Chapter Text
The only thing Peter feels right now is the searing cold of linoleum against his cheek as he lies sprawled in a random frat house bathtub, gangly limbs bent every which way.
The room is spinning. Makes sense— he did just drink half his weight in shitty beer handed to him by some guy named Brian. Or Ryan.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter.
What does matter, though, is that his girlfriend— ex–girlfriend, love of his life, the sun in his sky , Gwen Stacy, is three thousand miles away in a cozy apartment in London.
Very much not here.
They finally broke things off. Mutually — he likes to clarify— because long distance just didn’t make sense.
Different priorities. Different goals. It was the logical decision.
Which, Peter thinks, is exactly why it hurts so much.
There was no dramatic fight. No screaming in the rain. No broken dishes or slammed doors. Just talking. Calm, quiet talking, with the occasional tear or two. But it was all so civil.
So reasonable.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Maybe he wanted a fight, for her to throw everything to the wind and just jump into his arms. But that didn’t happen.
He groans, vaguely convinced he’s going to throw up, until the bathroom door creaks open.
He doesn’t have enough self-control— or, honestly, any dignity — to announce that this hiding place is currently occupied.
So he keeps lying there. Wallowing. Face pressed to the cold and probably filthy bathtub.
“Oh my god.”
Yep. That tracks.
He can feel his face flush. Not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the sheer mortification at the fact that someone just caught him mid-existential spiral in a frat house tub.
“Are you… Okay?” the voice asks again, tentative now.
Peter twists his head awkwardly— still not bothering to lift himself from his slumped position— in a way that he thinks is probably going to give him a stiff neck in the morning.
What he sees when he finally blinks the world into focus is... unexpected.
A girl, a college girl– you.
You look reasonable, at least more put together than he is. You’re holding a Solo cup in one hand, and in the other a pair of heels dangling by the lacy straps.
Your face is twisted in concern. Genuine concern.
That, somehow, is the most embarrassing part.
Peter attempts a thumbs-up, but in his drunken state, it misses— his hand goes limb flopping back onto his chest.
“Right,” you mutter. “You’re, like, three bad decisions away from alcohol poisoning.”
He squints up at you, eyes straining against the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights.
They wrap around your head like a halo, he chuckles to himself.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m going to get you some water. And maybe an Advil, also maybe like some wipes— I’m pretty sure that bathtub floor is housing at least three different types of STD’s”
Peter groans. “Do you have a time machine instead? I’d rather go back six months and break up with Gwen first , or at least stuff myself in her suitcase and be smuggled into London.”
You pause in the doorway, looking at him as if you're trying to figure out if he’s kidding or just that pathetic.
“Okay, bathtub boy, ” you say, “try to stay alive for the next five minutes.”
And then you’re gone.
Peter closes his eyes again, hoping the spinning will stop if he just lies still long enough.
Though, for some reason— tucked under the haze and the fog— he wants to follow you , but his limbs are heavy like they're being weighed down with sandbags.
He lies there for what feels like a millennium.
You’re realistically only gone for the five minutes you said you would be— but it feels like it stretches into forever.
The door creaks open again.
Peter peeks one eye open and groans dramatically, just in case it’s the Grim Reaper coming to collect his soul.
It’s not.
It’s you . Backlit by LED lights, holding a bottle of water, a crumpled paper towel, and something that looks suspiciously like a granola bar.
“Wow, you’re still alive,” you observe.
“Barely,” he croaks, reaching feebly for the water in a way that reminds you of a sad cartoon mouse. “Is this heaven?”
You ignore that.
Instead, you hand him the water and crouch beside the tub with a quiet sigh that says you didn’t sign up for this, but now it’s your problem anyway .
He cracks open the cap and downs the entire bottle in a few desperate gulps. Then leans back against the cool porcelain, eyes fluttering shut.
You hand him the granola bar.
He blinks at it.
“I’m not sure I remember how to chew,” he says gravely.
“You’ll remember,” you say. “Or you’ll choke. Honestly, either one would be kind of on brand for tonight.”
Peter grins at that. It’s weak and crooked and way too pleased with itself for someone curled up like roadkill in a tub.
“Are you always this nice to strangers, or am I just special?”
You laugh— short, incredulous.
“ Actually, I came in here to hide from the hivemind of frat boys outside, but found a catatonic college boy whining about his ex, face down in a disgusting frat house bathtub.”
Peter winces. “Low blow.”
“You earned it.”
He takes a bite of the granola bar and immediately regrets it— it tastes like cardboard.
Still, he chews.
You sit on the toilet lid, elbow perched atop your knee and cheek pressed against your fist, like you're holding the world’s most reluctant intervention.
The party thumps distantly through the walls— muffled bass and sloppy laughter, like the world didn’t just end because Gwen Stacy went on that plane.
Peter swallows, then leans his head back again, sighing. “This was not how I imagined my Friday going.”
“Yeah, me neither. I just came here for the free booze and ended up playing Florence Nightingale to a boy in a bathtub.”
Peter lifts a finger. “ Man. I’m technically a man.”
You stare blankly. “You’re drinking lukewarm Bud Lite and crying about your ex. You are, at best , a man-shaped boy .”
He opens his mouth to argue. Stops. Nods.
“Fair.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then— softly— “She’s really gone, huh?”
You look at him. “Your ex?”
He nods. “Gwen. She’s in London now. Doing grad school. Being brilliant, changing the world– without me. I told her it was okay. That we’d both move on. And I meant it. I still mean it. It just…”
“ …still sucks, ” you finish.
He looks at you. Grateful. Like maybe the bathtub isn’t the loneliest place in the world anymore.
“Yeah,” he says. “It really does.”
You smile, gently this time. “Well. At least you’ve got granola.”
Peter chuckles, the sound rough but real. “You’re not going to let me live this down, are you?”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
The next morning, Peter wakes up to the smell of coffee.
Which is wild, because he was fully prepared to never smell again. Or move again. Or be alive, really.
He blinks one eye open. Immediately regrets it. The sunlight coming through the window is way too aggressive for someone whose blood-to-beer ratio is still questionable.
There’s a blanket draped over him— suspiciously soft, and cozy— and a pillow that definitely didn’t belong in a frat house, actually, he’s pretty sure the frat boys in Delta Kappa Tau didn’t own any form of pillow covering whatsoever.
Also, the couch beneath him smells like vanilla fabric softener and, thankfully, not frat boy sweat.
So not a frat house, nice solve Peter.
Panic sets in.
He shoots upright way too fast and instantly regrets it. The room spins.
From somewhere behind him, a voice says, “Easy, Nosferatu. You’re safe.”
Peter turns— slowly this time— to see you, standing in the doorway, holding two coffee mugs– one with “World’s Best Dad” printed on the side.
You’re wearing an oversized ESU hoodie that looks way too comfy on you, and fuzzy socks that make an unfortunate squelch as they hit the floorboards.
You hand over the warm mug like it’s a peace offering.
He blinks down at it. “This is…?”
“Coffee,” you deadpan. “It’s what people drink after nearly vomiting in a stranger’s bathtub.”
Peter groans and slumps back into the couch, cradling the mug like a life preserver. “I didn’t vomit, though.”
“Sure. But the vibe was there.”
He exhales a slow, embarrassed breath. “Right. Uh. Did I, like… sleepwalk here? Or did you drag my unconscious body across campus?”
You grin. “Neither. You walked, basically crawled. I gave you water and sustenance, and you turned coherent enough to tell me you lived ten blocks away, and then immediately fell asleep mid-sentence. So, no, I wasn’t about to let you wander the streets like a hungover Bambi.”
Peter stares at you. “You took me home?”
You gesture around.
“ I took you to my home.”
He groans again, rubbing his hands down his face. “I’m so sorry. This is… probably peak humiliation for me.”
“Honestly? You weren’t even the worst part of my night.”
He lowers his hands. “How could anything possibly top this?”
You sit across from him, sipping your coffee like it’s no big deal. “I stepped in a puddle of beer, glitter, and unidentified bodily fluid in someone’s hallway and ruined my favorite heels.”
Peter winces. “Ouch.”
“Tragic,” you agree. “But you did call me a ‘wise and glowy bathtub angel,’ so I guess my night was somewhat salvaged.”
He groans again, dragging the blanket over his face. “I’m never drinking again.”
“Sure you aren’t.”
A beat of quiet stretches between you, broken only by the soft hum of your air conditioner and the occasional traffic outside your window.
Peter peeks out from under the blanket. “Hey… thanks. For not leaving me to die. And for the granola bar. And this couch. And possibly saving my life.”
You smile. “You’re welcome, bathtub boy. ”
“It’s Peter,
actually.”
“
Bathtub Boy
has a better ring to it.”