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It’s not a surprise, finding Johnny on the roof. Even with his powers gone, it makes sense to Peter—height feels normal and safe. Relaxing in a way that being on the ground just doesn’t. They belong up high, Peter and Johnny, and so of course Johnny’s retreated here.
Peter sits down next to him, not saying a word.
Johnny’s on the edge, his knees curled up under his chin and his feet pressing against the low wall edging around the rooftop. It’s windy and humid and Peter thinks any normal person would feel dangerously unbuoyed. A tingle of his spider-sense itches in the back of his head, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s not for him but for Johnny. Peter can stick to the ground underneath them—Johnny can’t. And Johnny can’t fly, so if he gets knocked over the edge, that’s it. Peter will catch him, of course, but the idea of him falling has his throat tightening up with sheer terror and grief.
He’s not used to his spider-sense going for other people. It used to for Mary Jane, a few times where he sensed projectiles heading her way, not his, and that time she tripped and he was right there catching her so she wouldn’t land face-first on concrete.
He doesn’t want to think about Mary Jane right now.
Beside him, Johnny starts shaking.
It’s been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Skrulls are never easy to deal with, even disregarding all the history they have with the Fantastic Four. With the Storms, with Johnny.
The Avengers took care of it today, Peter helped, and then, with the battle over, he ducked down to his room in the Baxter Building and changed and went to find Johnny. Johnny who is on the roof. Johnny who is shaking.
It’s not easy to pry Johnny’s hands away from their grip on his legs, but Peter does it, gentle and compassionate. He laces their fingers together, remembering Mary Jane’s hand, remembering Gwen’s. Johnny’s aren’t much different, honestly, not in size and shape at least. He’s got all kinds of blisters and scars, and he sees a few burns hiding on the sides of his palm. But his hand fits perfectly in Peter’s, and he holds on tight, not tight enough to hide his tremors.
“Pete?”
“Yeah?” Peter mimics Johnny’s quiet tone, caresses his thumb over the back of Johnny’s hand, avoiding the burn he sees there.
“What, uh… what was the first thing I ever called you?”
Oh. The identity game. He understands. “An animated insect.” After a pause, he adds, “I’m me, Johnny. I’m just me.”
Johnny inhales, shuddering and catching in his chest, and he doesn’t say anything. His head drops to his knees and he keeps shaking, such an odd sight for someone who never gets cold, who never lets anyone see him scared.
He doesn’t let go of Johnny’s hand.