Work Text:
It was two in the morning. The rumble of a passing train thundered through your apartment. Queens, the city that never sleeps, you thought, staring up at the ceiling. You'd been lying awake for the past hour, tossing and turning, unable to drift off no matter how hard you tried. It had become a nightly routine, and frankly, it was starting to piss you off.
Due to this, your brain didn’t register the knock. It was so soft you thought you’d imagined it. After all, you were incredibly sleep deprived. Eventually after another few taps, you dragged yourself out of your bed. You walked across the cold floor, pulling your blanket tighter around your shoulders.
When you opened the front door, no one was there. You frowned, the air making you shiver. Then, just as you were about to walk back to your room, something shifted beside the window. A hand. Gloved.
From the corner of your eye, the unmistakable shape of someone hauling themselves upright with what looked like the last of their strength could be seen. Your stomach dropped.
"Oh my God."
You rushed to the window and threw it open. Peter barely caught himself before he fell. His breathing came in short, uneven gasps beneath the mask. One arm was wrapped tightly around his ribs while the other clung desperately to the windowsill. Blood dripped steadily from between his fingers onto the metal fire escape below.
"Hey...”
He managed, his voice cracking. You didn't answer.
Instead, you grabbed his wrist and hauled him inside. The second his feet hit the floor, his knees buckled. He hit the wood hard enough to make you wince.
"Peter!"
"I'm—"
His sentence dissolved into a sharp cry as he instinctively reached for his side. His entire body curled around the injury. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. He just knelt there, one hand gripping the floorboards while the other pressed uselessly against the blood soaking through his suit. You dropped beside him.
"Hey. Hey, look at me."
He tried. His eyes squeezed shut instead.
"I'm okay."
He whispered, though it sounded more like something he was trying to convince himself of.
"No, you're not."
He let out a shaky laugh that immediately turned into a grimace. You reached for him. The moment your hand brushed his side, he flinched violently, sucking in a broken breath through his teeth. You immediately apologized.
"Sorry!”
His voice trembled.
"It...really hurts."
The confession was so quiet it barely sounded like him. You'd never heard Peter sound afraid before.
He leaned forward as another wave of pain rolled through him. His breathing became shallow. His hand was shaking so badly he couldn't keep pressure on the wound. You replaced it with your own without thinking. He gasped.
"I know it does…"
His fingers immediately wrapped around your wrist.
He rested his forehead against your shoulder for a brief second. His voice caught.
"Just...give me a second."
You froze. He was shaking. Actually shaking.
After a moment, he finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy. Whether from pain or exhaustion, you couldn't tell.
"I didn't know where else to go."
The room fell silent before you softly spoke up.
“Well, you’re here now and I'm gonna help you, okay?”
He took in your words and then nodded.
You’d managed to get him over to the living room before he collapsed again. Now, he sat on the floor with his back pressed against the couch, head tipped behind to fall on the pillows. You ran to the bathroom to retrieve a first-aid kit. When you returned, you quickly emptied it onto the rug. Gauze. Alcohol wipes. Antiseptic. A half-used roll of medical tape.
"That's not very impressive.”
Peter murmured, his eyes fluttering open.
"You can critique my emergency supplies after I stop you from bleeding to death."
"I'm not—"
"Finish that sentence and I swear I'll make you leave."
He let out the ghost of a smile. Your fingers found the edge of his suit.
"I'm going to have to take this off."
His throat bobbed.
"Yeah, okay.”
"Tell me if I'm hurting you."
Carefully, you peeled the torn fabric away from the top half of his body. The sight underneath made your stomach drop. A big bruise stretched across his ribs in shades of purple and black, and a deep gash just above his hip continued to seep through the blood you'd already wiped away. Your heart ached.
"Oh, Peter..."
"I know."
You shook your head at his remark.
"No, I don't think you do."
You soaked a piece of gauze with antiseptic.
"This is going to sting."
He nodded before you pressed the gauze against the wound. Peter's entire body jerked. A broken sound escaped him before he could stop it, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His fingers dug into the rug so hard his knuckles turned white.
You looked at him. His eyes were squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tightly you thought he might crack a tooth. You swallowed and kept cleaning the wound, slower this time. His breathing grew ragged.
Every few seconds another quiet, involuntary sound slipped past his lips. Small, pained exhales he clearly hated letting you hear.
"I'm sorry.”
He whispered and you frowned.
"For what?"
"...Being loud."
Your hand stopped.
"You think I care about that?"
"I just..."
Another sharp breath.
"I don't usually..."
He couldn't finish. You understood anyway.
He wasn't used to letting anyone see this part. The part after the fight. When Spider-Man disappeared, and all that was left was Peter, trying very hard not to cry.
"Look at me."
He opened his eyes.
"You don't have to be brave right now."
His expression crumpled for the briefest second.
Not dramatically. Just enough for you to see how exhausted he really was. You reached for a fresh piece of gauze.
"This part's almost done."
He gave a tiny nod.
When you pressed the clean dressing over the wound, he leaned forward on instinct, forehead finding your shoulder for just a moment. You held the bandage in place while you reached for the tape. He stayed exactly where he was, too drained to pull away. His breathing gradually slowed. The tension in his shoulders eased beneath your hand.
"There," you said quietly. "That's one."
He let out a long, shaky breath. You sat back to look him over, your gaze catching the bruises blooming along his jaw and the scrape across his temple. You began to press the tape as well as bandages all along his face. When you finished, Peter stared at the kit for a moment before speaking.
“Thank you…”
His voice was now soft, worn smooth by exhaustion. He tried to shift his body against the couch, but the minute he pushed himself upright, the pain came rushing back through his ribs. A whimper slipped out from his mouth. You looked up when you heard it.
“I’m gonna try and get you to the bathroom, okay?”
He looked up at you, lips parting to argue. Nothing came out. Instead, his shoulders sagged in defeat.
“Okay…”
You helped him stand.
Even with his enhanced strength, nearly half his weight leaned into you. His arm draped across your shoulders while yours wrapped carefully around his waist, avoiding the fresh bandage.
When you reached the bathroom, you turned on the faucet. Warm water filled the room with steam. Peter blinked at it.
"What are you doing?"
"You're covered in blood."
He frowned.
“I don’t think I have the strength to shower.”
“Yeah that’s why I’m gonna help you.”
His ears turned pink.
You grabbed a washcloth off the counter and folded it under the warm water. After a few seconds of soaking up the liquid, you wrung it out.
“Sit.”
Peter lowered himself onto the closed toilet lid with obvious care. He watched you quietly as you knelt in front of him. The apartment was silent except for the gentle rush of running water. You lifted the warm cloth to his cheek.
"This okay?"
He nodded.
Slowly, you wiped away the dried blood along his jaw. The red disappeared beneath the cloth, revealing bruises that looked even worse than before. Your thumb lingered for just a second near the edge of one. Peter's breath caught. Your eyes lifted to his. The distance between you suddenly felt very, very small. His gaze flickered down to your lips before snapping back up. Then he cleared his throat. Your heart stumbled.
Soon after, you dipped the cloth back into the warm water before gently cleaning the blood from the back of his neck. His eyes fluttered closed, your careful hands calming him. He melted into it before he realized he was doing it.
"...feels nice."
"So stop pretending you hate being taken care of."
"I don't hate it."
"No?"
He shook his head against the towel.
"...I just don't know how."
Your movements slowed.
"You just have to let me."
His eyes opened again. For a long second he simply looked at you. Then, shyly, he spoke.
"...Okay."
You smiled.
"Good."
You rinsed the cloth one last time before carefully wiping the remaining streaks of blood from his forearms and hands.
When you reached his fingers, you noticed how scraped his knuckles were. You turned one of his hands over in yours. Your thumb brushed lightly across his palm. His fingers curled instinctively around yours.
You gently cleaned each scrape, your touch feather-light. He watched you in silence. Like he was trying to memorize every tiny expression on your face. Eventually, you felt his gaze lingering.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Peter."
He looked away.
"It's just..."
His ears turned pink.
"I've never had someone do this before."
You paused.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." He laughed quietly, though there wasn't much humor in it. "Usually I just stumble back to my apartment and hope I don't pass out before I finish bandaging myself."
Your chest tightened.
"By yourself?"
He gave a small shrug.
"Aunt May helped a few times before..." His voice softened. "Before."
The sentence never finished. It didn't have to. Silence settled again. When you looked back, his eyes were fixed on the floor.
"...It gets lonely."
The confession was almost swallowed by the sound of the running water. You swallowed hard.
"I get it. I know what it's like to stay awake wishing someone would just...be there."
His eyes lifted. The bathroom suddenly felt much warmer. The steam had fogged the mirror completely.
You reached towards the end half of his suit, that had been left on when you were taking care of his surface wounds.
“We should get you out of this.”
Peter blinked. He looked down at himself, suddenly very aware of how torn the suit was.
“Yeah no you’re right.”
His fingers found the waistband of his suit, but the second he tried pulling it down his legs, pain shot through his whole body. His hands dropped immediately.
“I hate this…”
He closed his eyes.
“I hate needing help with something this stupid."
"It's not stupid."
"It is."
His voice cracked with exhaustion.
"I can lift cars."
He laughed bitterly.
"But now I can't even take off my suit."
You stepped closer until you were standing directly in front of him.
"Peter."
He finally looked up.
"You got beaten half to death tonight."
His expression flickered.
"I'm pretty sure you're allowed to need a little help."
He stared at you for a long moment. As he did this, you slipped your own hands to his waistband.
"Lift your back away as much as you comfortably can.”
Slowly, he did. You gathered the hem of the ruined suit and eased it downward inch by inch. After a few more strained tugs, the suit was finally off of him. Now all he was left in was his boxers.
You reached for another clean towel, dampening it with warm water before carefully wiping away the dried blood still clinging to his thighs and hips. He stayed perfectly still. Every now and then, he'd flinch when you passed over a bruise, but he never asked you to stop. The warmth of the water seemed to melt some of the tension from his muscles. His eyes drifted shut.
"Are you falling asleep sitting up?"
"Maybe…”
Peter's head tipped forward without him realizing it. Until, almost absentmindedly, his forehead came to rest against your shoulder. You rested one hand lightly against the back of his neck, keeping him from moving too quickly.
His breathing slowed.
You continued wiping the last traces of blood from his body, your movements slow and careful. He stayed there, forehead resting against your shoulder, eyes closed. After another minute, you gently set the towel aside.
“I think you're officially clean."
You murmured.
Peter let out a sleepy hum.
"You hear me?"
"Mhm."
"You need clean clothes."
He sighed dramatically, still half leaning against you.
"That sounds like future Peter's problem."
You smiled despite yourself.
"Unfortunately for present Peter, I'm making it his problem now."
He cracked one eye open.
"...You're very bossy."
"And you're concussed."
"I'm not concussed."
"You don't even know if you're concussed."
"That's fair."
You stood up.
"Come on."
Peter frowned sleepily.
"Where are we going?"
"My room."
You slipped an arm carefully around his waist again.
"Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
He pushed himself to his feet with a strained breath. The movement pulled at the bandage around his ribs, and he instinctively doubled over. You caught him before he could lose his balance.
The walk down the short hallway felt much longer than it actually was. Peter moved slowly, each careful step accompanied by a controlled breath. You could feel the tension in his body.
When you reached your room, you nudged the door open with your foot.
It wasn't anything fancy. A small room with soft lighting, a bookshelf tucked into the corner, clothes draped over the back of a chair, and a bed that looked infinitely more inviting than the bathroom floor. Peter glanced around.
"I've never been in here before."
"I'd usually invite people over at a more reasonable hour."
"Two a.m. isn't your preferred hosting time?"
"Not generally."
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"I'll remember that."
You guided him over to the edge of the bed. He lowered himself carefully onto the mattress with a relieved sigh. The softness beneath him seemed to steal what little energy he had left.
"I'll be right back."
You crossed to your dresser and rummaged through the drawers before pulling out an oversized T-shirt, one you'd stolen from your dad years ago, and a pair of loose sweatpants with a drawstring waist.
"I think these should fit."
Peter looked at the clothes, then back at you. You stood in front of him again, your voice softening.
"Do you think you can change by yourself?"
Peter looked down at himself, limbs feeling like jello.
“No..”
He sounded frustrated by the admission. You nodded as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. His eyes lifted to yours.
"No big deal."
"You don't mind?"
"I'd rather help you than watch you reopen those bandaids trying to be stubborn."
A reluctant smile appeared.
You picked up the clean shirt, unfolding it between your hands.
"Can you lift your arms a little for me?"
He inhaled slowly before raising them just enough.
"Good."
You gathered the fabric at the collar. Your fingers brushed the side of his neck as you carefully eased the soft cotton over his head. You were slow, mindful of every bruise, every tender spot. When the fabric settled over his shoulder and torso, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
You gave him a second to gather up a bit more energy while you shook the sweatpants open. You crouched in front of him again.
"Lift your left foot for me."
Peter obeyed without protest this time. You guided the fabric over his foot and up to his ankle before repeating the motion with the other leg.
"So far, so good?"
"Mhm."
"Nothing pulling?"
"No."
You smiled.
Carefully, you gathered the fabric in your hands.
"I'm going to pull them up a little.”
His cheeks warmed, but he nodded.
You moved slowly, mindful of the bruises that covered his hips and ribs. Every few inches you paused, giving him a chance to tell you if anything hurt. When the waistband reached his hips, Peter sucked in a quiet breath. You froze.
"Too much?"
He shook his head.
"No... just sore."
"I've got you."
Your voice came instinctively. So gentle it almost surprised you. His eyes met yours for a heartbeat before dropping again. With one final careful tug, the sweatpants settled comfortably into place.
"There, done."
You reached for the drawstring, hesitating.
“Can you tie these yourself?"
Peter looked down at his hands. He flexed his fingers experimentally. A tiny smile appeared.
"I'll find out."
You sat back on your heels while he fumbled with the strings.
His hands were still trembling. Twice the knot slipped free. The third time he let out an exasperated sigh.
"Seriously?"
You couldn't help smiling.
"They're fighting back."
Another failed attempt.
Peter closed his eyes for a second. When he spoke up, his voice low with defeat.
"...Would you...?"
The question trailed off. You were already reaching for them.
"Of course."
Your fingers brushed his as you took the drawstrings. He pulled his hands back into his lap, watching quietly while you tied them into a neat bow. When you finished, you patted the knot lightly.
Peter looked down at the oversized clothes, then gave a sleepy smile.
You stood, collecting the torn remains of his suit from the floor. It was ripped in multiple places, stained with blood and dirt, one sleeve nearly shredded. Your expression fell.
When you turned back around, Peter was still sitting exactly where you'd left him. His eyelids fluttered closed for a second...then opened again. A small smile tugged at your lips.
"I think that's enough excitement for one night."
He looked up at you, exhaustion written across every feature.
"yeah..."
He eased himself onto the mattress with a strained breath, lowering himself inch by inch until he was lying on his back. The second his head met the pillow, his entire body seemed to sag. You reached for another pillow, gently lifting his head just enough to slide it underneath.
"Better?"
He shifted experimentally.
"mmm."
Satisfied, you drew the comforter up over him, careful to avoid brushing the bandage along his side. You tucked the blanket lightly around his legs and over his uninjured shoulder, leaving enough room that he wouldn't feel trapped.
Peter looked up at you with heavy-lidded eyes.
"You tucked me in."
"I did."
A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"...I don't remember the last time someone did that."
Your heart ached.
Without saying anything, you walked around to the other side of the bed and climbed in beside him. The mattress dipped beneath your weight. Peter turned his head slightly, watching you. His voice was already beginning to slur with fatigue.
"...thank you."
You smiled softly.
"You've thanked me enough tonight."
You settled onto your side, facing him.
The room was dim except for the soft glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains.
"You can come closer.”
Peter hesitated.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
After another second of hesitation, he carefully scooted closer. Until only a few inches separated you. You slipped an arm around his shoulders, making sure not to disturb his injured side, gently guiding him toward you. He came willingly this time. His head settled against your chest, just beneath your chin, and you felt the last of the tension leave his body in one long, shaky exhale.
"There you go," you whispered.
He let himself sink into your embrace, one careful arm coming to rest loosely around your waist. You reached up and gently threaded your fingers through his still-damp hair. Peter practically melted. A quiet sigh escaped him as your fingers slowly combed through his hair.
You continued the slow, soothing motion, lightly scratching at his scalp every so often. His breathing began to even out. The rigid line of his shoulders softened. Every few strokes, he unconsciously leaned into your hand. After a minute, Peter spoke again, so quietly you almost didn't hear him.
"I knew you'd help me."
You looked down at him.
"Hm?"
"When I didn't know where to go."
His words were slow, heavy with sleep.
"I just...kept thinking..."
He paused, fighting a yawn.
"...If I can make it to you..."
Your chest tightened.
"...I'll be okay."
Your hand stilled for a moment before
continuing through his curls. His breathing settled into a slow, steady rhythm, warm against your shirt. You stayed exactly where you were, one hand resting in his hair, the other around his shoulders.
You brushed one last kiss against the top of his head.
"Goodnight, Peter."
He didn't stir. Instead, he nuzzled closer. Falling asleep, wrapped in your arms.