"You're right, I…I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket," Peter admits.

Johnny makes a noise of triumph. "Knew it."

A strand of wet hair tickles Peter's nose, and he shifts; he's somewhat mashed against Johnny's neckline. The smell of dried salt is almost overpowering, but it hasn't fully drowned out Johnny's natural scent, which lingers beneath.

Now, Peter's not the most olfactory gifted of people, but he's spent more than enough time at the Baxter building to pick out some key notes from its scent. It's not as heavy as the one in Aunt May's house—fresh citrus tones in their air freshener as opposed to her lavender one, and with a faint underlying smell of smoke that gets stronger the closer you get to Johnny's room—but it smells like home all the same. Peter burrows his face deeper, inhales deeply and tries to will away the thunderous beating in his chest.

If Johnny doesn't make it out unscathed Peter's sure he'd never forgive himself. 

And if he doesn't make it out at all…Peter can't say what he would do.

He clears his throat, and tries to clear away the gloomy thoughts with it. "So, the musical—why'd you get turned down?"

Johnny clicks his tongue. "S–small production. I thought t–that was better to start with, b–but they said I was t–too famous."

"Really?"

"A–apparently I'd 'overshadow the rest of the production,' or s–something. D–doesn't matter. I got r–rejected, as usual."

Peter tightens his grip a little; holds him a little closer. "Sorry to hear that."

"J–just wanted to try it out. Thought the k–kids would get a kick outta it. Seeing their uncle hamming it up on s–stage."

"You're always hamming it up."

With another exhaled puff of breath, Johnny says, "You haven't seen n–nothing yet. I never d–did stuff like that, you know? Talent shows 'n' s–stuff."

"Not even once?"

"No, it's for dorks." Johnny draws the last word out in a manner that comes out sounding way cuter than he'd probably intended.

"I did a talent show in middle school," Peter offers. "Entered with a science experiment."

"Let me guess…baking s–soda volcano?"

"No, I did a thing on non-Newtonian liquids. I was going to do a magnet experiment—Faraday's cage—but it was too expensive, getting the materials."

"You nerd."

"That was the general consensus, yes."

"Yeah, I c–can imagine. You in your sweater vest a–and coke bottle glasses. B–bet you looked cute as hell." The corner of a lip curls upwards against Peter's cheek.

"I think you mean 'lame,'" Peter mutters.

"Nuh-uh."

Johnny splays his hands a little wider over Peter's back, almost nuzzling his face down against him as he rubs cool hands over his skin, and Peter's filled with a nauseating emotional mix of anxiety, fondness and confusion.

Despite how deep in the shit they still are, he feels a lot better now. The stress has finally begun to leave his body, leaving him less scatterbrained and more drowsy, thanks to a layer of post-adrenal fatigue—which only exacerbates the regular exhaustion he was dealing with before this whole mess started.

And lying here, holding Johnny in his arms…it helps. Or it makes him feel like he's helping, at least. Makes everything feel a little more tangible. Endurable.

They will get out of this. They have to, because otherwise someone back at the Baxter building will have Peter's head, and he'd be all too happy to offer it up.

He pokes a little at Johnny's back, just to get his attention. "We could do an in-house talent show. For Frankie and Val, I mean."

Above him, Johnny stutters out a yawn. "Karaoke."

"What, you want to expose the kids to my singing?"

"It'll m–make me sound e–even better."

"But you'll lose favorite uncle status when they realize you were the one who made them listen to me."

A puff of air hits his ear, still much colder than it should be, as Johnny makes a sound that's a mix between a chuckle and a cough, and Peter's chest tightens with worry.

Maybe this blanket isn't good enough? Maybe Peter needs to do more. He checks his wrist; he's still got the web shooters on. That would help, right? An additional layer of insulation to help keep the heat inside?

Gently, he extricates himself from their embrace. Johnny makes a low noise of discomfort at the loss of heat, but it's fine because Peter can spin something up in a jiffy when he needs to. With practiced speed, he sprays several layers of webbing around them, constructing something not too different from the cocoon he made for himself earlier, only larger and attached to a mattress this time. Enough layers to let the air and some of the light inside, but with room to maneuver outside of their blanket burrito.

"Kind of like a fully zipped sleeping bag, if they made them Ben Grimm-sized," he says, mostly to himself, once he's done. Then, when he sees Johnny with his eyes closed, unmoving, he adds, "Hey, you're still awake, right?"

"Yeah. Jus' resting my eyes," Johnny mumbles.

"What do you want to do when we get back?" Peter gets back into position, hugging Johnny to his chest with as much strength as he dares muster—which is very little.

"Sleep."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Dunno. Hang out with y–you?"

Peter smiles. "Sure. What would you like to do?"

"Restaurant d–dinner. Maybe see a m–movie too."

"Sounds like a date."

"Yeah, it does," Johnny says as he shifts, brushing his lips against Peter’s neck, and this time there's no pang of worry accompanying the hard thump of Peter's heart.

It's impossible to tell if Johnny's joking, or if he's too out of it to understand what he's saying, or if he's actually being sincere, but that doesn't stop Peter's brain from trying to predict how that date might go.

Dinner and a movie. Him and Johnny trying to split the bill and arguing over who had what; neither of them willing to pay for the other. 

Whispering between each other in the movie salon. Johnny would probably declare when a joke was unfunny, and Peter would be putting on the most exaggerated laughter at each one just to tick him off. 

Maybe they'd be in the back by the projector, and Peter could start doing shadow puppets to Johnny's mortification and the other moviegoers' chagrin.

They could sit leaned in so their shoulders would press together—Johnny's warmth seeping into Peter through several layers of clothing. 

Maybe hold hands, if Johnny could excuse his clammy ones.

Peter's heart surges at the thought, beating so hard inside his chest he wonders if maybe Johnny's disturbed by it. 

Huh. 

Going on a date with Johnny. Dating Johnny. Once the idea is out there it seems impossible that he'd ever consider anything else.

Yeah, they could do that. Or do something almost like that. Tomorrow.

It's a comforting thought. Soothing.

His brain slows; the thoughts begin to move slow as molasses. Just him and Johnny, together as always. Team-up of the century. Joined at the hip. How soft is that wavy hair actually? Peter has never really touched it without gloves; never even had his hand there without trying to noogie him. He really wants to though. He could run his hands through it—pick at the strands like they were golden silken thread. 

Maybe he will.

Tomorrow…

—

Peter jolts awake with the realization that he was sleeping and how that means no one was stopping Johnny from going to sleep. The webbing is still up around them, so at least it hasn't been an hour, but even then, leaving Johnny unsupervised for any amount of time means inviting corpse-cold misery.

Shifting a hand to his front, Peter lays a palm against Johnny's chest. It's warm. For the first time in what feels like forever, it's warm. Warmer than Peter, basically radiating out of him, along with a steady heartbeat. Peter breathes a sigh of relief.

"Hello, sailor," Johnny says, voice raspy and quiet but tinged with amusement all the same.

"You’re awake?"

"Yeah, and you’re groping me."

"You—" Peter pulls back enough to look at him in the dim light. His eyes are closed. "Were you asleep?"

A blue eye cracks open in a sliver; there's a brightness to it that wasn't there last time. "I didn't go to sleep. I've been doing math problems in my head."

"What, like a whole one?" Peter can't help but fire back automatically, before yelping as Johnny pinches his back in retaliation. He gives a light, reprimanding flick to his chest. "You should have woken me up."

"Why, so you could make me list my top five musicals while we both stew in your nervous energy? No thank you."

"Someone should have been keeping an eye on you."

Johnny does his best at a sideways shrug. "You looked tired."

"I always do."

"Crazy, I wonder why," Johnny deadpans before opening his eyes and looking at their surroundings. "Dude. You cocooned me?"

"I cocooned us."

"That's worse." The webbing gives way as Johnny pushes at it, but shrinks back as soon as he takes his hand away. "I hate this spider stuff. Am I about to get my head bitten off?"

"That's mantises," Peter informs. "And only after they mate."

"Who says radioactive spiders don't do it too?"

Peter's eyes narrow. "Okay, do we look mated to you?"

"I can't tell—it's too dark in here," Johnny pouts. "And stuffy," he adds in afterthought.

"Well, I'm glad you're back to your usual complaining. Feeling alright?" Peter can't help but feel around—check that all the previously coldness in Johnny's neck and face is gone now. 

"I'm the Human Torch, of course—" Johnny inhales sharply as Peter runs a finger over his lips, but in Peter's defense it's kind of hard to see where he's touching in the dim light. "'Of course I'm alright. I'm not about to flame on to prove it, though."

"Guess that means my cocoon is safe."

"Safer than I'm feeling. It's getting claustrophobic in here," Johnny makes a token effort to shift away. 

Peter pulls him closer by the shoulder. "It'll dissolve soon."

They chat a little about their day, about the Fantastic Four's mission pre-Doombot invasion. Apparently they'd been away for two weeks? Peter hadn't noticed. Or, he'd noticed that Johnny wasn't around—he'd missed him, but he'd rather be dead than caught saying that aloud—but he hadn't thought about how long it had been, too busy with patrols and work and errands to think about time passing.

What a shitty way it would have been to go if he'd frozen to death without even noticing the last weeks of his life passing. And even shittier if Johnny had disappeared from his life before he could even stop and catch his breath.

And he almost had. He'd been cold and lifeless—words that should never be associated with Johnny Storm. Ever. But not anymore, because god, Johnny's so warm now. He's warm all over, just like on a normal day, or maybe more? It's hard to say when you're in a cold ship in a colder country, but Peter has never wanted to be closer to that perfect heat source than right at this second. And right now, Johnny is letting him.

For a few minutes they just lie silent, breathing in each other's space, not really parting even though there's no real need for them to be so close anymore, but it's nice. At least, Peter thinks it's nice; he won't speak for Johnny, though.

Eventually, the moment is interrupted when the cocoon begins to collapse in on itself, and the low light of the ship begins to filter through.

Johnny makes an excited noise, which quickly shifts into an exasperated one when a patch of broken webbing lands on his face.

"Yuck!" He peels it away, rubbing the remains off on Peter's arm. "It's, like…greasy? Pete, why is your webbing greasy?"

"Chemistry," Peter sighs contentedly, thoroughly enjoying the cornucopia of displeased emotion on Johnny's face.

"Well, put less grease chemicals in the formula next time. It's like you're trying to make this as nasty as—" the sentence dies on Johnny lips as he turns his gaze nether-ward with a puzzled expression. "…You put a towel between our groins?"

Peter looks down as well, to the tiny tea towel precariously placed over Johnny’s lower hip; protecting his modesty. Like a fig leaf, the probably-sleep-deprived part of his brain supplies. "Oh, yeah. I guess I did."

The glare Johnny gives him is positively acidic. "You absolute moron, you're supposed to go skin-to-skin."

"I know that! We were skin-to-skin everywhere else!"

"I was dying and you still put a blanket between us!"

"Well, I can't think of everything, and it's not like you were offering any insight!" Peter says, voice high and defensive. "Plus, it's kinda weird to be naked and also, you know…touching groins!"

Johnny gives his eyes an exaggerated roll. "Oh my god, Pete. You're such a prude! What, do you get shy doing mouth-to-mouth as well?"

"That's a bit different!" Peter sputters.

"It's not! This is literally mouth-to-mouth for hypothermia! Groin! To! Groin!" It’s a testament to how well Johnny has recovered that he’s gesticulating wildly towards the groins in question.

"I miss when you were too cold shocked to speak."

"Prove it." Johnny prods an accusing finger into Peter's chest.

Peter blinks. "Prove what?"

"The mouth-to-mouth thing. I fell in the water and you never did mouth-to-mouth."

Again, Peter blinks, brows furrowed. "You were conscious, you didn't need it."

"But what if I had?" Johnny leans in closer and at that point shoving his face away happens entirely on autopilot.

"Then you'd have gotten a wet 'n cold kiss of life. Happy?"

There's a sniff that Peter can feel beneath the palm of his hand. "I don't believe you."

"So what, you want me to do it now instead?" Peter asks, more than a little confused.

Johnny pries his hand off to look at him, eyes filled with…something Peter hasn't noticed in them before. Something heated. "Yeah, you could say that."

"…Really?" Peter raises himself up on one arm.

Johnny rolls over to lie on his back. "Really."

He's still got one of Peter's hands in his and is beginning to idly toy with it, pressing the pads of their fingers against each other and tracing the scrape along the back of Peter's hand. It's not inherently flirty. It's also not something they've ever done before.

And when Peter testingly leans over Johnny and begins to lower himself down, Johnny's eyes immediately snap to his mouth. There's no double-dog dare or scientific hunger in them. Just…that look. Heated.

The thoughts swirl through Peter's head about as chaotically as they did when he was shaking with adrenaline. Dinner and a movie with Johnny. Dating Johnny. Johnny beneath him. Johnny's eyes on his lips. Johnny's body heat radiating off of him, warming Peter. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.

Peter draws a shuddered breath as Johnny's lips purse slightly, almost inviting him in as he begins to lower himself down, slowly, until they're just an inch apart…

And then Peter blows a raspberry directly into Johnny's face and the spell is broken.

He really can't help it. Not when the payoff is so sweet—when Johnny seemingly goes through all five stages of grief and then a couple of extra ones. Dinner and a movie, yes, but pissing each other off recreationally is still just as important, Peter has decided.

"Gross! You're such a child!" Johnny shoves him back with an offended scowl. 

"I'm the child?" Peter laughs as he falls back onto the bed. "You're the one demanding snuggles and kisses out of nowhere!"

That scowl grows even more intense as Johnny wipes his face. "If that's your definition of snuggles and kisses, you suck severely at it."

The color has returned to his cheeks along with a faint flush that's spread across them, and of course it makes him look like some sort of shipwrecked fairy tale prince, unlike Peter's face, which is probably going red as a tomato as he laughs at Johnny's anger before he rolls over on his side.

He gives Johnny a lazy grin. "Hey."

The anger on Johnny's face melts away into a much gentler irritation. "Hey."

"So…" Peter draws a hand up to rest at the nape of Johnny's neck. Maybe it's mean of him to tease, but he's alive and overcome with new emotions and the one thing that hasn't changed is the teasing. "What are your top five musicals?"

"I'm not telling you that, jerkface."

"So there is a top five?"

"Yes, and it's kept secret from webslinging schmucks."

"That's hurtful," Peter says, putting a bit of a pout into his voice. "We just had a life-or-death experience. We're closer now."

"No, you've just gone all loopy on me."

"I'm not loopy. I'm just really…happy." That's not quite the right word. More like warm, but saying that out loud feels like giving away a much bigger secret.

Johnny gives him a sidelong glance. "Does being happy make you more of a jerk?"

"Obviously." Peter threads his fingers through blond hair, pinching at the strands. It's coarse with salt crystals, but it's still nice to touch it.

Even if he hadn't been keyed in enough to notice the way Johnny's chest stops moving, breath held, or the way his core temperature flickers upwards, flame faint but alive, then the way Johnny's eyelids drop low would still have given his feelings away. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he fixes Peter with a look of determination.

"It's time."

Peter's tongue does the same thing, almost a mirror. "Time for what?"

"Time to show you how a real man does mouth-to-mouth." There's no preamble when Johnny pushes him back and slings a leg over Peter's hips, planting both hands flat over his shoulders. The towel slides off into a heap on the mattress, modesty-protecting no more.

Peter swallows around a suddenly thick throat as Johnny grins down at him. He's caged in by Johnny's hands and knees—almost pinned like a butterfly—but for the first time in many hours the anticipation he feels is tinged not with dread, but excitement. 

"Is the real man gonna flutter his eyelashes during the demonstration?"

Johnny scoffs. "Well, I’m not doing it now." 

Peter laughs and pulls him down on top of him, so they almost collide against each other but that doesn't matter because they're here and they're alive; all Peter wants is more of Johnny, more of this closeness that brews warmth in his chest, like a part of Johnny's fire has managed to break free and made a home inside of him. Maybe it had done so long ago—an ember just waiting for enough fuel to grow into a flame.

Do their hearts still beat in sync? Are both their pulses as rapid as Peter's is right now? 

It doesn't matter, he decides; what matters is that Johnny is inches away from him, smiling down at him like they're sharing the perfect in-joke, bright and cheerful and more vibrant than Peter's ever seen him.

When he finally closes the gap the room feels like a sauna around them, like Peter could melt away into the mattress. He doesn't want to though; he wants to be solid and pressed against Johnny forever, until his heat chases away every chill in Peter's bones. 

He looks at Johnny, utterly filled with warmth. And when Johnny's lips brush against his own, they're as radiant and full of life as the rest of him.

—

The Fantasticar shows up hours later. 

It ends up being Ben piloting it, not Sue, but that means they get precious more time to get their story straight.

After refueling the ship and attaching the Fantasticar to it, the ride back home is spent huddled together, with Johnny draped over Peter's shoulder while Peter keeps their hands interlocked in a death grip as they whisper between themselves. If Ben notices, he doesn't say anything.

Back at the Baxter building, they collaborate to weave together a magnificent story of danger and adventure that, yes, ended in a fight for their lives against hypothermia, but no one could have foreseen that outcome! Peter gets the sense that no one really seems to fall for it, but they also don't push for the truth. 

Him and Johnny are then ushered into the infirmary for a health checkup, and when Peter has to let go of Johnny's hand he is terrified that this somehow means letting the last day slip away with him. Like he's going to wake up tomorrow and everything will be back to how it used to be, just jokes and jeers, only the ache in his chest will sit deeper than before.

Despite the hypothermia, Johnny appears to be doing better than ever, and after a thorough checkup and cleaning of the wound on his hand, Peter gets a clean bill of health—with some room for error due to the nature of his biology. 

At one point Johnny jokes that Peter never even had hypothermia and was instead just being a drama queen. Peter responds with a pointed comment about theatrics that shuts him up quickly.

After a whirlwind of instruments and scans and a conversation to fill them in on what happened after Peter got teleported away, Peter's finally allowed to go home. He even gets a spare suit he'd left with the Fantastic Four months ago.

Everything's been fixed except…except he didn't check with Johnny about tomorrow. They're obviously eating together and watching something, but is it dinner and a movie? Is it a full-on date? They spent hours kissing in that cold room of the ship, and yet they never clarified that. Peter never asked, and Johnny never brought it up again.

And as stupid as it sounds Peter can't shake the feeling that maybe it was just a senseless half-though formed by Johnny's disoriented brain. That the hours of kissing was just two people celebrating survival. That Johnny just let Peter hold his hand like that because he was being nice.

It's crazy. Peter is indoors in New York, and yet he feels just as cold as outside in the arctic.

The used costume gets shoved into a small web pouch while Peter's taking the elevator up to the roof. He lingers in front of the rooftop exit, taking some extra time to check his spare web fluid cartridges, and then runs some quick numbers on whether that'll be enough to get him home. It should be, so. That's good.

Peter's just about to head out onto the roof when the elevator dings and Johnny appears behind the opening doors.

"Wait, Pete."

Peter pauses, mask held above his head, moments from pulling it on. "Yes?"

Johnny purses his lips and clicks his tongue, looks a little pensive and a little like he just bit into a lemon. "I…heard it's gonna get cold tonight."

"Oh, is it?" Peter asks, a little uncertain because sure, it's March, but it's also not a particularly cold March.

Without making eye contact, Johnny scratches idly at his neck—scratches right over a purple mark that Peter left there earlier. "Yeah. And, uh, I don't really trust your apartment's crappy heating right now."

Peter smiles, lowering the mask back down. "Of course."

"And with you being all, you know, spider-weird…" Johnny gestures all over him.

"Ah, yes." Peter nods, inching further away from the rooftop exit. "My spider-weirdness."

"Well, who can say what's gonna happen with that later? You might, I don't know, go back to being all cold again out of nowhere. We don't know." The elevator doors begin to shut. Johnny slams a hand forward to keep them open.

"My body is a physiological mystery," Peter says, unable to keep the smile out of his voice.

Johnny finally looks at him, and his eyes are so bright; brighter than Peter's ever seen them before. "Yeah, so…I think that the most logical thing to do—the smart thing—is to have you stay here tonight, where I can keep an eye on you."

"Only an eye?"

"Well, if the going gets tough…I have it on good authority that the human heating pad is back in commission."

"I recall something about that," Peter says, prodding his chin with mock thoughtfulness. "Did it mean I could get handsy?"

With a warm smile, Johnny holds his hand out in invitation. "Ask me that again when we're in my room."

And this time, before they even touch his warmth envelops Peter, inside and out.