Work Text:
the first thing peter texts you is: running late
the second arrives forty-three minutes later. sorry
the third comes close enough to midnight that you have already eaten without him, washed your plate, put his portion of dinner in a tupperware container in the fridge, and moved from the kitchen table to the couch with clean laundry folded beside you.
you stare at the message until the screen dims beneath your thumb. love you, don’t wait up <3
then, you send back a photograph of the television. some veterinarian you recognize from three previous episodes is explaining to a confused couple that their labrador had swallowed half a bath towel. the camera cuts dramatically toward an x-ray.
peter reacts with a heart.
the apartment settles around you in familiar pieces. the refrigerator hums from the kitchen. the radiator clicks despite the weather being far too warm to justify it. traffic moves six floors below, changing pitch whenever tires cross the metal plate covering the construction trench near the intersection.
one of peter’s sneakers sits beside the front door, and the other has somehow migrated beneath the coffee table. you reach down, retrieve it by the heel, and set it beside its partner. then you fold your last scrub top.
tomorrow’s is still hanging over the back of the dining chair. dark blue pants beneath a pale grey top patterned with tiny black spiders suspended from cartoon webs.
peter bought it for you three months ago. you told him immediately that it is obnoxious, but he said that your reaction wasn’t the same as saying you dislike it. you haven’t worn it once.
the window behind the couch scrapes open, and you don’t turn around immediately.
“you have keys,” you say, keeping your attention on the tv.
the window gives another reluctant groan.
“window was closer.” peter’s voice sounds wrong, not frightened or breathless, just tired enough that the words barely survive the distance between you.
you turn. he crouches on the sill with one hand against the frame and his mask rolled above his mouth. rain has darkened his hair where it escapes the fabric, and the suit looks as though somebody tries to remove several sections with a belt sander.
one shoulder is torn, there is a long scrape across his ribs, and his lower lip is split. blood covers enough of the red fabric that determining how much belongs to him takes longer than you would like.
peter notices where you’re looking. “most of it isn’t mine.” you stare at him until he pulls the mask completely off. “okay, some of it isn’t mine.”
“peter.”
“hi.” something about the quiet little word takes every remaining edge out of you. you cross the room.
peter steps down from the windowsill, and the second both feet reach the floor, his posture loosens. his shoulders simply drop by an inch, and his head tips toward you.
you reach for his face but stop before touching the swelling near his cheekbone.
“what happened?”
peter bends enough to press a kiss into your hair. “long day.”
his lips barely leave you before he starts toward the kitchen.
you watch him pass. “where are you going?”
“food.”
“no, bathroom.”
peter opens the refrigerator. “food first.”
“you’re bleeding.”
“i can eat while bleeding.”
“you’re not eating over an open wound.”
he looks down at himself as though he has forgotten the state of his body. “counterargument,” he says. “i’m really hungry.”
“bathroom.”
“half the chicken?”
“peter.”
he closes the refrigerator. “you’re very strict for somebody who spent yesterday telling a pomeranian he was brave while he tried to bite you.”
“the pomeranian was brave.”
“the pomeranian was possessed.”
“he was scared.”
peter points at you. “exactly.”
you narrow your eyes, and he lowers his hand.
“bathroom,” he agrees.
the first-aid box lives beneath the sink now. once, it held spare bandages, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, expired cold medicine, and three loose cotton swabs. now it is divided into plastic compartments you restock with the same attention your clinic uses for the treatment room.
gauze, nonadherent pads, saline, medical tape, antiseptic, sterile gloves, and a small penlight because peter complains every time you use your phone flashlight to check his pupils.
he sits on the edge of the vanity without being told. the routine is practiced enough that neither of you thinks about it anymore.
peter pushes himself onto the narrow stretch of counter beside the sink and lets his legs hang over the front. you step between his knees while he peels the damaged upper half of the suit away from his body.
fabric sticks near his ribs, and he hisses when it pulls his skin. you wet gauze with saline and ease the material away more carefully.
the scrape beneath it looks ugly but shallow. bruising spreads beneath the skin around it, dark enough to be dramatic without showing any obvious deformity.
you inspect it from several angles. “anything feel broken?”
“no.”
“anything feel like it could be broken?”
“also no.”
“peter.”
“i know what broken ribs feel like.”
you look up, and he gives you an apologetic smile.
“which is not reassuring,” you say.
“but technically useful.”
you press two fingers gently along the ribs around the injury.
peter’s hands settle at your waist. the touch is so automatic that neither of you acknowledges it at first. his palms rest against the sides of your shirt while you work, thumbs moving against your back.
you reach the tenderest section based on how his fingers tighten.
“there?”
“little bit.”
“is there a sharp pain?”
“no.”
“trouble breathing?”
“no.”
“nausea?”
“no.”
“are you dizzy?”
peter thinks about it, and his pause makes you immediately stop.
he hums before saying “not now.”
“were you dizzy earlier?”
“maybe when i got hit.”
you reach behind yourself for the penlight.
“you know,” he says, “your patients usually have four legs.”
“most of them cooperate better.”
“that feels unfair.”
you click the light on, and peter squints before you even raise it.
“eyes.”
“i have two.”
you sigh at his joke. “follow the light, peter.”
“this is so romantic.”
you move the beam slowly from one pupil to the other, and both respond normally.
“headache?”
“not really.”
“is your vision weird?”
“no.”
“did you lose consciousness?”
“no.”
you lower the penlight and look at peter. his expression remains perfectly innocent, but you know that expression well.
“did you almost lose consciousness?”
“that feels like moving the goalposts.”
“peter.”
he sighs. “everything got fuzzy for maybe two seconds.”
you study him. his pupils remain equal and his speech normal. he climbed six floors and through a window without falling, which would be a reasonably reassuring neurological assessment for anyone except someone capable of sticking to walls.
“if you were anybody else,” you say, “i would be taking you to the emergency room.”
peter’s mouth pulls sideways.
“on you?”
you inspect his face again. the cut on his lip has already begun closing.
“annoyingly, probably just a good breakfast.”
he smiles. when you touch gauze to his lip, the smile disappears.
“ow.”
“you got thrown through something, didn’t you?”
“maybe.”
“brick?”
“drywall.”
“and this hurts?”
“it’s a different kind of hurt.”
you shake your head while cleaning the blood from his chin. peter leans forward until his forehead touches your shoulder.
you pause, and his hands remain around your waist.
“tired?”
“no.”
his answer is muffled against your shirt.
“you’re using me as furniture.”
“‘m multitasking,” he mutters.
you resume cleaning the cut near his cheek, and peter stays exactly where he is.
“what actually happened today?” you ask.
he exhales against your shoulder. “started with a robbery. the guy had a gun.” your hand slows, and peter feels it. “nobody got shot,” he reassures.
“including you?”
“including me.”
“then?” you continue.
“car accident on forty-second.”
“bad accident?”
“looked worse than it was. everybody got out.” his thumb moves against your waist while he talks. “then part of a scaffold came down.”
“of course it did.”
“i caught it.”
“with your bad wrist?”
“it wasn’t bad yet.”
you glance down. the wrist in question is already developing faint bruising.
“how did it become bad?”
“later.”
“naturally.”
“then somebody reported a kid on a fire escape.”
“was there a kid on a fire escape?”
“yeah.”
“did you get him?”
peter lifts his head. the exhaustion remains in his face, but something softer moves through it now.
“yeah. he gave me a sticker.”
you look at him. “what kind?”
“a dinosaur.”
“where is it?”
peter pats the shredded remains of his suit, then his expression falls. “i think i lost it. it was a stegosaurus.”
“that’s devastating.”
peter leans against you again. you work your fingers carefully beneath damp hair near his temple, checking for swelling.
“then what?”
“a guy with enhanced strength.”
“there it is.”
“wasn’t that bad.”
“your suit disagrees.”
“the suit is dramatic.”
“you made the suit.”
“exactly. it gets that from me.”
you laugh quietly. peter’s arms tighten around you at the sound.
“then it started raining,” he continues. “my web-shooter jammed, and i lost the other one on a laundromat.”
you stop. “how?”
“it’s complicated.”
“where?”
“brooklyn.”
“we live in queens.”
“i’m aware.”
you stare at the top of his head. “anything else?”
peter goes strangely quiet, so you look down. his mouth presses into a line.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“peter.”
“…i got bit.”
your hands stop. “by what?”
he avoids your eyes.
“peter.”
“a dog.” you stare at him as he shifts. “he was scared.”
“you got bitten by a dog.”
“technically.”
“how big?”
“that isn’t relevant.”
“how big?” you repeat.
peter examines the grout beside the sink. “maybe twenty pounds.”
you pull away enough to look at him properly. “spider-man got bitten by a twenty-pound dog.”
“i didn’t get defeated by him.”
“did he break skin?”
peter lifts one hand and gestures vaguely toward his calf. you step backward to look, but it’s still covered by what remains of his suit on him. “peter parker.”
“it’s already healed.”
“let me see.”
“it’s literally gone.”
you point downward. he sighs and peels one leg of the suit high enough to reveal two faint crescent-shaped marks already disappearing into his skin.
you fold your arms. “terrier?”
peter looks offended by your accuracy. “how did you know?”
“professional experience.”
“he was very upset.”
“they are fearless.”
peter brightens. “thank you.”
“i’m talking about the dog.”
his hands find your waist again. “you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“i am on your side. i’m also on the side of whatever terrified terrier suddenly found himself face-to-face with a six-foot spider.”
“five-ten with the suit.”
“still.” you smile despite yourself and return to the scrape along his ribs.
by the time you finish, the worst of the blood is gone.
peter is not. he remains perched on the edge of the vanity with his forehead gradually lowering until his chin rests against your shoulder.
you put the last piece of gauze in place.
“shower.” he makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a complaint. “peter.”
“thinking about it.”
“you smell like wet pavement.”
“new cologne.”
“and smoke.”
“it was expensive cologne.”
you step out from between his knees. peter’s hands slide reluctantly from your waist. he reaches behind himself and tests his shoulder, and the wince is immediate.
you see it. “want help?”
his gaze lifts toward yours, the joking disappearing. “please.”
the answer is quiet enough that you lean in and kiss his forehead before moving toward the shower.
steam fills the bathroom quickly. you leave the damaged suit in a heap near the vanity and step beneath the water with him, keeping the temperature warm without making it hot enough to irritate the scrapes.
peter stands beneath the spray with his eyes closed.
without the suit, he looks younger somehow. not spider-man, not the person strangers point cameras toward from sidewalks or call for from rooftops, just peter. your peter.
you wet his hair first. he bends automatically so you can reach more easily, curls flattening beneath the water.
you work shampoo through his hair carefully. peter’s shoulders gradually loosen beneath your fingers. you massage around the sore spot near his temple, avoiding the swelling, then move your thumbs along his scalp.
his head gets heavier. then heavier. finally, his forehead settles against your shoulder.
you laugh under your breath. “you’re falling asleep.”
“no.”
“you’re putting your entire body weight on me.”
“that’s trust.”
“that’s approximately a hundred and eighty pounds.”
“still trust.”
you rinse the shampoo from his curls. peter stays folded around you, one hand resting loosely at your hip.
water carries pink traces of diluted blood toward the drain.
you’re washing carefully behind his ear when peter exhales. “today sucked.”
you smile against wet hair. “yeah?”
he nods against you. “really sucked.”
“the dog?”
“among other things.”
you kiss his temple. “poor spider-man.”
his arms close around your waist. for a moment neither of you move. water runs over his shoulders and down your back. the bathroom fan hums overhead, mostly useless against the steam gathering on the mirror.
peter breathes. not the controlled breaths he uses when something hurts or the measured ones he takes after a fight, just breathing.
you run one hand slowly over his back. “better?”
“yeah.”
after another moment, peter lifts his head. “your turn.”
“i’m fine.”
“you have blood in your hair.”
you reach toward it instinctively, but peter catches your wrist.
“my blood,” he clarifies.
“that’s great.”
he reaches for your shampoo.
“peter, your shoulder.”
“it’s my other arm.”
“you don’t have to.”
his expression changes. not much, but just enough. “i know.”
so you let him.
he works shampoo through your hair one-handed, clumsier than you were with him but infinitely more determined.
when soap threatens your eyes, he laughs. you elbow him lightly.
“you’re a trained professional,” he says.
“only veterinary medicine.”
“that’s still medicine.”
“tell that to the terrier,” you tease.
“i’m never telling you anything again.”
“you’ll forget by tomorrow.”
“probably.”
afterward, peter dresses in grey sweatpants and one of your old very oversized shirts.
you watch him pull it over his head. “that’s mine.”
his face appears through the collar. “community property.”
“we’re not married.”
peter stills for half a second. “…yet.”
then he pulls the shirt down as though he says nothing unusual.
you stare, your mind stuck on what he muttered. yet.
he looks toward you. “what?”
“nothing,” you dismiss.
“okay.”
he walks out of the bedroom. you follow several seconds later, still trying to decide whether exhaustion makes him more or less dangerous.
dinner reheats in the microwave.
peter sits at the kitchen table with damp curls, fresh gauze, and a blanket around his shoulders despite insisting he isn’t cold.
you set the plate in front of him, and he eats nearly half before you sit down.
“thought you weren’t hungry,” you say.
“never said that.”
“you argued about food for ten minutes.”
“because i was hungry.”
“right.”
peter cuts another piece of chicken, then holds the fork toward you. “try this.”
“i made it.”
“so?”
“i already ate it.”
“yeah, hours ago.”
you stare at the fork. peter waits unwaveringly.
you finally lean forward and take the bite.
he smiles. “good, right?”
“shockingly similar to how it tasted earlier.”
“just checking.”
you reach across and move damp curls away from his forehead. the swelling already looks better.
peter catches your wrist before you can withdraw. he turns his face and kisses the inside of it.
“thank you.”
“you don’t have to thank me.”
“i know.”
his thumb rests over your pulse. the distinction sits quietly between you.
you squeeze his hand. “eat.”
“very romantic.”
“your food is getting cold.”
“still romantic.”
he finishes everything, then he insists he is not tired while lying down with his head in your lap five minutes later.
the television continues playing the veterinary show you leave on earlier. another dog has eaten something medically inconvenient.
peter watches for approximately four minutes, then his eyes close.
your fingers move through his hair. “peter.”
“‘m awake.”
“sure.”
“listening.”
“what did the vet just say?”
“dog.”
“incredible.”
“thank you.”
you smile and keep combing your fingers through his curls. his hand finds yours blindly, and he presses your palm against his chest. beneath it, his heartbeat moves strong and steady.
“stop checking,” he murmurs.
“it’s a habit.”
“you don’t check your patients like this.”
“my patients don’t usually climb through windows covered in blood.”
“some probably would if they could.”
“that’s unfortunately true.”
peter opens one eye. “you make everything quieter.”
you look down at him. “wow.”
his brow creases. “what?”
“very sweet way of telling me to stop talking.”
“that’s not what i meant.”
you smile. peter closes his eye again. for a few seconds, you think he falls asleep.
then he speaks. “everything was loud all day,” he mutters. “sirens. cars. people talking three blocks away. trains. construction. heartbeats.” he swallows. “spider-sense.”
you trace your thumb along his hairline.
“and then i come home.” his hand tightens around yours.
“and?”
“i don’t have to listen anymore.”
something in your chest pulls tight.
“because it’s quiet?” you ask.
peter shakes his head slightly against your lap. “because you’re here.”
you look toward the window. outside, queens continues exactly as it always does. sirens somewhere south, music from another apartment, a truck braking at the intersection. nothing is actually quiet.
you bend and kiss peter’s forehead. “go to sleep.”
“you’re bossy.”
“well, you’re injured.”
“barely.”
“bitten by a terrier.”
his eyes open. “you promised you were on my side.”
“i never promised.”
peter reaches up and catches the back of your neck. he pulls you close enough to kiss you. the angle is terrible, his lip is still sore, and you laugh against his mouth.
he smiles anyway.
later, in bed, you make him turn onto the side that hurts least.
peter looks suspicious when you settle behind him. “what are you doing?”
“sleeping.”
“back there?”
“yes.”
he starts to turn, but you stop him with a hand against his waist.
“stay,” you tell him.
“but—”
“your ribs hurt.”
“barely.”
“peter.”
he settles. you curl around him from behind, careful of the bruises. your arm crosses his waist, and your face rests against the back of his neck.
peter goes completely still, then every muscle beneath you slowly releases. his hand finds yours over his stomach, fingers lacing through yours.
“oh,” he murmurs.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“are you okay?” you ask.
he hums as his thumb moves against your knuckles. “this is nice.”
you press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
silence stretches, and his breathing begins to deepen.
peter whispers your name.
“hm?” you answer.
“thanks for taking care of me.”
you tighten your arm around him. “you take care of me too.”
“not like this.”
“exactly like this.”
he turns your joined hands enough to kiss your fingers.
another minute passes.
“love you,” he murmurs.
“love you too.”
“a lot.”
you smile against his neck. “go to sleep.”
“just making sure you know.”
“i know.”
his breathing evens.
then, barely awake, he asks, “you love me a lot too?”
“an unreasonable amount.”
“good.”
he falls asleep almost immediately.
—
morning arrives with an alarm clock and peter’s elbow near your face.
you open your eyes to find him halfway on top of you, one leg tangled through yours and his cheek pressed into the pillow beside your head.
his bruising has faded considerably, and the cut on his lip is almost gone. you touch the skin beneath his eye.
peter makes a sleepy sound as he wakes.
“you’re healed.”
“no.”
“your bruise is gone.”
“i have internal injuries and am bedridden.”
“you don’t have internal injuries.”
“emotional injuries.”
“from what?”
one eye opens. “the terrier.”
you laugh, and peter buries his face against your neck.
“it’s very serious,” he insists.
“i’m sure.”
“i need another six hours.” he wraps his arms fully around you.
“peter, i have work.”
“call off.”
“because spider-man got bullied by a terrier?”
“you’re being cruel to the injured.”
you shove gently at his shoulder. “move.”
he sticks to you, literally.
you pull again, but your shirt stretches.
“peter.”
“what?”
“unstick yourself.”
“i’m not doing anything.”
you stare at him. his mouth twitches.
“peter.”
he releases the fabric. “fine.”
forty minutes later, the apartment looks entirely different.
the damaged suit is gone from the bathroom floor. peter wears a repaired spare, the dark fabric fitted over injuries that are now little more than faint marks. his mask hangs from one hand while he checks a web-shooter while sitting at the desk in your shared bedroom.
you stand in front of the bedroom mirror, pulling your hair back for work. you have your dark blue scrub pants, sneakers at the door, and your clinic badge clipped near your shoulder.
then you reach for the scrub top hanging from the chair.
peter notices immediately, the web-shooter stopping halfway around his wrist.
“you’re wearing it?”
you look down at the spiders. “this?”
his entire face brightens. “you’re wearing it,” he repeats.
“apparently.”
“you said you hated it.”
“i said it was obnoxious.”
“same thing.”
“not the same thing.”
you pull it on. tiny spiders scatter across the fabric, dangling from silver-grey webs between little cartoon paw prints.
peter gets up and walks closer. “this is my favorite one.”
“you’ve seen me wear it for twelve seconds.”
“still my favorite.”
“the dog-print one has corgis wearing bandanas.”
he considers that. “that’s a close second.”
you turn back toward the mirror. peter comes up behind you, his arms circling your waist. his chin settles against your shoulder.
you meet his eyes in the reflection. the suit makes him look like spider-man, but the expression on his face absolutely does not.
he is staring at your scrub top with embarrassing happiness.
“that one looks like me.”
you glance down. “that is an anatomically incorrect cartoon spider.”
“exactly.”
“you have too much confidence.”
“you’re wearing spiders to work.”
“they were a gift.”
“from me.”
“unfortunately.”
peter kisses your cheek, and you smile.
the two of you move around the bedroom without thinking after that.
you hand him the spare cartridges he leaves on the dresser, he passes you your deodorant. you check the healing scrape along his ribs once more while he complains theatrically.
he notices your lunch sitting on the counter and puts it beside your bag.
“don’t forget this.”
“i wasn’t going to.”
“yesterday you had vending-machine crackers.”
“that’s confidential medical information.”
“you texted me a picture.”
“privileged communication.”
“that’s not how that works.”
“my veterinary degree disagrees.”
“you don’t have a veterinary degree.”
“keep talking and i’ll take your temperature the way we do at work.”
peter’s mouth closes.
you smile sweetly. “thought so.”
he puts a hoodie and sweatpants over the suit before the two of you leave.
at the front door, you reach for your keys. peter looks toward the window, but you catch him.
“don’t even think about it.”
“i wasn’t.”
“you looked.”
“habit,” he shrugs, his shoulder fully healed.
you open the door. “normal people use doors.”
peter pulls the hood over his hair. “normal people don’t wear spiders to work.”
you look down at your scrub top. “mine are cuter.”
“debatable.”
you step into the hallway together, and peter locks the door behind you.
six floors down, morning has already taken over the sidewalk. buses groan at the intersection. someone walks three dogs at once, each pulling in a different direction. a delivery truck blocks half the street while somebody shouts from the cab.
you walk together toward the corner. peter keeps close enough that the backs of your hands brush.
your clinic is three subway stops in one direction, and his day begins wherever new york decides it needs spider-man.
at the intersection, you stop.
peter catches your hand. “hey.”
you turn, his gaze moving over your scrub top again. that stupidly pleased smile returns.
“seriously,” he says. “i like it.”
you straighten the strings of his hoodie. “i noticed.”
“you should wear it more.”
“don’t push it.”
“once a week?”
“peter.”
“special occasions?”
you kiss him before he can negotiate further. his hand settles naturally at your waist.
traffic moves around you. somewhere behind peter, a dog begins barking. he pulls away when he hears.
you look past him and see a small terrier straining excitedly at the end of a leash.
peter looks at the dog, and the dog looks at peter.
you press your lips together.
“don’t.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
the terrier barks again. you lose the fight and laugh.
peter shakes his head, but he’s smiling when he kisses your forehead.
“have a good day.”
“you too. stay out of too much trouble.”
“love you.”
“love you too.”
you start toward the subway, and peter heads the opposite direction.
after several steps, you look back. so does he.
for a second, you stand on opposite sides of the moving sidewalk traffic—peter hidden beneath an ordinary hoodie with spider-man underneath, you in navy scrubs covered in tiny cartoon spiders.
then somebody walks between you, and the moment breaks.
you keep going, so does peter.
tonight, eventually, the same key will turn in the same lock, or the same stubborn window will scrape open. one of you will ask about dinner, and the other will complain about work. shoes will end up beneath the coffee table again. peter will leave something important on the kitchen counter, and you will remind him where it is while insisting you have no idea how he survives without you.
whatever the day gives either of you, there is still this. the apartment, the routines, the person waiting on the other side of the city.
somewhere to come back to.
somewhere safe enough to land.