Chapter Text
The first thing Peter noticed about the new tenant in 4B was the footsteps.
At 5:47 AM. On a Saturday.
"Who wakes up that early?" Peter mumbled into his pillow. "Voluntarily?"
The footsteps moved from the bedroom to the kitchen. Then back. Then stomped in place like someone was doing calisthenics. At dawn. On the weekend.
Peter groaned and pulled the pillow over his head.
He'd had exactly three hours of sleep. Last night's fight with Rhino had left him with bruised ribs, a dislocated shoulder he'd popped back in himself, and a deep, personal hatred for men in mechanical suits. He'd crawled through his window at 2:47 AM, patch himself up, and collapsed into bed still smelling like webbing and regret.
And now his new upstairs neighbor was tap dancing.
"You're not gonna make it, buddy," Peter told the ceiling. "I'm too tired to be a good person about this."
He grabbed his crutch,leftover from last Tuesday's adventure with Vulture—and limped up the stairs.
.
.
.
The door to 4B was half-open. Inside, cardboard boxes were stacked everywhere, and a man was trying to assemble a bookshelf while simultaneously unpacking a box of mugs.
He was huge.
Not in a scary way. In a… farm boy way. Broad shoulders, dark curls falling over his forehead, glasses that kept slipping down his nose. He was wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he looked like he'd never been mean to anyone in his entire life.
"Hi!" the man said brightly, nearly dropping a mug that said World's Okayest Reporter. "Sorry, did I wake you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize the floors were thin. I'll be quieter. Are you okay? You look like you're in pain."
Peter blinked. "I, what?"
"Your leg," the man said, gesturing at the crutch. "And your ribs. You're holding your left side. Are you sure you're okay? I have ibuprofen."
How did he—
"Car accident," Peter lied automatically. "Old injury. Heals slow. I'm fine."
The man's expression flickered, something soft and knowing, but he just nodded. "I'm Clark, by the way. Clark Kent. I just moved in from Kansas."
"Peter Parker. 3B. Below you." He hesitated. "Look, I'm not gonna be the grumpy neighbor who complains about noise, but—"
"Five AM," Clark said, wincing. "I know. I'm sorry. I grew up on a farm. My internal clock is broken." He set down the mug and extended a hand. "I promise I'll be quieter. Also, I bake. I can pay you in muffins."
Peter stared at the hand. Then at Clark's earnest, stupid, handsome face.
This guy is going to be exhausting, he thought.
He shook the hand anyway.
"I accept muffins," Peter said. "But if I hear one more stomp before 8 AM on a weekend, I'm coming up here with a broom."
Clark laughed, a warm, genuine laugh and Peter felt something in his chest loosen just a little.
.
.
.
The muffins arrived the next morning.
Not at 5 AM. At a very reasonable 9:30. Peter opened his door to find a basket of blueberry muffins, a carton of orange juice, and a handwritten note:
Sorry again about the noise. These are from a mix, so don't get too excited. — Clark, 4B
P.S. Your door lock is loose. I can fix it if you want.
Peter stood in his doorway for a full thirty seconds, holding the basket.
He couldn't remember the last time someone had just… done something nice for him. Without wanting anything in return. Without needing Spider-Man.
"Probably a serial killer," he told the muffins. "This is how it starts. He's gonna poison me."
He ate three of them.
They were delicious.
.
.
.
The second week, Peter came home from a fight with Shocker at 1 AM.
His suit was torn at the shoulder. His knuckles were bleeding through the gloves. His ribs - the same ones from last week - were screaming. He'd taken a bad hit to the head and his vision kept doubling.
He just wanted to crawl into bed and die for eight hours.
But his keys. Where were his keys?
He patted his pockets. Nothing. They must have fallen out during the fight. He was locked out of his own apartment, in the hallway, at 1 AM, bleeding through a hoodie he'd stolen from MJ three years ago.
"Great," he whispered. "Great. Fantastic. This is fine."
He leaned against his door and slid down to the floor.
That's when the footsteps started.
Not now, Peter thought. Please not now.
The door to 4B opened. Clark stepped out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking like he'd just woken up. He was holding a glass of water.
"Peter?" he said quietly. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Peter said automatically. "Just locked out. Lost my keys. It's fine. Go back to sleep."
Clark didn't move.
He walked down the stairs, quietly, Peter noticed, for such a big guy, and crouched in front of him. The hallway light was dim, but Peter could see Clark's eyes scanning him. Taking in the blood on his hoodie. The way he was shaking.
"Car accident?" Clark asked softly.
Peter laughed. It came out hollow. "Something like that."
Clark didn't push. He just stood up, walked back to his apartment, and returned a moment later with a first-aid kit. A towel. A bottle of water.
"I have bandages," Clark said. "And soup. If you want."
Peter stared at him.
"I don't need—"
"It's okay to need help."
The words landed somewhere soft in Peter's chest. Somewhere he'd boarded up months ago. Years ago.
He didn't cry. He didn't.
But his eyes burned.
Clark sat down next to him in the hallway, cross-legged, and opened the first-aid kit. He didn't ask questions. He didn't demand explanations. He just held out a bandage and waited.
Peter took it.
"Thanks," he mumbled.
Clark smiled. "That's what neighbors are for."
.
.
.
Three weeks later, Peter found an envelope taped to his door.
Inside: a key to Clark's apartment.
And a note:
For when you get locked out again. Or when you just need soup. — Clark
P.S. I noticed you don't have a lot of food in your fridge. I'm not judging. But I am concerned.
Peter held the key in his palm.
He thought about Uncle Ben. About May, working double shifts. About the lonely weight of being Spider-Man, of having no one to come home to.
He put the key on his own key ring.
Right next to the one for his apartment.
.
.
.
Later that week, Peter was in Clark's kitchen eating leftover chili (Clark had "accidentally" made too much, which Peter was starting to realize meant made extra because he knew Peter hadn't eaten). Clark's phone buzzed on the counter.
Peter glanced at the screen without meaning to. A text from someone saved as B.
B: Don't forget to eat.
B: And stop adopting strays.
Peter snorted. "Who's B? Your girlfriend?"
Clark's ears turned pink. He grabbed his phone and tucked it into his pocket. "He's not, he's just, he worries."
"Uh-huh." Peter grinned into his chili. "Does B also send you good morning texts?"
Clark's silence was deafening.
"Oh my god," Peter said. "You're blushing. Clark Kent, are you dating a man who sends you good morning texts and tells you to eat?"
"He lives in Gotham," Clark mumbled. "It's complicated."
Peter filed that information away for later. Gotham. Complicated. Worries.
He was going to figure out who B was if it killed him.
But for now, he just ate his chili and listened to Clark hum while doing the dishes, and thought that maybe, just maybe, this was what having a friend felt like.