Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

(Your POV)

The stairwell of your apartment building always smells faintly of someone else’s dinner. Tonight it’s onions and something fried, clinging to the warm, still air as you and Remy climb toward the fifth floor. Your heels echo off the scuffed walls. Remy’s footsteps are quieter, a habit he’s never been able to shake even after two years out of the game.

You’re already halfway through dissecting the restaurant.

“I still think the sauce needed something…” You say, gesturing with the small white takeout box that holds dessert. “It was good. It was almost great. But there was this flat note right at the end, like they forgot an acid or a fresh herb or—”

“Here we go.” Remy glances over at you, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You give him a look. “What?”

“Restaurant done fed us, chère. We paid de bill. We walked home under a very pretty moon. Most folks, dey call dat a successful evenin’ and leave it at dat.”

“It was a successful evening.” You pause on the landing between the third and fourth floors. Remy stops beside you. “I liked the restaurant. The ambiance was lovely. The wine list was solid. But that chicken paprikash it was….it was so close to being incredible. I think it needed maybe a little harissa. Or lemon zest. Something to cut through the richness.”

“You know normal people just eat de food, yeah?”

“I am normal.”

“Chère.” He tilts his head. “You spent fifteen minutes interrogatin’ de waiter about de seasoning.”

“I asked one question.”

“You asked him three.”

“Because he wasn’t answering properly. I asked if the paprika was smoked or sweet, and he said ‘it’s red.’ That is not an answer.”

Remy grins, wide. “Alright. I’ll give de place an eight-point-five outta ten. Solid effort. Good atmosphere.”

“Six.”

“Six? You are a harsh, harsh woman.”

“The menu was diverse….” You say as you resume climbing the stairs. “The restaurant itself was beautiful. But the waiter couldn’t answer basic questions about the food, the chicken paprikash was missing something integral, and my cocktail was watered down. Six is justified.”

“Your cocktail was great.”

“It was fine. Six is fine.”

Remy shakes his head, still grinning. “Cold-hearted. I’m livin’ with a cold-hearted woman.”

“You love me.”

“Tragically.”

You reach the fifth-floor landing, and you’re about to tell him that you’re going to remake the paprikash tomorrow night and he’s going to eat every bite and admit you were right when you stop short.

There are boxes everywhere. Cardboard boxes of various sizes are stacked against the wall. A few are open, revealing haphazardly packed books and kitchen supplies. A battered lamp sits on the floor like a lonely sentinel.

The door to the apartment directly across from yours —the one that’s been vacant for months— is propped open with a shoe.

And standing in the doorway, struggling with a box that’s clearly too large for him, is a young man.

Your first impression is college student. He’s got messy brown hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a comb in days, an old MIT hoodie with a frayed cuff, jeans that have seen better days, and slightly worn sneakers. He’s trying to maneuver the oversized box through the doorframe, arms straining, face set in determined concentration.

The box slips.

He catches it against his chest with a grunt. Barely.

You and Remy slow down simultaneously, watching.

You call out, “Hey! Are you our new neighbor?”

He jumps, like you’ve fired a starting pistol two inches from his ear. The box slips from his grip and lands directly on his foot.

“Ow!”

You wince, hand flying to your mouth. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

Beside you, Remy turns his face away sharply. His shoulders are shaking. He is absolutely trying not to laugh.

The young man —early twenties, you could see now, with the kind of face that still looked surprised to find itself in an adult body—was doing his best to recover his dignity while also clearly wanting to hop on one foot. He settled for a pained grimace, waving his hands like he’s trying to erase the moment from existence. 

“No, no, it’s—it’s fine. Totally fine. That was —my fault. Completely my fault. I shouldn’t have— I was holding the box and I wasn’t paying attention, which is a terrible combination, and I do this thing where I get really focused on something and the rest of the world just kind of—” He gestures vaguely at the hallway, at the boxes, at life in general. “—disappears. And then someone says something and I’m like oh right, other people exist, and by then it’s too late because I’ve already dropped something on my foot. Which happens more than you’d think. Not —not that you were thinking about it. I don’t know what you were thinking about. I’m Peter. Parker. Peter Parker. I’m moving in. Obviously. That’s —yeah. Hi.”

He extends his hand toward you, then seems to realize mid-gesture that his hand is probably dirty from moving boxes, so he pulls it back, wipes it on his jeans, and extends it again. The whole sequence takes about three seconds and is deeply, profoundly awkward.

You find yourself smiling despite yourself. You take his hand and give him your name.

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

He shakes your hand with the slightly-too-firm grip of someone who’s been told he has a weak handshake and has overcorrected. Then he turns to Remy and repeats the process, hand extended, expression earnest despite the lingering grimace of pain.

Remy takes the offered hand, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Remy LeBeau. Pleasure.”

“Sorry…” Peter says, withdrawing his hand and flexing his injured foot experimentally. “I’m —this is not— I’m not usually this level of disaster. I mean, I’m usually some level of disaster, just not the full catastrophic kind. Moving is stressful. So many boxes. I didn’t think I owned this many things, but apparently I do, and they all weigh a lot more than I remember, so that’s been —that’s been fun.”

You smile, trying to put him at ease. “Hey, it’s okay. We understand. Moving is stressful. And honestly, it’s nice to finally have someone moving in. That apartment’s been empty for about three months.”

“Wasn’t entirely a bad t’ing….” Remy mutters.

You give him Remy a warning look.

“De previous tenant….” Remy explains to Peter while ignoring you. “Man was strange.”

“He wasn’t strange. He was a professional mime.”

Peter looks between the two of you, visibly thrown. “Wait. Seriously?”

You nod. “Seriously. Marcel. He performed at children’s birthday parties and street festivals. Very dedicated to his craft.”

“And rude…” Remy adds. “Soon as he saw me comin’, he'd find somewhere else to be.”

“Maybe because you verbally harassed him every time you saw him?”

“I wasn’t harassin’ nobody.” Remy puts a hand to his chest in wounded innocence. “I was conductin’ an investigation.”

Peter’s eyebrows draw together. “An investigation?”

You sigh. This story again. “Remy became convinced that Marcel was hiding something.”

“De man was a sleeper agent,” Remy says, completely serious. “Usin’ de mime identity as a cover. T’ink about it—who’s gonna suspect a mime? Nobody pays attention to mimes. Dey’re invisible. Perfect cover for a deep-cover operative.”

“That is still….” You tell him, “....the most ridiculous thing you have ever said.”

“His silence was suspicious, chère. Nobody’s dat committed to not talkin’. Brainwashin’ had to be involved.”

Peter hesitates, then offers, tentatively, “I mean….maybe he was just shy?”

Remy looks at him. “You t’ink?”

"I don't know." Peter shrugged, suddenly looking self-conscious. "Some people are just…..not great at the whole talking-to-strangers thing. My aunt used to say I had the opposite problem. She said I talked enough for three people."

"Really?" You smiled. "I find that hard to believe."

"Yeah, no, it's true. I talk a lot when I'm nervous. Or when I'm not nervous. Or when there's silence. Silence makes me want to fill it, which is probably a character flaw, but —there was this one time, growing up, we had this neighbor, Mrs. Kowalski, and she was, like, super old, and she'd sit on her stoop and talk to anyone who walked by, but the thing was she'd tell the same three stories over and over, and I think I heard the one about her cat escaping in 1983 at least forty times, but I never said anything because she seemed lonely, you know? And I just kept thinking—"

He stopped, mouth still slightly open.

"I'm doing it…" He said. 

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh at the sheer, genuine mortification on his face.

"....the nervous talking…." Peter finished weakly. 

Remy grinned. "Well, least we know you're not a mime."

Peter exhaled, something between a laugh and a sigh of relief. "Definitely not."

"Good." Remy nodded once, a gesture of approval. "Don't need another neighbor hidin' secrets."

Peter laughs. It’s a little too quick, and there’s something faintly nervous in the way his gaze flicks away from Remy’s. “I’m not—I’m not hiding anything.”

The words are casual. Throwaway. The kind of thing anyone would say.

You barely notice.

Remy notices.

You’re already looking around at the boxes, assessing the situation. “Do you need help carrying some of these in? That’s a lot of boxes for one person.”

Peter’s reaction is immediate. “No.”

Too fast. Too sharp. The word lands in the quiet hallway like a door slamming.

You raise an eyebrow.

He realizes how abrupt it sounded and visibly scrambles to recover. “I mean —I’m okay. Really. You don’t have to— I’ve got it. It’s not that much stuff. I’m almost done. Basically.”

“You have at least a dozen boxes out here….” You point out gently. “Help would make it go faster. And Remy doesn’t mind.”

Remy looks at you, eyebrows lifting. “Oh, I don’t, do I?”

You turn to him with a sweet smile. “You’re my handsome, strong man. You’ll survive a few boxes.”

He stares at you for a beat, then sighs, long and theatrical. “Can’t argue wit’ dat.”

He moves toward the stack of boxes.

“Really, you don’t have to—” Peter starts.

“Ma petite already volunteerin’ my labor, homme. Best to just let it happen.”

Remy scans the boxes, assessing, and then his hand reaches for one of the larger ones. It’s a little battered around the edges, like it’s been moved a few times, and it’s covered in several thick layers of silver duct tape. Practically mummified.

Peter’s entire demeanor shifts.

“Wait!” His voice cracks on the word. Sharp. Loud. A split-second of genuine, unfiltered panic that cuts through the easy atmosphere like a blade.

Remy freezes, hand hovering an inch above the box.

Peter’s eyes are wide. His body has gone rigid, half-lunging forward like he was about to physically intervene.

The silence stretches for a heartbeat. Two.

Peter swallows. Color creeps up his neck. “Sorry. I—sorry.” He gestures toward the box, his hand not quite steady. “That one’s...kind of fragile.”

Remy looks at the box. The box that is wrapped in enough duct tape to survive a fall from an airplane. He looks back at Peter.

“Fragile?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s in it?”

“Nothing.” The word comes out too fast again. A beat. Peter’s jaw works. “I mean—not nothing. Obviously something. It’s a box. It’s not an empty box, that would be—that wouldn’t make sense. It’s just—it’s stuff.”

You press your lips together to hide a smile.

“What kind of stuff?” Remy's voice was deceptively casual.

“It’s —my uncle’s stuff. His things. He, um. He passed away. A while ago. So it’s more sentimental than fragile, I guess. I just —I don’t like anyone else handling it.” He’s already moving, stepping around Remy to pick up the box himself, cradling it against his chest like something precious. Or dangerous. “So I’ll just —yeah. I’ve got this one.”

He disappears inside the apartment with the box, moving faster than seems strictly necessary.

Remy watches him go, expression unreadable.

Peter re-emerges a moment later, brushing his hands on his jeans, still looking faintly flushed. “Thanks. For offering to help. That was—really nice of you. Both of you. You seem like really nice people.”

“If you need anything…” You tell him, “....we’re right across the hall. Seriously. Screwdriver, extra boxes, a cup of sugar, whatever—we’re right there.”

Peter nods, and for just a moment, the nervous energy bleeds out of him. He looks genuinely grateful. Not suspicious or secretive or strange. Just a young guy in a new apartment in a city that doesn’t always welcome newcomers gently, standing in a hallway full of his belongings, a little bit lost and a little bit lonely.

“Thanks…” He says quietly. “That’s….really nice.”

He starts to retreat into his apartment, then pauses, turning back. “And, uh —sorry. About the whole box thing. And the foot thing. I’m not usually this...” He trails off, searching for the right word.

You wave it off. “Don’t worry about it.”

He manages a small, crooked smile, and then he disappears inside. The door closes. The latch clicks into place.

The hallway feels quieter without him in it.

You turn toward Remy.

He’s still standing beside the remaining boxes, staring at the closed door with an expression you know all too well. That speculative, calculating look. The one that means his brain is already spinning theories.

You shake your head slightly, pull out your keys, and unlock your own door.

The apartment welcomes you with familiar shadows. You flick on the lights, kick off your heels with a sigh of relief, and pad into the kitchen. The takeout container with the tiramisu goes on the counter. You grab two forks from the drawer.

Remy has settled onto the couch by the time you join him, the dessert between you. You pull your feet up underneath you, lean into his shoulder, and hand him a fork.

“He’s weird…” Remy says, accepting the fork and immediately digging into the tiramisu.

You don’t argue. You just take a bite and wait.

“I t’ink he’s hidin’ something.”

“Not everyone who acts a little strange is hiding something, Remy.”

“Chère.” He turns his head to look at you. “Everyone’s hidin’ something. Question is just what.” He taps his fork against the container, thinking. “Dat box. De one wrapped up like Fort Knox. Did you see his face when I reached for it?”

“He said it was his dead uncle’s things. That would make anyone protective.”

“Maybe.” Remy doesn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe he’s into stolen tech. Somethin’ high-value.”

“Oh my God.” You close your eyes. “Please don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Form weird conspiracy theories about the neighbors. I would like —just once— to have a neighbor who likes us. Who we can be friendly with. Who doesn’t think we’re insane.”

Remy looks wounded. “De neighbors like us.”

“No, they do not. Mrs. Gutierrez on the third floor still crosses herself when you walk by. Because you told her that Mr. Delgado’s skin condition was actually a sign that he was secretly a lizard person.”

“We don’t know for a fact dat he isn’t a lizard person. Nobody’s proved it.”

“That is not how proof works.” You set your fork down and turn to face him fully. “Okay. Listen to me. Peter is around our age. He seems nice. He seems normal —or at least normal-adjacent. He’s awkward and he rambles, but that’s not a crime. I would just like to have more friends in the building. Please. For me. Do not be weird about Peter.”

Remy holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he sighs, dramatic and long-suffering.

“Fine. Alright. I’ll be good.” He takes another bite of tiramisu, chewing thoughtfully. “Probably ain’t nothin’ too interestin’ about Peter Parker anyways.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, satisfied. “Thank you.”

Outside, the city hums its nightly song. The tiramisu is good —rich and creamy, the coffee notes lingering on your tongue. The apartment is warm. Remy’s arm comes up to rest along the back of the couch behind you, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your shoulder.

Neither of you knows it yet, but you are both very, very wrong.

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Two weeks passed, and your optimism about Peter Parker began to curdle into something more complicated.

You’d meant it when you told Remy you wanted more friends in the building. You’d imagined something neighborly and warm: borrowing sugar, casual hallway chats, maybe the three of you grabbing a drink sometime. Peter had seemed perfect for that. Awkward, yes. Rambling, absolutely. But underneath the nerves, you’d sensed a genuinely decent person. Someone who just needed a little patience.

Unfortunately, getting to know Peter turned out to be considerably harder than you’d expected.

It started with the hours. The walls in your apartment were thin —you’d learned to live with the ambient noise of other people’s lives, the muffled televisions and creaking pipes and occasional arguments. But Peter’s schedule defied all normal rhythms. You’d hear his door open at three in the morning, footsteps quick and uneven down the hallway. You’d hear him come back at four, or five, or sometimes not at all until the next evening. Twice you were jolted awake by a heavy thud from his direction, followed by a strangled grunt and the sharp crack of something breaking. Once, you could have sworn you heard the distinctive thwip of something elastic snapping taut, but when you pressed your ear to the wall, there was only silence.

Then there were the moods. You learned quickly that you could never predict which version of Peter you’d encounter. Some days he was easygoing —almost charming in his awkward, rambling way. He’d ask how your day was going and actually seem to mean it. Other days he was short and jitterish, eyes darting toward the stairwell like he was expecting someone, answers clipped to single syllables. And some days—the worst days—he wouldn’t even look up when you said hello. He’d just shuffle past like a man carrying an invisible weight, his hood pulled low, his shoulders hunched, disappearing into his apartment without a word.

And then there was the way he moved.

You first noticed it when you took out the trash one evening. The hallway was empty. You walked to the trash chute, dropped the bag, turned around —and Peter was standing three feet behind you, holding his own garbage bag, looking as startled to see you as you were to see him.

“Jesus….” You gasped, hand flying to your chest.

“Sorry! Sorry. I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. I just—I walk quiet, I guess?”

Quiet was an understatement. Another time, you were climbing the stairs from the lobby, lost in thought, and between the third and fourth floors you suddenly realized Peter was climbing beside you. You hadn’t heard a single footstep. Not a creak, not a scuff. He’d simply materialized, offering a sheepish wave and a “Hey, how’s it going?” like his sudden appearance was the most normal thing in the world.

You told Remy about it. He just raised an eyebrow and said nothing, which was somehow worse than if he’d launched into a full conspiracy theory. The silence meant he was collecting data.

And yet, despite all of it, you remained determined. People were complicated. Life was messy. Peter was clearly going through something —stress, bad jobs, relationship troubles, who knew— and none of it required a conspiracy. You’d befriend him. You’d break through the walls he’d built. And you’d start with the one tool that had never failed you: food.

So on a Tuesday evening in Peter’s third week in the building, you baked brownies.

The apartment filled with the warm, chocolate-rich scent of them, and you were just pulling the pan out of the oven when Remy materialized at your elbow like a man summoned by some ancient dessert magic.

“Dey for me?” He asked, reaching toward the cooling rack.

You smacked his hand away without looking. “They’re for Peter. Welcome-to-the-building brownies. A peace offering. An overture of friendship.”

“Peter.” Remy said the name like it tasted suspicious. “De boy who slams doors at four in de mornin’ and appears out of thin air like a ghost.”

“The boy who is our neighbor and who deserves a warm welcome.” You turned to grab a butter knife from the drawer. When you turned back, a corner of one brownie was mysteriously missing. Remy was chewing, expression beatific.

“Remy.”

“Mm?”

“Did you just take a piece?”

He swallowed, utterly serene. “No.”

"You have chocolate on your fingers."

He looked down at his hand with an expression of mild, performative surprise. "Huh. Would you look at dat."

"Unbelievable." You pointed the butter knife at him. "You are a grown man. An adult. You could have waited five minutes."

"Could have." He leaned against the counter, utterly unrepentant. "Didn't want to."

You shook your head, fighting the smile that wanted to break through your stern expression. The man had no shame. Never had. That was part of the problem —and part of the charm, if you were being honest with yourself. You cut the remaining brownies into neat squares and arranged them in a Tupperware container while Remy watched, licking chocolate residue off his thumb.

"You're really gonna give away perfectly good brownies to a man who might be —how you say— up to no good?"

"He's not up to anything. He's a recent graduate with bad social skills and a complicated life." You sealed the lid. "Back in a bit."

You left your unit and crossed the hallway. The building was quiet at this hour, the early evening lull when most tenants were still at work or just getting home. You knocked on Peter’s door —three firm raps— and waited.

Nothing.

You waited longer. Long enough that you started to wonder if he was home at all, despite the faint strip of light visible beneath the door. You shifted your weight, and were about to knock again when the door finally swung open.

And you gasped.

Peter stood in the doorway looking like he’d been in a fight with something much larger than himself and lost badly. His lip was split, a dark line of dried blood tracing down to his chin. One eye was swollen and purpling, the bruise spreading across his cheekbone like spilled ink. His knuckles were scraped raw, the skin broken and angry red. His shirt was wrinkled, like he’d thrown it on in a hurry, and he was holding himself carefully, favoring his left side in a way that suggested bruised ribs or worse.

“Oh my God…” You breathed. “Peter. Are you okay? What happened? Do you need a ride to the ER?”

He blinked at you, like he’d forgotten what his own face looked like. Then he seemed to remember all at once, and his expression shifted into something painfully awkward. “Oh. This. This is —it looks worse than it is. It’s nothing. Really.”

“You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Skateboarding accident…” He said, too quickly. Then he grimaced, the expression pulling at his split lip. “Well, not exactly. Kind of. You know what? Long story. Really long. Super boring story, actually. You don’t want to hear it.”

“I have a first aid kit….” You said, already half-turning toward your own apartment. “And Remy’s certified in first aid. He’s patched up worse than this. We can help. Seriously, some of those cuts look like they need cleaning before they get infected.”

“No!” Peter held up both hands, then winced at the movement. “I mean —no, thank you. That’s really, really nice. But I’m fine. I’ve got —I have supplies. In here. I’m actually a little busy right now, so—” He glanced at the container in your hands, like he was only just noticing it. “Did you, um. Did you need something?”

You lifted the Tupperware, feeling suddenly a little foolish. “I baked brownies. To welcome you to the building. Properly. And I wanted to see how you were settling in. Maybe talk for a bit, if you had time.”

He stared at the container. Something flickered behind the bruises —surprise, maybe, or a softer emotion you didn’t know how to name. “You….you baked me brownies.”

“It’s kind of my thing. Food is how I say hello. And goodbye. And congratulations. And sorry for your loss. Pretty much everything, honestly.”

“You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Nonsense. We’re neighbors now. And having good relationships with neighbors is important. You never know when you’re going to need to borrow a cup of sugar or—” You gestured vaguely at his battered face. “—a first aid kit.”

He almost smiled at that. He opened his mouth to say something—and that’s when the noise came from inside his apartment.

It was a crash. The unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by a metallic clatter that echoed through the thin walls.

Peter’s face went pale beneath the bruises.

“Shit…” He hissed, and then he was reaching forward, snatching the Tupperware from your hands with a speed that startled you. “Thanks! Thank you so much! This is really, really nice! I have to go!”

The door slammed in your face.

You stood there in the sudden silence, staring at the closed door, your hands still raised in the position they’d been in when you were holding the brownies. The strip of light beneath the door flickered, as if someone was moving quickly on the other side. Then it steadied.

You returned to your apartment slowly, the Tupperware gone, your hands empty, your mind turning over what you’d just seen.

Remy was sprawled on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, watching a commercial for some kind of cleaning product with the glazed expression of a man who hadn’t bothered to change the channel. He looked up when you came in. “Dat was fast. He didn’t like brownies?”

"He took them." You sat down beside him, more heavily than you meant to. "He looked awful, Remy. Split lip. Black eye. His knuckles were torn up. He said it was a skateboarding accident, but—" You shook your head. "He could barely stand straight."

Remy was quiet for a moment. Then he said, tone carefully neutral, "I saw him at de mailbox two days ago, real early. Dere was blood on his jeans."

"You don't know it was blood. It could have been anything. Paint. Ketchup. Motor oil."

He turned his head to look at you. His eyes, dark and unblinking, held yours for a long moment.

"Chère…" He said quietly. "I know what dried blood looks like."

The words sat between you, heavy and undeniable. 

"Don't start…" You said finally, but your voice had no conviction behind it.

Remy didn't say anything. He just kept looking at you with that calm, knowing expression that made you want to throw a pillow at him.

"There's a perfectly reasonable explanation…." You insisted, more to yourself than to him. "Bruises happen. People get hurt. Maybe he does martial arts. Maybe he's a boxer. Maybe he's just—"

You couldn't finish the sentence. The word ‘clumsy’ died on your tongue. You'd seen clumsy. You'd lived with clumsy. The damage on Peter's face had not come from tripping over a curb.

Remy gave you a look —flat, patient, utterly unimpressed.

You chose, very deliberately, to ignore it.

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A week later, Remy couldn’t sleep.

This happened sometimes. His mind ran too hot, too fast, cycling through thoughts he didn’t always share with you. So he slipped out of bed, pulled on a jacket, and climbed the access ladder to the rooftop, where the city stretched out below him like a circuit board of lights and shadows.

He lit a cigarette and let his mind wander.

Two years. Two years since he’d walked away from the X-Men, from the thieving, from the life that had defined him for so long. He’d done it for you —not because you asked, but because he knew you’d wanted a normal life. A quiet life. A life where you didn’t wake up at three in the morning wondering if the person you loved was coming home. And Remy, who’d spent his whole life running from one fire to the next, had looked at you and seen something he’d never really believed he could have: a future.

Parts of it had been very nice. The warmth of you beside him every night. The easy rhythm of domesticity —coffee in the morning, dinner in the evening, your voice filling the apartment with observations about sauces and seasonings and the proper way to sear a scallop. He’d never had that before. Never had someone who made the quiet feel like a gift instead of a sentence.

But parts of it had been very boring.

He wouldn’t lie to himself about that. He missed the action. The adrenaline. The sharp edge of danger that made his senses sing. He’d found entertainment where he could —mostly in crime shows and conspiracy podcasts, the kind of thing that let him exercise his old instincts without actually breaking the promise he’d made to you. Jameson’s rants about Spider-Man had become a particular favorite, even if you refused to watch them with him. The man made some good points, Remy thought. Not all of them were good points. But some of them.

Maybe the podcasts had bled into his real life a little. Maybe he’d gotten a little too invested in the mystery of the mime, or the lizard-person neighbor, or the eighty-three-year-old man who might or might not be a serial killer from the 1970s. But that was harmless, wasn’t it? A way to keep the sharp parts of his mind occupied while the rest of him settled into the soft, good life he’d chosen.

He was thinking about this, the cigarette burning low between his fingers, when movement caught his eye.

He glanced over the edge of the roof —and froze.

Remy’s eyesight had always been exceptional. One of the quieter gifts his mutation had given him, sharper than normal human vision, especially in the dark. Tonight, the darkness was clear as twilight to him. And what he saw made his blood run cold.

Peter Parker was scaling the side of the building.

His hands and feet found holds that shouldn’t have existed, his body moving with an uncanny, fluid grace that was too smooth and too silent to be human. He was carrying a backpack, dressed in dark street clothes, and he climbed five stories of vertical brick like it was a staircase.

Remy watched him reach the fifth floor. Watched him pause at his own window, try to slide it open, and fail. Watched him curse, and then wrap his fingers around the window lock, twist, and break it with one hand. The snap of metal drifted up to the rooftop, faint but unmistakable. Peter pushed the window open and slid inside, disappearing into the dark of his apartment.

The cigarette dropped from Remy’s fingers.

He watched it fall, a tiny orange ember spiraling down five stories before it vanished against the pavement.

“What de hell…”

He climbed down from the roof and made his way back to the fifth floor. In the hallway, he paused outside Peter’s door. From inside, he could hear noise —muffled movement, something heavy being set down, the creak of floorboards. Normal sounds. Human sounds. From a man who had just scaled a vertical wall like gravity was a suggestion.

Remy let himself into the apartment. The living room was dark, the only light a faint glow from the streetlamp outside the window. He stood there for a moment, gathering himself. Then he went to the bedroom.

You were asleep, curled on your side, one arm stretched across the empty space where he should have been. Your dark curls were fanned across the pillow. In the dim light, you looked peaceful, untroubled, exactly the way he wanted to keep you.

He hated waking you. But this couldn’t wait.

“Chère.” He touched your shoulder gently. “Wake up.”

You stirred, mumbled something that might have been words, and tried to burrow deeper into the pillow.

“Chérie. I need you to wake up.”

Your eyes opened reluctantly. You blinked at him, then at the clock on the nightstand. The red numbers read 12:47.

“Remy. It’s almost one in the morning.”

“I know. I need to tell you somethin’.”

“Can it wait until morning?”

“Non.”

Something in his voice must have registered. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, rubbing your eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I saw Peter.”

You waited.

“On de side of de building. Climbin’ it. Straight up de wall, chère. Five stories. Didn’t use de fire escape. Didn’t use a rope. Just —climbed. Like it was nothin’. Den he broke his window lock wit’ one hand and climbed inside.”

Silence. You stared at him.

“Are you sure?” You asked finally, your voice thick with sleep.

“I’m sure. I saw it clear as day.”

“Remy...” You sat up fully now, pulling the blanket around your shoulders. “It’s the middle of the night. You were smoking. Maybe you were tired. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks.”

“It wasn’t shadows.” His voice was firm, almost sharp. “I know what I saw.”

“You also thought Mr. Henderson looks like The Prospect Park Slasher.”

“He fit de profile. Right age, right facial features—”

“Remy, the only picture they had was a grainy photograph from the eighties. You couldn't even tell if the man had eyebrows.”

Remy shrugged. “I could tell he had murderous intentions.”

You stared at him. “You could not.”

“I felt 'em.”

Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you. It was absurd. All of it was absurd. And yet Remy was standing there in the dark, his expression deadly serious, the tension radiating off him in waves.

“I believe that you think you saw something…” You said carefully. “But it’s the middle of the night, and you’re worked up, and I’m exhausted from a ten hour shift. Can we please talk about this in the morning?”

“Chère—”

“Please.” You reached for his hand. His fingers were cold from the rooftop. “Come to bed. We’ll talk it out tomorrow.”

He looked at you for a long moment. You could see the argument still burning behind his eyes, the need to make you understand. But he sighed, and some of the tension bled out of his shoulders.

“Fine…” He muttered. “Tomorrow.”

He climbed into bed beside you, and you settled against him, your head on his chest, and within minutes your breathing had slowed back into sleep.

Remy lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, and replaying what he’d seen over and over again. The way Peter had moved. The impossible grace of it. The casual strength of snapping a lock with one hand.

He’d promised you a normal life. He’d meant it.

But normal didn’t seem to want to live across the hall.

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You woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Remy talking.

He was already in the kitchen when you stumbled out of the bedroom in your robe, mug in hand, leaning against the counter with the focused intensity of a man who had not slept well and had spent those sleepless hours refining his arguments. You’d hoped —naively, you realized now— that a night’s rest might have cooled his conviction. That he’d wake up and downgrade his certainty to something more manageable.

You should have known better.

“—not just de climbing….” He was saying as you poured yourself a cup of coffee. “It’s everyt’ing. De hours. De bruises. De way he appears out of nowhere like a damn ghost. De box wrapped in enough duct tape to survive a bomb blast. And now dis. Dis is de t’ing dat ties it all together. You can’t explain dis away.”

You moved to the fridge and started pulling out ingredients for breakfast. Eggs. Butter. A bell pepper from the crisper. “Maybe he’s a parkour guy. Or he trains for something. Rock climbing. Free running. People do that.”

“Dose people don’t break window locks wit’ one hand, chère.”

“Maybe the lock was already loose.” You cracked eggs into a bowl and started whisking. “Maybe you couldn’t see clearly. Maybe he was on the fire escape and the angle made it look like the wall.”

“I know what angles look like.”

“Remy.”

“I’m tellin’ you, somethin’ is wrong wit’ dat boy. He’s involved in somethin’ dangerous. I can feel it.”

You diced the bell pepper, letting the rhythmic chop of the knife steady you. “Okay. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Peter is hiding something. That doesn’t automatically make him a criminal. Maybe he’s a mutant.”

Remy shook his head. “He’s not a mutant.”

“How would you know?” You glanced over your shoulder, a teasing edge creeping into your voice despite yourself. “Is identifying other mutants part of your powers? Something you forgot to mention in the past two years?”

“I just know.” He took a sip of coffee, maddeningly calm. “Been around enough mutants and he ain’t one.”

“So what is he, then?”

“Could be a lot of t’ings.” Remy set his mug down and started ticking off on his fingers. “Jittery behavior. Weird hours. Bruises dat show up overnight. Moves like a ghost. Climbs walls. Inhuman strength. Dat’s a profile.”

“A profile for what?”

He paused, clearly savoring the moment. “Assassin.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it the word was so absurd, so completely disconnected from the stammering, awkward kid who’d dropped a box on his foot and apologized seventeen times, that it burst out of you in a sharp, startled bark. You choked on it a little, pressing your hand to your chest.

“You okay?” Remy asked, half-amused, half-concerned.

“Fine…” You wheezed, wiping your eyes. “Fine. Just —assassin? Peter? The man who can’t make eye contact for more than three seconds without getting flustered?”

“Exactly.” Remy pointed at you, utterly vindicated. “Just like de mime. Nobody suspects de awkward ones. Dat’s what makes dem effective. You t’ink a professional killer walks around lookin’ like a professional killer? No. Dey look like Peter Parker. Dey blend in. Dey make you laugh. Den dey strike.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“It makes no sense…” You repeated, turning back to the stove. “Peter Parker is not a professional killer. He’s a twenty-something kid with bad social skills and a complicated life.”

“Alright.” Remy crossed his arms. “What do you t’ink is goin’ on, den?”

You flipped the eggs. They sizzled in the pan.

“You’ve been all nice and neighborly wit’ him for nearly a month now….” Remy continued, his voice more serious. “You baked him brownies. You chat him up in de hallway every chance you get. So tell me, chère —what have you actually learned about him?”

You opened your mouth.

And closed it.

“Where’d he go to school?” Remy asked.

“He….mentioned MIT. I think. The hoodie. But he’s never actually said the words ‘I went to MIT.’”

“What does he do for work?”

“Freelance. Science stuff. He said something about labs.”

“Which labs? What kind of science?”

You didn’t answer.

“Family?”

“He….has an aunt. I think. He mentioned an aunt.”

“She ever come visit? Anybody ever come visit? Friends? Coworkers? Girlfriend? Anyone at all?”

You flipped the eggs again, even though they didn’t need flipping.

“Nearly a month…” Remy said quietly. “Nearly a month of bein’ friendly, and you don’t know a single concrete t’ing about him. Not one. Dat don’t strike you as strange?”

It did. That was the worst part. Standing there in your kitchen, spatula in hand, you realized that Peter Parker was a collection of vague impressions and nervous deflections. Every question you’d asked had been parried, redirected, answered with a joke or a ramble or a sudden change of subject. You’d chalked it up to social anxiety. To awkwardness. To the general difficulty of being a young person in a hard city. But when you lined it all up in your head —the evasions, the strange hours, the bruises, the way he moved— it didn’t look like anxiety anymore.

It looked like someone with something to hide.

You hated it when Remy was right. You especially hated it when he was right about something that meant you couldn’t just be friendly and bake brownies and make everything okay.

Remy was watching you with the expression of a man who knew he’d won and was trying, with limited success, not to look too pleased about it.

“Fine…” You said, sliding the eggs onto plates. “He’s a bit suspicious. I’ll grant you that. But what are we supposed to do about it? We’re not detectives. We’re just…..people. Neighbors.”

Remy’s eyes lit up. “We break into his apartment.”

You turned around, spatula still in hand. “Absolutely not.”

“Chère—”

“No. We are not committing crimes. You promised.”

“It ain’t a crime if he’s hidin’ somethin’ dangerous. Den it’s civic duty.”

“That’s not how the law works, and you know it. The law does not have a ‘but he was suspicious’ exception.”

Remy opened his mouth to argue, but you held up the spatula to stop him. “No. I have a better idea. Something less illegal. Something that doesn’t risk you getting arrested.”

He eyed the spatula warily. “I’m listenin’.”

“We invite him to dinner.”

A pause. “Dinner?”

“Yes. Dinner. Like normal human beings who don’t break into their neighbors’ apartments. We cook a nice meal. We invite him over. We talk to him. Politely. Not like an interrogation. We ask him questions like people who are genuinely interested in getting to know him. If he’s just awkward and going through a rough time, we’ll see it. We’ll help him. If he’s sketchy...” You shrugged. “Then you win, and we can discuss next steps. Legal next steps.”

Remy considered this. You could see him weighing the options, the old instincts warring with the promise he’d made you. Part of him genuinely wanted to pick that lock, to slip into Peter’s apartment and find the truth with his own hands. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers drummed against his coffee mug.

“Fine…” He said at last, the word dragged out of him with great reluctance. “We’ll do it your way. Dinner. Polite questions. No lock-pickin’.”

“Thank you.”

“But if he turns out to be an assassin—”

“He’s not an assassin.”

“—if he turns out to be an assassin, I’m gonna say I told you so. Loudly. Possibly in front of witnesses.”

“If Peter Parker turns out to be a professional killer…” You said, handing him his plate with a kiss on the cheek, “....you can say whatever you want.”

Remy took the plate, still looking vaguely disappointed. “Was really lookin’ forward to a good old-fashioned B&E. Been a while.”

“I know.” You patted his arm. “And I’m very proud of you for not committing one.”

He grumbled something in French that you chose not to translate, and sat down at the table.

Later that day, you caught Peter in the hallway —or rather, he caught you. You stepped out to check the mail and he was suddenly just there, leaning against the wall by the stairwell, looking tired but mercifully bruise-free. You extended the dinner invitation with a warm smile and a casual tone, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Two neighbors sharing a meal. Nothing suspicious about it.

Peter hesitated. His eyes flicked away, then back to you. For a moment, you thought he was going to refuse.

Then he said yes. His voice was uncertain, almost surprised, like he wasn’t used to people wanting to spend time with him.

When you reported this to Remy, he just nodded, his expression thoughtful.

“We’ll see what kind of man Peter Parker really is…” He said.

You hoped, more than anything, that he was just an awkward kid with strange hours and bad luck. That Remy’s instincts were wrong as you are certain they have been.

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The apartment smelled like garlic and thyme and slow-cooked comfort.

You had been in the kitchen since two that afternoon, moving through the steps of the meal with the kind of focused contentment that only cooking could give you. The vegetable gratin required patience —thinly sliced zucchini and eggplant layered with a béchamel sauce that had to be whisked just right, watched over, coaxed into silkiness. The chicken had been marinating since the night before in a blend of herbs and lemon that you'd adjusted three times before you were satisfied. The garlic bread was your grandmother's recipe, or close enough to it, and the whole apartment had taken on that particular warmth that only happened when you were preparing to feed people.

You loved this. Not just the cooking —though you loved that deeply, viscerally, in a way that was probably encoded in your DNA— but the hosting. The anticipation of a full table. The rhythm of setting out plates and adjusting silverware and making sure everything was just so. You didn't get to do it often enough. Sometimes the X-Men came through New York and you'd host a dinner that felt like a reunion, the apartment overflowing with larger-than-life personalities and inside jokes and the particular chaos of people who'd saved the world together. But those visits were rare and unpredictable, dependent on crises and schedules and the general impossibility of pinning down a group of mutant superheroes for a casual meal.

Tonight was smaller. Simpler. One guest. A nervous kid from across the hall who you were still hoping, despite mounting evidence, was just misunderstood.

The table was set with care —real plates, cloth napkins you'd found at a thrift store last year, a small vase of flowers you'd picked up that morning. The TV was on low in the living room, tuned to a Knicks game that Remy had been half-watching all evening. He was in his usual spot on the couch, but you could feel his attention elsewhere, that sharp mind of his already circling the evening ahead.

"Remember…" You said, adjusting a fork by a millimeter. "We're being welcoming. Friendly. Not interrogating."

"I'm always friendly…" Remy said, not looking away from the TV.

"Remy."

"I'm always friendly…" He repeated, with slightly more conviction.

"You asked the last Jehovah's Witness who came to the door if he was 'sure about his life choices.'"

"He wasn't."

The knock came at 7:23 PM. Peter was fashionably late or anxiety-late, which was probably closer to the truth. You opened the door to find him standing in the hallway, dressed in a button-down shirt that had the crease marks, and khakis that looked like they'd been borrowed from someone two sizes up. He'd made an effort. A visible, slightly heartbreaking effort.

"Hi…" He said, too loud. "Hello. I brought—" He thrust a two-liter bottle of soda toward you like it was a shield. "I didn't know what to bring. But I know you're not supposed to show up empty handed. My aunt always said that. So I got this. From the bodega. It's —it's cola. Generic cola. They didn't have the name brand, but the guy at the counter said it tastes the same, which I'm pretty sure is a lie, but I didn't want to come with nothing, so—"

"Peter." You took the bottle, smiling. "It's perfect. Come in."

He stepped inside like a man entering a minefield, eyes darting around the apartment. Remy had risen from the couch and was standing near the kitchen, arms folded, expression neutral in a way that you recognized as deeply suspicious.

"Remy…" Peter said, with a nod that was trying very hard to be casual.

"Peter…" Remy replied, in exactly the same tone.

The two of them stood there for a moment, regarding each other. You resisted the urge to sigh.

"Okay…" You said brightly. "Dinner's ready. Let's eat."

You led Peter to the small dining area. The table, you had to admit, looked lovely. The gratin was golden and bubbling, the chicken perfectly seared, the garlic bread arranged in a neat stack on a serving plate. Steam rose gently from the dishes, carrying the scent of herbs and roasted vegetables and the particular richness of béchamel.

Peter stopped walking. He stared at the table.

"Wow…" He said. "This is —wow. You made all this?"

"It's nothing fancy…" You said, though it was, a little. "Just a gratin and some chicken. Please, sit."

He sat. He served himself a small portion of everything, polite to a fault, and then took his first bite of the gratin.

His expression changed.

"Oh my God…" He said, mouth still half-full. "Oh my God. This is —vegetables shouldn't taste like this. Vegetables don't taste like this. I've been eating vegetables wrong my entire life." He took another bite, larger this time, and made a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a prayer. "This is incredible. Like, genuinely incredible. I didn't know zucchini could do this. Could I maybe —is there more?"

You smiled, already reaching for the serving dish. "There's plenty."

Peter ate three servings. Three. He apologized profusely each time he went back for more, but he kept going back, and by the third round you were feeling something almost maternal. The kid ate like he hadn't seen a home-cooked meal in months. Maybe he hadn't.

Between bites, Peter tried to make conversation. It was a valiant effort, if somewhat clumsy.

"So…" He said, gesturing with his fork, "...how did you two meet? If you don't mind me asking. You don't have to answer. I'm just—I'm curious. You seem like a really solid couple. Like, you make sense together. If that's not weird to say. Is that weird to say?"

"A little weird." Remy said.

"It's fine…." You cut in, shooting Remy a look. "We met at a restaurant, actually. About three years ago."

"We were bot' dere alone…" Remy added, a familiar glint entering his eye. "Separate tables. She ordered de chef's special —Miso-glazed black cod wit' coconut jasmine rice, pickled cucumber, chili oil. Real fancy. But de waiter brought it to my table by mistake."

Peter's eyebrows rose. "Uh oh."

"Uh oh is right…" You said, the memory still capable of sparking a flicker of irritation. "I saw my cod sitting in front of a stranger and I marched over and demanded it back."

"And I offered to share."

"Can you believe that? He offered to share my cod. That he was eating. Without my permission."

"I was very polite about it."

"You were insufferable about it." But you were smiling now, the old annoyance long since worn smooth by time and retelling. "And it was just my luck that the kitchen was out of cod. So I had to choose between sharing with a stranger or not getting my meal at all."

"And she took me up on my offer…" Remy said to Peter, his grin widening. "Reluctantly. Very reluctantly."

"I'd been waiting two weeks to try that cod. Two weeks. I'd made the reservation specifically for it, and then this man—this thief—"

"Alleged thief."

"—this alleged thief tried to eat my dinner."

"But you stayed for dessert…" Remy pointed out.

You sighed. "The dessert was included in the prefix."

"And she had a date with me de next day."

"The date was your idea."

"And you said yes."

You looked at Peter, who was watching the exchange with the rapt expression of someone watching a tennis match. "I said yes because he'd already promised to pay for the meal. It was a strategic decision."

"It was a romantic decision…" Remy countered. "She fell for my charm."

"You had cod in your teeth."

"You fell for my charm and de cod in my teeth."

Peter laughed, a genuine, unguarded laugh that seemed to surprise even him. "That's a really good story. Way better than any of my first dates. I once took a girl to a science exhibit and talked about arachnid DNA for forty-five minutes. There was no second date."

"Shockin'..." Remy murmured.

"Remy…" You warned, but without heat. The story had done its work—the table felt warmer now, the tension loosened. You reached for the serving spoon. "More gratin, Peter?"

"Yes, please. If you're sure. I don't want to—"

"Eat..." You said firmly, loading his plate. "You're too skinny."

For a while, the meal proceeded peacefully. Peter asked you about the restaurant where you worked, and you told him about the head chef who was a tyrant about plating but a genius with sauces, about the regulars who came in every Thursday, about the time the health inspector showed up during the dinner rush and you'd had to hide a stray cat the line cooks had been feeding. Peter listened with genuine interest, asking questions that weren't just polite but actually engaged, and you found yourself thinking that this was the Peter you'd hoped to meet—curious, quick-witted, a little awkward but fundamentally kind.

Then Remy set down his fork.

"So, Peter…." He said, his tone shifting almost imperceptibly. "What do you do for work?"

The question was innocent enough. But you knew that tone. You'd heard it before.

Peter swallowed his mouthful of chicken. "Oh, um. A bunch of things, really. I do some part-time lab work at Queens College. Nothing fancy, just assisting with equipment and cleaning up. And I tutor. High school kids, mostly. Math and science. And sometimes I do delivery jobs. Bike messenger stuff. Whatever pays the bills, you know?"

"Part-time lab, tutorin', deliveries…" Remy summarized. "Sounds like a lot."

"Yeah, well." Peter shrugged. "New York's expensive. And I've got —you know. Student loans. Rent. The usual."

"You got family around? People who help out?"

Peter's fork paused above his plate. "Um. No. Not really. My parents died when I was a baby. Car accident. I don't remember them. I was raised by my aunt and uncle, but my uncle —he passed away a few years ago. And my aunt..." He trailed off, his voice dropping. "She's gone too."

Your heart clenched. Orphaned, then orphaned again. You saw the weight of it settle on his shoulders, the way his whole body seemed to curl inward, protecting something soft and wounded.

"Peter…" You said softly. "I'm so sorry."

Remy leaned forward. "How did dey die?"

Peter's face went very still. Something flickered in his eyes —sadness, but also guilt, deep and old and familiar. He looked down at his plate.

"I don't—" He stopped, swallowed. "I don't really like to talk about it."

You reached across the table and laid your hand on his. His fingers were cold, and they twitched under your touch like he wasn't used to being comforted. You turned your head and fixed Remy with a glare that could have curdled milk.

Drop it.

Remy looked at you. Looked at Peter. Something shifted in his expression—not quite softening, but backing off. "Alright…" 

You gave Peter's hand a gentle squeeze and withdrew it. He shot you a small, grateful look, and for a moment the three of you sat in a silence that was almost comfortable.

Then Remy said, "What about friends?"

Peter blinked. "Friends?"

"Yeah. People you hang out wit'. You know. Friends."

"Oh. Um." Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't really —I mean, I'm kind of busy. All the time. With work and everything. There's not a lot of room for, uh, social stuff."

"Nobody's dat busy…" Remy said. "Everybody got time for friends."

Peter shrugged. It was a small, helpless gesture. "I guess I just never really….I don't know. I'm not great at keeping in touch with people. And I move around a lot. It's easier to just—" He trailed off, not finishing the sentence.

It's easier to just be alone, you filled in silently. The thought made you profoundly sad.

"So no friends…" Remy said. "No family. No social life. What about dem weird hours? We hear you comin' and goin' at all times of de night. Four in de mornin', sometimes. Can't be work."

"Insomnia…" Peter said quickly. "I have trouble sleeping. So I take walks. Long walks. The city's peaceful at four in the morning."

"Every night?"

"Most nights."

"And de bruises?" Remy gestured at the fading yellow-green marks on Peter's knuckles, at the shadow of a healed cut near his temple. "You always walk into doorframes?"

Peter looked down at his hands. "I'm clumsy. Really clumsy. I trip a lot. Run into things. Cabinets. Doorframes. The occasional wall."

"You run into walls?"

"I'm very committed to my clumsiness."

Remy didn't smile. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet and deceptively casual. "Peter, you got any connections to criminal organizations?"

Peter's water glass stopped halfway to his mouth.

"I'm sorry?"

"Criminal organizations. De Hand, maybe? Dey operate out of New York. Or de Assassins Guild —dat one's more international, but dey got reach." Remy ticked them off on his fingers. "Or maybe somethin' smaller. More local. Any New York mob families you're cozy wit'? Manfredi? Silvermane? I hear de Maggia's been makin' moves again."

"Remy." Your voice was sharp enough to cut.

"I'm just askin'..." He said, not looking away from Peter.

Peter set his glass down very carefully. "I—no. I don't have connections to any criminal organizations. I don't know what the Hand is. Or the Assassins Guild. I'm a lab assistant. I tutor high school kids in algebra. I deliver packages on a bicycle. I don't think the mob even knows I exist."

"Dey might. Dey got eyes everywhere."

"Remy, enough." You turned to Peter, your voice softening. "I'm so sorry. He watches too many crime shows. It's given him some very strange ideas about people. And he doesn't know when to stop."

"I know exactly when to stop…" Remy muttered.

"Then stop."

He subsided, reaching for another piece of garlic bread with the air of a man who was biding his time. You could feel his suspicion radiating off him like heat from a radiator, but at least he was quiet. Peter, for his part, looked more bewildered than offended —like no one had ever asked him if he was connected to the mob before, and he wasn't quite sure how to process it.

The meal wound down. You cleared the plates and offered desser t—leftover apple crumb pie from the night before, still good, the streusel topping crisp and buttery. Peter's face lit up at the word pie, and you were about to cut him a generous slice when the TV cut to a breaking news report.

"—continuing to develop in Lower Manhattan, where what appears to be a super-powered individual is causing significant damage to the financial district. Eyewitnesses describe the suspect as a large humanoid figure composed entirely of sand. Police have closed off several blocks, and authorities are urging all civilians to avoid the area. We now go live to our helicopter footage—"

The screen filled with chaos. A massive figure made of swirling sand towered above the buildings, its form shifting and reforming as it swung a fist the size of a car into the side of an office building. Glass shattered. People screamed. The helicopter camera struggled to keep focus.

Peter's chair scraped back from the table.

"Oh, crap…" He said, already on his feet. "I just remembered —I have to go. Something came up. A thing. A —job thing. They need me at the— at work. The lab. Urgent science. You know how it is."

"It's nine o'clock at night." Remy said.

"Science doesn't sleep!" Peter was already backing toward the door, his hand fumbling behind him for the handle. "Thank you for dinner, it was amazing, the best gratin I've ever had, I'm so sorry, I'll see you later—"

The door opened. The door closed. He was gone.

You stood in the dining room, surrounded by half-cleared plates and the lingering scent of garlic, staring at the door. On the TV, the Sandman roared, and in the distance, through the thin walls of the apartment, you could have sworn you heard a window sliding open.

Remy turned to you.

"Still t'ink he's just awkward?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then you straightened up and met his eyes.

"Okay. He's a little more than weird. I'll admit that." You crossed your arms. "But I don't think he's dangerous, Remy. I think he's lonely. He's a twenty-one-year-old orphan with no friends, no family, and a diet that apparently consists entirely of bodega sandwiches. He's awkward and evasive because he's been alone for a long time and he doesn't know how to let people in. That's not a crime."

"It ain't a crime, but it ain't de whole story."

"Maybe not. But the whole story isn't automatically an assassin…"

"I'm gettin' more of a terrorist vibe now." He stroked his chin thoughtfully "Somethin’ like A.I.M. Dey recruit young. Offer benefits."

You shook your head, but a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth despite yourself. "He's not a terrorist. He's not an assassin. He's a stray cat who needs friends and a decent meal. And I'm going to make sure he gets both."

Remy stared at you. "He ain't a stray cat, chère. You can't just adopt him."

"Watch me." You picked up the stack of dirty plates and thrust them toward him. "Here. Make yourself useful. Dishes."

He took the plates, still looking deeply unconvinced. But he followed you to the kitchen.

The news coverage continued as you cleaned up. By the time the dishes were done and the leftovers packed away, the situation downtown had resolved. You curled up on the couch, settling yourself directly into Remy's lap, your legs draped over the armrest and your head tucked against his shoulder. His arms came around you automatically, one hand resting on your thigh, the other tracing idle patterns on your back.

On the TV, aerial footage showed the aftermath —shattered windows, sand drifts piled against curbs, police barricades being dismantled. And there, in the corner of the frame before the camera cut away, a flash of red and blue swinging between buildings.

"Spider-Man saved the day again…" You murmured. "I don't care what anyone says. That guy's kind of cool."

Remy made a dismissive sound, his chest vibrating against your cheek. "Spider-Man is suspicious."

"You think everyone is suspicious."

"I t'ink Spider-Man is extra suspicious. De whole motif is weird. Who dresses up as a spider? Spiders are creepy. Dey crawl into your shoes. Dey got too many legs. Dey make webs in corners. It's not a hero animal."

"He's saved a lot of people, that makes him a hero."

"He's hidin' somethin'. Nobody wears a mask like dat unless dey got somethin' to hide. Mark my words, chère —dat guy is secretly a criminal. Maybe de kingpin of a whole underworld network. You ever t'ink of dat?"

You tilted your head back to look at him. "You've been watching too much Jonah Jameson."

"Jameson's show is great. You should give it another chance."

"Nope. Absolutely not." You poked his chest lightly. "I am not going to sit here and listen to a man who yells about 'web-headed menaces' between commercials for reverse mortgages. I have principles."

"He make some good points!"

"He makes you paranoid. You didn't used to think every person on the news was secretly a supervillain."

Remy sighed, his hand stilling on your back. "You won't let me steal no more, chère. A man gotta have a hobby."

"You could find a less insane hobby. Take up painting. Learn an instrument. Volunteer at an animal shelter —you'd be great with dogs, you've got that whole scruffy stray thing going on."

"Scruffy stray."

"You know what I mean. You're charming. Animals would like you."

"I don't want animals to like me. I want to break into a corrupt museum and steal a paintin'."

"We've talked about this."

"I'm beggin' you." He leaned his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a low, mock-pleading murmur. "One museum. A little one. We'll make it romantic. Candles. Champagne. You can wear dat black dress I like. We'll be in and out before anyone notices."

You tilted your chin up and pressed a kiss to his lips —soft, warm, lingering just long enough to feel him smile against your mouth.

"No…" 

He kissed you back anyway. Deeper this time. His hand slid up your spine, and when he pulled away his eyes were dark and warm and full of something that had nothing to do with museums or stolen paintings.

"Worth a shot…" 

"Always is."

You settled back against his chest, your ear over his heartbeat, the steady rhythm of it grounding you. The TV droned on, the news moving to weather and sports. Outside, the city hummed its nightly song. 

Across the hall, Peter Parker's apartment was silent and dark. You didn't think about where he'd gone, or why he'd left so fast, or what the look on his face had meant when the news report cut in.

Not yet.

That could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, you had Remy's arms around you and the weight of a good meal in your belly and the simple, stubborn hope that Peter Parker was just a lonely kid who needed someone to care about him.

You were half right, anyway.