Chapter Text
Peter had already decided that the day had been far too long by the time he’d settled on the edge of an apartment building roof for a quick dinner. As if to prove his point, his phone vibrated in his bag just as he was about to bite into the sandwich he’d hastily slapped together that morning. Sighing around a mouthful of peanut butter, he pulled it free from the loose wrappers and receipts littering the bottom of his rucksack. A small, pixelated envelope sat patiently on the screen, waiting for Peter to open it. Instead, he let the moment linger just a little longer.
There was a slight chill in the air as the sun set, but it wouldn’t really be cold for another month. It was that perfect combination of late enough that no one would spot him lingering on the skyline, but early enough that the streets were still partially packed with the low thrum of life that vibrated through the city. The smell of warm bread and exhaust fumes wafted around him from both the deli 7 floors down and the slowly moving line of cars edging round the block. Peter tilted his head back and breathed in the evening. The sky in the distance was pastel pink but above him, it was deep blue and littered with pinpricks of energy shining from light years away. Soon the stars would be lost in the light pollution of a city at night, but for this second they were there, winking from galaxies away.
His phone vibrated again against his palm.
Somewhere in the city someone needed Spiderman.
Peter had been oddly put out when he’d realised that his bruised and battered 9-year-old Nokia had basically become his version of the Bat Signal. The Bugle had somehow caught on to the fact that there was a number out there for the boys in blue and the various super teams to contact him through and had dubbed it the ‘Spider-Line’. He maintained that a spider in the sky would have been infinitely cooler. Then again, it kind of made sense – his version of the Bat Mobile was a fourth hand bicycle and his version of the ‘alleged’ Bat Cave was the fifth floor apartment above an all-night casino he shared with his Aunt. He thought about the Avengers and the X-men and The Fantastic Four and concluded – as he often did – that he really was the discount superhero. The Walmart of Power Town, the $2 crab roll among the Beluga Caviar.
A horn blared somewhere below him and he unlocked his phone, already climbing to his feet.
[2 NEW MESSAGES]
>20:32 - Hey, so when are we catching that movie then? I thought I’d show a little mercy and not make you wait too long to see me again ;)
>20: 35 - …This is Johnny by the way
Peter stared blankly at his phone, slowly sitting back down on the roof edge. For a second he considered ignoring it but then it vibrated again as a new message came through.
>20:36 - From the show the other day :)
The dude definitely used too many emoticons for Peter’s liking but that probably wasn’t a good enough reason to let the guy think he was being ignored.
<20:36 – Sorry, I think you have the wrong number
The response came through almost instantly – ‘Johnny’ must have been waiting eagerly by his phone. Peter felt a little bad for the guy.
>20:37 – Um I don’t think so :(
Peter felt less bad for the guy.
Before he could respond, his phone lit up with a new message from Det. Mardale. An actual call to action. Of all the NYPD Detectives, she was one of his favourites - always happy to work with Spiderman when the villains got a little too supercharged for her taste, and treating him with common decency instead of the usual scorn and distrust. Apparently this time it was Electro wreaking havoc at a white goods warehouse down by Fort Hamilton – what he was looking to do with a thousand fridges, Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
After messaging Det. Mardale to let her know he was on his way, Peter was about to chuck his phone back into his bag when it went off again. And then three more times in rapid succession. Under his mask he went three shades paler.
>20:39 – What? Are you feeling ok?
>20:40 – Ooh is this is kinky thing??? Like bondage role-play? I can’t say I get the web thing though
>20:40 – …oh god. This really isn’t Julie is it?
>20:40 – IS thiS SPIFRMAAN?
Above them in the inbox his own message stared back at him accusingly – resolutely not addressed to Det. Mardale.
<20:39 – On my way. Tell Sparky if he starts monologuing again I’ll web his mouth shut.
And then his phone rang.
On autopilot Peter answered it, very glad for the voice modulator attached to the suit that made him sound less like the weedy 16 year old nerd he was, and more like a badass, web-slinging superhero that hadn’t just wrong-texted some horny frat boy named Johnny.
…He should probably stop answering the phone with ‘Spider-line, what’s the crime?’ though.
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone and then Peter was reeling in the wake of the fastest set of sentences he’d ever been subjected to. Even having met Quicksilver and the Flash on two separate occasion.
‘Holy crap, holy shit, holy mother of New York City herself. Is this real, are you real? I mean I know you are real as in you’re a real person because you don’t really sound like a robot – but are you really Spiderman? The web-slinger himself? The most mysterious and second coolest and hottest hero around?’ A brief pause ‘Oh god, I asked Spiderman out to see a movie. Wait, did Julie give me a fake number then? Oh god Spiderman knows I got fake numbered and then I asked him if he was into bondage-’
Peter, who had realised he was on the clock and couldn’t really wait around politely for the torrent of words to dry up, slipped the phone between his ear and the mask and leapt off the rooftop in the direction of Fort Hamilton.
‘Second coolest and hottest huh?’
Johnny trailed off, before chuckling down the line. It was a nice sound, - low and happy. Harry had once told Peter that his laugh sounded like a wheezing beaver being punched repeatedly in the stomach. But Harry kind of sucked.
‘Yeah, even Spidey can’t beat the Human Torch. That guy’s awesome right?’
Even down the phone Peter could hear the smirk in Johnny’s voice, smug and almost challenging in a confusing sort of way. Peter pulled his webbing taut and tucked his body up to avoid ruining some lovely potted tulips on the ledge of a building.
‘Can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure but he reminds me a little too much of my high school bullies for me to wanna grab a drink with the guy you know.’ Not to mention Peter wasn’t anywhere near the drinking age but considering everyone somehow seemed to think he was in his mid-20s at least, Peter wasn’t going to mention that one.
‘But hey, that’s me – you think what you want of Captain Matchstick.’ He paused and then added ‘I’d definitely win in a fight though.’
Johnny squawked down the line, and Peter could almost imagine the pout on the guy’s face.
‘Like hell you would, there’d be roast spider all over the place before you could even get a web off.’
Peter laughed again, and the phone slipped a little in his mask. He wondered if this guy was in the Human Torch fan club or something. He probably bought all the merch and went to the meet and greets just to breathe the same air as his hero. He probably had a room covered in posters of The Fantastic Four looking all hot and powerful with hearts scribbled all over Johnny Stor-
Of fucking course.
‘Look man, I get that you think the guy is the best thing since burnt bread but I’ve heard the guy’s a bit of a dick really.’ Johnny spluttered down the line but Peter carried on talking over him ‘If you want my advice, you should think about investing that passion into a more worthwhile hero. My fan club always has space for a new member if you’re interested. And you know, I can promise that I’ve never wrong numbered a superhero and then bragged about my alter ego to them – I don’t think NiteBright can say the same, do you?’
There was a prolonged silence and then Johnny huffed out a laugh.
‘Busted.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up about it, no shame in losing to the better hero.’
There was another squawk and it was somehow a lot more satisfying knowing it was Johnny Storm making the horrible noise down the phone. Peter had seen him on magazine covers looking perfect and airbrushed; he had seen him interviewed on TV surrounded by adoring fans. He had to say, this was way more gratifying.
Peter rounded another corner just in time to see a washing machine launch through the air in front of him and knock a hole through a brick wall. In the near distance, he could see a figure stood in a loose circle of police cars and onlookers, crackling with electricity. Pulling himself onto the nearest warehouse roof, he dropped his ratty backpack and then shoved his hand up his mask to grab the phone.
‘Look Johnny this has been nice and all; real entertaining, highlight of my night for sure, but I’m going to have to let you go so I can smack some sense into the one man power grid currently wreaking havoc on some innocent dockside workers. Sorry about Julie, my people will contact yours regarding your application to the fan club. See ya.’
Then he hung up before Johnny could answer; dumped the phone with his bag, and swung out towards the crowd, mind already on the fight and far away from Johnny Storm.
Call him naïve but Peter had kind of figured that would be the end of it.
At the most he thought he might run into the Human Torch somewhere along their shared career path and they’d kick bad-guy butt, make a couple of quips about fan clubs and fake numbers, and be on their way.
He should have remembered he was talking about Johnny Storm and not a regular, rational person.
The fight with Electro had turned out to be refreshingly straightforward. Peter had swung in, pulling Dillon’s attention from the police cars and the cowering officers, and then proceeded to leap around the ribbons of electricity looking for an opening. One of them had caught his left wrist when he’d strayed too close, but Peter hadn’t really minded the brief flash of pain when he’d realised he could use the distraction to boot Electro straight in the face before webbing his ankles and wrists to the floor.
For good measure, he’d webbed his mouth shut too.
The real work had come after that when Peter realised he’d interrupted Electro right in the middle of his strange little heist, and boxes of fridges, dishwashers, washing machines and freezers were scattered precariously around the loading bay. It took thirty seconds of watching a stocky guy and a small woman with a pixie cut almost kill themselves trying to rebalance a toppling fridge before he swooped in and resigned himself to a couple of hours hauling boxes.
By the time he finally dragged himself into his bedroom and collapsed onto his sheets, he was dirty, aching and desperately tired. He considered actually screaming in frustration when his phone rang again. Instead, he sat up, pulled the voice modulator from his costume and clipped it to his t-shirt.
‘What?’
‘Woah there Spidey, tough night?’
Peter could already feel a headache building behind his eyes.
‘What do you want Johnny?’
There was a small pause and then Johnny’s voice came back down the line, quieter and almost too genuine for Peter to deal with at 23:47 on a Wednesday.
‘I just wanted to make sure you were ok. You hung up so quickly I think I got whiplash and I’m not really sure if you have back up or a team or anything so I figured I’d check you weren’t smouldering in a heap somewhere in Manhattan.’
‘That’s… unexpectedly nice Johnny, thanks. No smouldering here though, just aching muscles and a desperate longing for a nice, warm, soapy shower.’
Johnny cleared his throat and part of Peter wondered why he sounded so uncomfortable all of a sudden. Most of him was too tired to care.
‘Was there anything else I can do for you tonight Flaming Wonder?’
‘Not really, hey can your phone receive document attachments?’
Peter padded out of the room, and switched on the shower, hoping that the hot water boiler wasn’t on the fritz again.
‘This phone is about 9 years old so I doubt it.’
The pipes spluttered a couple of times but eventually a steady stream of warm water started pouring out and pattering on the base of the tub.
’9 years old? Why the hell is your phone 9 years old? Did mobile phones even exist back then? Weren’t there just rotary phones and people answering the phone with ‘Ahoy’?’
‘It’s not my main phone, it pretty much only exists as an emergency line. You’re the only one that keeps using it for social calls, god knows why.’
‘I think you’re cool,’ Johnny said simply and Peter had to pause halfway through slipping off his shoes and socks to choke on his laughter. Johnny may not have been aware of the ‘teenage’ part of Peter’s whole ‘smart mouthed-teenage-nerd-reject’ thing he’d got going on, but the other parts weren’t exactly a secret if you watched the news or read The Bugle. Compared to a guy who’d gone to space when he was 16, was part of one of New York’s Power Teams and had a smile that made everyone in a 1 mile vicinity melt, Peter was a joke.
‘Can I have your personal number then?’
‘Somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen.’
‘What about an email address?’
[email protected]. Perhaps a little too obvious.
‘Yeah, that’s a no-go too I’m afraid.’
‘Well then how am I supposed to get you your application? I can’t imagine you’re going to give me your actual address and even if you did I don’t know where Sue keeps the stamps.’
The room was heating up with steam and Peter shucked off his jeans, instantly regretting it when he was left in just his t-shirt and boxers as Johnny complained down the line.
‘Application?’ he queried.
‘To the fan club.’ Peter swore he could hear him grinning.
Johnny Storm was officially an idiot.
Peter Parker was officially a sucker, because he apparently found it endearing.
He sighed as he stared at his cloudy reflection in the mirror. Despite himself, he was smiling.
‘Friday night, 8:30. I eat dinner at the top of the Statue of Liberty so if you want to drop off your fan-boy resume, that would probably be your best option.’
Peter heard the pop of a pen lid, and then the scratching of pen against paper before Johnny murmured around what was probably a pen cap.
‘Friday, 8:30, Lady Liberty. Got it.’ There was a spitting sound and then Johnny’s voice came through unobstructed.
‘Very romantic, A+ Spidey, consider it a date.’
Before Peter could object, the line went dead.
Evidently, neither of them were capable of ending a conversation like a normal human. To be fair, neither of them seemed to be very good at starting conversations like normal people either so maybe it made a poetic sort of sense. Peter shrugged, stepped out of his remaining clothes and resolved to deal with it whenever it inevitably blew up in his face, and not a second sooner.
Friday was overcast when it rolled in, but the morning showers had cleared by the time Peter swung onto the Statue of Liberty’s torch and settled in with a sausage roll, two slices of cold pizza, and a thermos of chicken soup to fight the scratch in his throat he’d noticed when he’d woken up that morning. Just because the illnesses moved through him significantly faster now didn’t mean they didn’t still suck when he got them.
He checked his phone.
20:22
A small part of Peter still expected Johnny to bail, but somehow a larger part of him figured Johnny didn’t seem the type to let a joke go. He’d be there, probably running late and with perfect hair, grinning as he presented a crumpled CV covered in multi-coloured hearts and several doodles of spiders. Maybe he should recommend him to the Deadpool fanbase instead, Wade would definitely appreciate a colourful doodle.
In actuality, Peter spotted a burst of light hurtling in his direction at 20:25. He checked the mask was securely over his eyes and nose, and fiddled with the voice modulator until he was sure that it was in place. Then he wiped a hand across his mouth and fought the urge to use his phone screen to check his teeth because this wasn’t actually a date and he shouldn’t actually care that his breath probably stank of onion.
Johnny landed gracefully, the flames licking at his suit flickering out. There was an uncomfortable minute where they stared at each other across a national icon, fully suited and booted, but then Johnny crossed the distance and collapsed noisily next to Peter and the tension deflated.
‘I can’t believe you’re actually up here. I thought for sure that you were messing with me.’
Johnny’s hair ruffled artfully in the breeze and Peter tucked down his sudden nervousness.
‘Nah, I couldn’t let that happen to you twice man, consider it a public service.’
Peter took another bite of pizza and noted that when Johnny laughed he laughed with his whole body.
‘Oh, I see how it is. Get rejected by a Victoria’s Secret model and win a date with your local superhero? Not a bad deal really when you think about it.’
‘Wait, you asked out a Victoria’s Secret model? Didn’t you just turn 17? I mean I know you’re rich and attractive and have the whole Human Torch thing going on, but even so that’s a ballsy move dude.’
He noticed his mistake at the same time Johnny did. Peter flushed, hoping to every God he had and hadn’t met, that it wasn’t visible on his exposed jawline. Conversely, Johnny seemed to be glowing. He leant back on his arms and grinned at Peter, his smile only growing when he realised that Peter was avoiding his eyes.
‘What can I say, evidently I’m irresistible. And like you said, I’m 17 now. NYC baby, age is just an age as long as it’s legal.’
He punched the air weakly and fell a bit more into Peter’s space.
‘Yeah, so irresistible a woman gave you my number instead of hers.’
‘Ok, can we stop bringing that up? It’s really starting to sting. Aren’t you supposed to be nice on a first date?’
‘Firstly, obviously not a date.’ Peter gestured first at himself and then at the remnants of his dinner-for-one. ‘Secondly, it’s the only thing I really know about you lovemuffin, and it’s very embarrassing for you, so of course I’m going to milk it for all it is worth. And thirdly, I feel like your ego’s doing well enough on its own so it can stand to take a verbal beating or two. It’s like I said, I’m doing a public service.’
‘You know I’m starting to get why the Bugle hates you.’
‘What can I say, it’s part of the charm.’
They lapsed into an almost comfortable silence, staring out over the Upper Bay as the sun set before them. The heavy, grey rain clouds loomed in the distance, as if waiting in the wings for their cue. Somehow just looking at them, Peter knew he was going to end the night soaked through. But at that moment he was dry and full and the residual warmth coming off of Johnny was unexpectedly pleasant and he couldn’t really bring himself to care.
He’d been right, the heavens had opened at around 10 o’clock and the downpour was still going strong when Peter dragged himself through his window an hour later and proceeded to create a small puddle on his floor.
Johnny had zipped off just after 9:30, flatteringly reluctant and promising to keep an eye open for crime on his way home. Before leaving though, he’d produced a small envelope from a pocket in his suit that Peter hadn’t even been aware of, and thrust it into Spiderman’s gloved hands.
‘As promised, now at least you’ll know more about me than just my recent dating history.’
‘I’m still definitely going to bring it up whenever I can though.’
Johnny had smiled fondly – and Peter only briefly panicked at how much he already liked that smile.
‘Yeah I know. See you around Spidey.’
Peter wondered whether Johnny had beat the rain home, or whether his penthouse apartment had similar water stains dotting the solid oak floors. He probably had 17 maids to follow him around with mops and buckets, and a personal butler monkey to launder his sodden suit. Peter had his own personal mop and a halfway broken washer dryer, so who was really winning?
It wasn’t until he was settled in his pyjamas, finishing off the math homework he’d tried to rush through at lunch, that he remembered the envelope Johnny had given him.
It was clear that Johnny had searched ‘CV template’ on Google and filled out the first one he’d found. The formatting was clean and professional, but sadly, even from the first glance Peter could tell that was where the professionalism ended. Even his email address was listed as: [email protected].
It started strong with some kind of scatter-brained introductory paragraph:
Dear Spidey Fan Club Administration Team,
Allow me to submit my humble application to become a member – nay, a leader – of such a prestigious and worthy team. I am a semi reliable, rich bitch who is willing to learn on the job (whatever that may mean) and I can meet deadlines as long as I write them on some part of my body in waterproof ink otherwise it’s 50/50. I am equally good at kicking criminal butt and opening fan mail so admin or avenging I’m a pretty solid guy to have around, plus I have back up if things get really dicey. However, my real skill would probably have to be PR – I mean have you seen what I’ve gotten away with and yet the media loves me. I feel like Spiderman needs a bit of a rep boost, or you know, someone needs to burn the Bugle to the ground (fire is somewhat of a specialty). Either or. HIRE ME. Please see below an itemised list of reasons I will get this role.
From there it somehow got worse
Under ‘Experience’ he’d written:
;) Wouldn’t you like to find out…
Under ‘Education’ he’d written:
I’m a B- student (but a D+ where it counts – if you know what I meeeeeaaaan). I play football. Don’t talk to me about wrestling, those guys are dicks.
But Peter’s favourite part had to be the section at the bottom of the page:
Under ‘Special Skills’ he’d written:
- I’m very good at perfectly cooking smores. Golden brown, every time
- I CAN FLY!
- I can rap the entire Yeezus album
- Once a wasp landed on my hand and didn’t sting me so I think I probably have some sort of wasp magic in me. I named him Jeremy. He doesn’t write and I miss him.
- My resting body temperature is 104°C – I’m always in fever mode baby.
- I have at least 4 abs (I’m working on it)
- Ben once implied he might vaguely tolerate me – Ben doesn’t vaguely tolerate anyone
Peter found himself grinning harder than he had in a long while. He read through the CV a few more times, laughing out loud at the surprisingly well done doodles curling around the paragraphs. There was a large fanged spider drooping down from the top left corner, a small Spiderman climbing up the outer edge of the page and, an absurdly muscled Human Torch zipping around the ‘special skills’ section trailing a ‘Spiderman for President’ banner. In the space at the bottom there was a blocky recreation of the Statue of Liberty with two tiny figures waving from her crown. The drawing was cramped but it did look like Johnny had drawn the little figures holding hands.
Peter wanted to do something ridiculous like pin the paper to his cork board next to his entry confirmation email for a local photography competition and his 1st place certificate from the inter-school Science Fair the year before. But the thing was littered with Spiderman references and he’d rather not have to explain it to Aunt May. Instead he slipped it into the drawer by his bed continued to smile until he fell asleep.
Johnny got the job.
Peter called him the following day from a different rooftop, still slightly sweaty from running down two thieves, one of which probably could have competed in the Olympics if he wasn’t more fixated on antique watches. A crowd had gathered by the time he had webbed the second guy to a convenient lamppost and he’d assumed the ‘Hero Pose’ he was still trying to master, telling them with all the authority he could muster, to call the police. One man had whipped out his phone instantly, a second had hesitated, looked down at the smoothie in his hand, and then lobbed it at Peter. He’d dodged it, most of the pink mess hitting the bad guy still stuck on the lamppost, but some of the splatter had made it up to Peter’s thighs and he left the entire situation feeling pretty pissed off and sticky.
He’d dialled the phone without really thinking, and annoyingly, as soon as Johnny picked up the phone Peter felt some of the anger slip away. By the time Peter had finished explaining the Smoothie Asshole and Johnny was cackling down the line, Peter could barely recall the low burn of annoyance he’d started with. There was just a suspicious warmth in its place.
So it became a habit.
Whenever Peter was upset at life or angry at his not so adoring public, he’d call Johnny. There was something about the guy – he was obnoxious, arrogant and had a pretty horrendous sense of humour, but for some reason Peter liked it. Three weeks in, he stopped dead in the middle of washing his face, soap clinging to his eyebrows, when he realised he actually missed it. That was probably a problem.
But that didn’t stop them talking or meeting up. Nor did the fact that Johnny still thought Peter was in his mid twenties at least. Several times Peter had had to remind himself that he was actually younger than Johnny to stop himself from feeling like such a perv. Especially as Johnny had only ramped up the flirting and Peter had found himself playing along a surprising number of times.
When week four rolled around and Peter realised he liked Johnny, he barely batted an eyelid. He did however buy a tub of own brand ice cream on his way home and ate half of it using an ice cream scoop. But that was neither here nor there.