Work Text:
It’s now official: you hate your professor.
Loathe, abhor, despise—whatever. As you glare at the whiteboard, your name scrawled in the barely legible chicken scratch of Professor Dickwad, you know what you feel. Just pure, unadulterated hatred. Of course one of the core classes needed for your major is having you work with a partner. It’s a lab, makes sense.
But whoever decided group projects are a good idea, you hope they burn in hell.
Not that there's anything wrong with teamwork, but if there's one thing school taught you, it's that not everyone's willing to pull their weight. For the entire first semester, your last lab partner relied on you for the calculations, to write up the procedures, to let them know what the fuck you were doing for lab that day because they couldn't be bothered to come in on time. To say they were surprised to receive no credit that semester was an understatement; you still remember the email you sent the professor clear as day.
You have since realized you're content working alone.
As the last of your classmates file in, the old codger in the outdated lab coat croaks, "I think that's everyone. Please go ahead and check for your new lab partners."
With a heavy sigh, you stand up to get closer, finally shifting your gaze to the name adjacent to yours.
Who the hell is Peter Parker?
You crane your head like an owl as your classmates shuffle around the lab. After a beat, it’s as everyone introduces themselves to their partners that your stomach sinks, realizing you’re alone. You scurry to your seat, refusing to awkwardly hover.
“If everyone’s got their partners—“
Just your luck.
“Let me explain the assignment.“
This guy isn’t even h—
"Here! I'm here," Before the living fossil can start, a boy rushes through the open doorway, skidding to a halt and nearly crashing into the professor.
Professor Prune deadpans, "Mr. Parker, was it? Thank you for coming, now take your seat so I can explain the assignment. If I remember correctly, your lab partner is, Mx. (Your Last Name)?" Crow's feet eyes turn expectantly, and you shrink in your seat.
"There you are, dear!"
You wince, and he gestures this Peter towards you, a knowing glint in his eyes, "Now go, son. I think you two have a lot to learn from each other."
With an appreciative nod, Peter adjusts the ratty backpack strap over his shoulder and makes a beeline for you as the professor begins to explain today's lab assignment. You squash down your nerves as he approaches you with an awkward smile, and you return it with a polite one of your own as he takes the stool beside you.
Of all people, you got the one guy in your class you've yet to make a segue with.
In your defense, it's not for a lack of trying! As much as you prefer to work alone, you get along great with your other classmates. It's Peter's fault that he's quiet and soft-spoken and awkward and quiet. It’s like trying to have a conversation with a brick wall.
"...So, how was your day?"
"Fine, thanks."
"Yeah, mine too, thanks for asking."
"What'd you do over the break?"
"Worked."
"Mmhm. The grind don't stop, am I right?"
"Got any hobbies?"
"Photography."
At that point, you threw in the towel; how the hell are you supposed to expand on photography? Eugh.
Since Peter's clearly not much of a conversationalist, you forgo making any for the rest of class, only speaking if it's about the lab. But as quiet and recluse as he is, he's surprisingly not incompetent, easily maneuvering around the equipment as if he’s done so a thousand times, understanding the procedure steps without needing clarification. When you ask him to get something, he does it without question. Any questions you have, he has something to contribute, as long as it's about the work. You admit, despite him often late or absent from classes, the guy seems like a good student.
To your elation, a lab session that normally takes 3 hours is cut in half, and you end up being the first pair to complete the lab. You shut your laptop with a content sigh.
As you both begin packing your things, you pipe up, “Hey, so about the project, do you want to meet up later? Or when are you free?”
“Oh—uhhh—I have to work late but I'm usually free after class," Peter glances away, a bit bashful, “Except for today though. You free tomorrow?”
You shake your head, “Sorry, I have class and work. Here.” You dig into your pocket and hold out your phone. He takes it and stares hesitantly, as if he’s never seen a phone before. “You have Insta? Give me your @ and we’ll figure it out later.” Since you know each other so well, you don't see the point of giving him your number. Not yet anyway.
Once he hands the device back, you glance at his profile: private account, a few followers, zero posts. Immediately red flag but okay.
Then Peter's phone vibrates. Before you can add anything else, he slings his old backpack over his shoulder, considerate enough to shout 'See you later!' to you as he rushes for the door.
You raise an eyebrow before shaking your head, zipping your backpack shut. Weirdo.
@(yoursocialmediahandle): Hey!!
You grimace—sounds too cheerful—and immediately backspace.
@(yoursocialmediahandle): Hey, Peter, are you free this Wednesday to work on the assignment?
Perfect. Short, amicable, and to the point, you think as you hit send. Now, we wait.
You occupy yourself as you wait for Peter to respond, studying and working on smaller assignments. When that eventually bores you, you roam your apartment, picking up menial tasks like organizing your drawers or vacuuming your floors. By the time your phone pings with his reply later that night, you've sorted your spare parts, circuit boards, and extra screws into separate piles instead of keeping the atrocious amalgamation it was before. He’s lucky you're a night owl, you think wryly as you open the Insta app.
@peter_parker01: Hey, (Your Name)! Sounds good 👍
@peter_parker01: wanna meet at the library??
@(yoursocialmediahandle): meh no library. Can we go to your place instead?
Across town, perched atop one of New York's many skyscrapers, Peter's eyes almost bug out of his mask as he fumbles to catch his phone. Meanwhile, unfazed, you patiently stare down at the screen as his text bubble appears, disappears, then reappears again, the three dots standing idle like Peter's not sure how to answer. After an audible pause—
@peter_parker01: uhhh idk my apartment isn't very nice. why not your place???
@(yoursocialmediahandle): It’s ok. I'm just having a bit of a… You think for a moment before typing, Bug problem in my building. Is that ok?
@peter_parker01: kk
@peter_parker01: But I better not hear any complaints when you see the place 💁♂️
@(yoursocialmediahandle): Promise 👌😊✨️
You might just break that promise.
Beside you, Peter shuts the front door with a creak, followed by a forced thud as he shoves the door shut.
As agreed, the Wednesday after class, Peter and you take the subway to his apartment, and you're delightfully surprised to learn he's not too far from the ESU campus. You're not sure why, but he seems to have lightened up since your last class, making small talk with you over the rumble of the train car. You almost let your guard down.
Now here you are, two cups of coffee in your hands as you hover awkwardly in the middle of a dingy studio apartment, unsure where to place the peace offerings. The wooden floor boards creek, dark and uneven as you shift your weight between your feet. Okay, so the shoes stay on for sure.
It's not messy per se, but you can tell it was a rushed job cleaning, as if put it off last minute. In one corner, a rubbish bin is nearly full of wrappers and crumpled-up papers. A pile of rumpled clothes is shoved into a hamper in another. The studio apartment is almost empty with barely any furniture, much less decoration that would tell you anything of Peter’s personality, except for a little Lego figurine sitting on his desk. At the far wall, afternoon sunlight leaks through a window covered in smudges, where below the windowsill sits his worn out desk. There’s a PC set up, the large monitors shut off and black, but contrary to what’s clearly a complicated set, the desk surface and legs are scratched, the desktop littered in water stains. Not too far beside his meager office space, you find the kitchenette, where a gas stove is pressed against the wall, the back splash covered in a layer of old grease.
Your gaze slides across the room, trying to find the words, "Wow, your place is…"
He tugs off his hoodie, revealing surprisingly broad shoulders—what the fuck? Isn’t he a STEM major?? Most of the students in Bio-chem 4 are. "Yeah, I know it’s shit."
“Actually, I was going to say cozy.”
He shoots you a knowing half-smile over his shoulder. “Sure. We can work here,” He steps into kitchenette and pulls out an old, wooden chair from the kitchen table, set right next to a window overlooking a scenic view of the alleyway. Setting the coffee down, you cautiously place your own book bag on the table, which groans under its weight as Peter takes the seat across from you and quickly gets to work on the mountain of pages, starting with the lab report. Strangely enough, you both work well together as minutes tick by, calm and in tandem, open-minded and quick, exchanging comments back and forth. You discover on top of being a freaking genius, Peter is also … agreeable? He takes your criticisms (understandably, they're very few) in the labs and ideas to heart, not like in an offended way but taking you seriously, as if your thoughts and opinions truly matter to him.
… Friendly.
Peter is friendly.
“Hm.”
He glances up, meeting your sharp gaze and forcing his to dart aside. He's terrible with eye contact. You don't take it to heart.
“Um, you’re staring,” he clears his throat, still barely meeting your eyes.
“I know. Does it bother you?”
“It would bother anyone.”
You raise a brow, “You can’t handle basic human eye contact?”
His eyes flick to yours pointedly as he frowns, “I can totally handle eye contact.”
You blink, staring into hazel eyes with unyielding resolve, watching as his cheeks turn more red as the eye contact prolongs beyond a socially acceptable level. It isn’t until his lips curl into a defeated grimace and he ducks to look at the assignment that you smile, your expression softening just slightly. “You’re pretty smart, Parker.”
“Thanks, I guess?”
“Like, I was worried I was grouped up with another slacker, but I’m pleasantly surprised you’re not an idiot, despite missing class so much.”
His cheeks burn, glancing out the window as he explains, “I have to juggle work on top of school. I don’t get much financial aid.”
“Oh yeah,” You nod with understanding, recalling one of your previous one-sided conversations as you type today’s lab data into the spreadsheet. “That sucks. It must be exhausting, huh.”
“Yeah…”
“Where do you work?”
His gaze meets yours, looking as if you caught him red-handed. “Huh?”
Your hands pause as you repeat, enunciating though it’s not out of irritation but with calm patience, “Where. Do you. Work?”
His lips quirk down as a sour expression falls across his normally soft and tired face. He bites his lip, “…The Daily Bugle.”
Your hands on the keyboard still, “…You mean the one that actively bashes Spider-Man?” Your lips twitch, struggling to bite back an incredulous scoff.
Peter’s already small lips press into a thin line, “Yep.”
You guffaw, “That’s ironic. I didn’t know you were anti-superhero—”
“I’m not!” You shoot him a disbelieving look like you think he’s joking but he continues, “No, really, I-I love Spider-Man, and I grew up with—watching—the Avengers. My favorite was…”
You’re not sure what changed. Before, Peter seemed to have lightened up, sarcastic and a bit on the awkward side, sure, but friendly enough that conversation flowed like mountain spring going downhill.
Now, you blink just as walls rise, his eyes flicking to the window as his expression shutters closed, but you catch a flash of grief as he stares out the window at nothing, though the alley is empty and bleak at best. Hardly anything to look at, in your opinion.
He's probably reminiscing some distant memory or some shit, but who are you to say?
“I liked the Avengers too,” You speak delicately, slowly, trying to push passed the awkward silence.
Thankfully, it’s enough as Peter shakes himself from his stupor, clearing his throat and turning his gaze back to his screen. “Yeah? Who doesn’t?”
“Though, in my opinion, I prefer the anti-hero types.”
“What?” His hazel eyes widen, giving you an aghast look. “Like who?”
You shrug, not realizing how blasphemous your statement is to him—he, the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man—as you continued on typing and filling in the data spreadsheet, “Like…” You glance up, tapping your chin thoughtfully, “Bucky Barnes.”
Peter, despite his normally withdrawn demeanor, can’t help but wrinkle his nose, “Bucky—you mean The Winter Soldier?”
“Oh yeah, so you been to the Captain America exhibit too?”
He waves you off, grimacing at you like you’re crazy, “We had a school field trip, but—back to you—your type is the Winter Soldier?”
“Yeah,” Your teeth glint as you give him a mischievous grin, your voice coming out a dreamy purr, “Tall, dark, and handsome—”
“Traumatized, brooding—” Peter mutters under his breath.
“Loyal and strong—”
“Spider-Man’s stronger and more loyal—”
“Ya know, the kind of person who'd kill to protect the people he cares for,” you finish, nodding to yourself with an overt adoration Peter can’t help but notice.
He shakes his head at you. “Killing isn't exactly the prime quality for heroism.”
“Agree to disagree,” You shrug lightly.
Except Peter can’t let it go. For some unfathomable reason, he refuses to drop the subject. The minutes following has your lab assignment left forgotten on the table, the packet tossed to the side as Peter and you go back an forth on. You’ve never seen Peter so animated, so lively, a spark in his eyes as he refutes your arguments and reasons at your appeal for antiheroes and the like.
He’s a funny guy, you heh to yourself, a sly smile spreading across your lips as you raise a brow at him, which only seems to rile him up more. Which only entertains you more. So, you take up the role of Devil’s advocate, exchanging blow for blow with him, delving into the subject of the Avengers both old and new, about the meaning of “heroism” and “villainy”, and masked vigilantes.
Strangely enough, Spider-Man seems to be Peter’s main talking point.
You’re starting to think Peter’s a Spider-Man fanboy.
“I’m not.”
You don’t look convinced and he gestures at his barren apartment, adding, “Do I look like I have some investigative board with red yarn connecting photos of Spider-Man around New York?”
As if one cue, there's the shuffle of papers falling, and, cautiously, you turn your head to the top of his desk, where a stack of manilla folders sit, each one stuffed to the point one toppled on the floor—
Spilling what has to be at least a dozen photos of an unmistakable blur of a red and blue figure.
“I—that’s for work, I swear,” Peter stammers, cheeks flushing.
“Hey, I’m not gonna go through the your closet,” You chuckle, putting your hands up in surrender.
At the sound of your laughter, his irritation fades and his tense face softens. A pressure in his chest tightens, closing in on his heart as he stares at your smile, good-natured and teasing, in a daze. It’s toothy, slightly crooked, and almost blinding that he has to force himself to look away from how brightly this aura seems to shine off you. Maybe you have powers like him. How else can someone possible make him feel this warm and secure. Vibe together so well. How long has it been since he spoke to someone like—like friends.
Hell, how long has it been since he last saw Ned and MJ? One, maybe two years now?
Sure, he’ll take a peek at Ned’s Insta and his live feed, but it’s hardly what he’d call keeping up with old friends.
“Hey,” Peter blinks, and when he meets your gaze, there’s no longer a teasing undertone in your voice, your smile smaller and more shy. “Ya know, I think you’re really smart. Do you wanna hang out sometime? With me and my friends, maybe. A few of us like to go to trivia night at this coffee shop near campus. You’d be a great addition to the team.”
He doesn’t have friends. Not anymore.
“I…”
And he shouldn’t.
He really shouldn’t.
It’s a bad idea. Terrible, really.
“I’d like that,” He refuses to acknowledge the pained rasp in his voice when he answers you, returning your smile with one of his one, small and just as shy, and his heart–for the first time in what feels like forever–skips at the prospect of future hang-outs.
“Cool,” You grin widely, returning your gaze to your computer screen as if you hadn’t just busted a hole through the walls surrounding his heart. “I can introduce you to my buddy, Harry, next time. I think you’d vibe with each other.”