Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

(Peter’s POV)

Peter's bathroom mirror was cracked in the corner, a hairline fracture that spider-webbed across the glass like a tiny lightning storm. He'd been meaning to replace it for months now, but every time he thought about it, something else came up —rent, web fluid, a mugging in Queens, a supervillain with a grudge against public transportation. The list went on. The mirror stayed cracked.

He leaned closer to the glass, squinting at his reflection under the harsh bathroom light. The face staring back at him was a mess. His left cheek was swollen, puffy and tender to the touch, already starting to bruise in shades of purple and red that would look spectacular by morning. There was a gash above his right eyebrow, deep enough that he could see the edges of the skin gaping slightly when he moved his face. A few shallower cuts and scrapes dotted his cheeks and jawline, and his hands were in even worse shape—knuckles scraped raw, a shallow slice across the back of his left hand that stung every time he flexed his fingers.

He looked like he'd lost a fight with a brick wall. Technically, he'd won the fight. The brick wall just got some good hits in first.

Peter reached for the first aid kit on the bathroom counter—the one Remy had given him months ago, now supplemented with supplies from the class you'd taken—and flipped it open. The contents were neatly organized, restocked, everything in its proper place. You'd done that. You'd organized his first aid kit during one of the many nights you'd patched him up, muttering about how he needed to "maintain a system" and "stop shoving gauze in random pockets."

He pulled out an antiseptic wipe and started cleaning the gash above his eyebrow. The sting was familiar, a sharp burn that made his eyes water and his jaw clench. He'd done this a hundred times. A thousand times. More times than he could count, in bathrooms and on rooftops and in the back of moving ambulances when he'd sweet-talked exhausted paramedics into letting him ride along.

He knew how to do this. He was good at it, in the way you got good at anything you did often enough. Efficient. Methodical. Detached.

But tonight, standing in his cramped bathroom at midnight with his face throbbing and his hands aching and the distant hum of the city filtering through the thin walls, he didn't want to do it.

That was the thing. That was the problem. He could patch himself up. He'd been doing it for years, long before Remy and his first aid kit and your steady hands. He knew exactly how to clean a wound, how to close a cut, how to wrap a sprain and ice a bruise and pretend he was fine when he wasn't. It was second nature at this point, as automatic as breathing, as instinctive as shooting a web line.

But he didn't want to.

Two months ago, he would have forced himself through it. Two months ago, he would have gritted his teeth and cleaned his wounds and gone to bed alone, the same way he'd done every night since he'd put on the mask. Two months ago, he wouldn't have even considered the alternative.

Two months ago, he didn't have you two.

The thought sent something warm and complicated twisting through his chest. He dropped the antiseptic wipe into the trash and braced his hands on the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection—at the blood and the bruises and the exhaustion written into every line of his face.

Two months. Had it really only been two months?

It felt longer. It felt like a lifetime. It felt like no time at all.

Two months since he'd woken up in his own bed with a bullet wound in his side and two people he barely knew keeping watch over him. Two months since he'd yelled at them and accused them of things that still made him cringe when he thought about them too hard. Two months since they'd told him they knew, and wanted to stay, and weren't going anywhere.

Two months since he'd started to believe them.

The changes had been gradual at first. A text here, a meal there. The group chat—5th Floor Alliance—had become a constant presence in his phone, a steady stream of memes and check-ins and "you alive?" messages that he'd learned to answer without overthinking. Movie nights had become a weekly ritual. Dinners had become an invitation that came two or three times a week now.

He'd gained weight. That was the first thing he'd noticed. Not a lot, but enough that his jeans fit better and his ribs didn't stick out quite as much when he looked in the mirror. You fed him constantly, showing up at his door with containers of leftovers and insisting he eat something, anything, that you'd made too much and Remy couldn't eat another bite and would he please just take it off your hands. He'd stopped arguing after the first few weeks. It was easier to just accept the food and the warmth that came with it.

He was happier. That was the bigger change, the one that still caught him off guard when he stopped to think about it. He smiled more. He laughed more. He caught himself humming in the shower and singing along to the radio and doing all the small, unguarded things that people did when they weren't constantly bracing for the next disaster.

He had people.

That was the part that still felt impossible. He had people who noticed when he was tired, who asked how his day was going and actually meant it, who texted him at 2 AM to make sure he'd made it home safe. He had people who'd broken into his apartment to save his life and then stayed, who'd sat with him while he healed and filled his freezer with soup and never once made him feel like a burden.

He had you and Remy. His neighbors. His friends. His people.

It was everything he'd ever wanted.

But it also meant that lately, more nights than he wanted to admit, when he came home busted up like this, his first instinct wasn't to patch himself up. It was to go get you two to do it for him.

And that — that bothered him. He was a grown man. He'd stitched his own skin closed with a sewing needle and dental floss more than once, back before either of you had known he existed. He knew how to do this. He didn't need help. And yet here he was, standing in his own bathroom, half-heartedly going through the motions of taking care of himself while some other, quieter part of his brain was already halfway across the hall, already anticipating the couch and the ridiculous TV and someone's hands being gentler with his face than his own ever managed to be.

It felt like taking advantage. That was the ugly little thought that kept circling back no matter how many times he tried to swat it away.  They'd offered to help. They'd insisted, over and over, that he should come to them when he was hurt, that he didn't have to do this alone anymore. But that didn't mean he should show up at their door every time he got a bloody nose, did it? That didn't mean he should expect them to drop everything and stitch him up and feed him soup and tuck him in like a child?

They'd get tired of it eventually. They'd get tired of him. Everyone did.

But then he thought about two weeks ago. That moment on their couch, when you'd come home with a bright smile and a piece of paper in your hand, practically vibrating with excitement.

"I took a first aid class…." You'd announced, thrusting the certificate toward him like it was a trophy. "I'm officially certified. You're looking at a person who knows how to properly clean a wound, apply a pressure dressing, and recognize the signs of hypothermia."

Peter had stared at the certificate. You'd taken a class. For him. You'd spent a Saturday learning how to pack wounds and splint broken bones and God knew what else, all because you wanted to make sure you were taking care of him right.

"I know you have enhanced healing and all that…." You'd continued. "....but I wanted to make sure I was doing things properly. Remy's taught me a lot, but I figured it couldn't hurt to get some official training. So now I can say with confidence that I'm not just winging it anymore."

He'd said something. He didn't remember what. Probably something about how you didn't have to do that, how he was fine, how this was too much. And you'd waved it off the way you always did, insisting that you'd wanted to learn, that first aid was useful for everyone, that he shouldn't make a big deal out of it.

He'd cried. Not in front of you —he'd held it together until he was back in his own apartment, and then he'd sat on his bedroom floor and cried like an idiot for ten solid minutes, because no one had ever done anything like that for him before. No one had ever cared enough to learn how to put him back together.

That memory —the certificate, the tears, the overwhelming weight of being cared for —was what finally made him move.

He was hurt. He was tired. He didn't want to do this alone.

He wanted you to do it.

He wanted the company, if he was being honest. The warmth of their apartment, the sound of their voices, the easy rhythm of their presence. He wanted to sit on their couch and let you fuss over him and pretend, just for a little while, that he wasn't Spider-Man at all. Just Peter. Just their friend.

The thought was enough to get him moving. He turned away from the mirror, left the first aid kit open on the counter, and walked out of the bathroom.

The hallway was quiet. It was almost 1 AM now, and the building had settled into the deep, creaking silence of a place where most people were asleep. But Peter's enhanced hearing picked up the faint murmur of voices from across the hall—yours and Remy's, low and easy, punctuated by the occasional laugh.

They were awake. Of course they were awake. It wasn't even one in the morning yet, and if Peter knew anything about your household's rhythms by now — and he did, he knew them embarrassingly well — it meant Remy was sprawled on the couch watching something loud and probably conspiratorial, and you were somewhere nearby, half paying attention, doing that thing where you argued with him about whatever he was watching without ever quite getting up to leave the room.

You'd told him, more times than he could count at this point, that he didn't need a reason. That the door was open. That "whenever you need anything, or just want to" wasn't a line you'd said once to be polite — you'd both said it, over and over, in different words, until it should have sunk in by now.

It hadn't, not really. Some old, stubborn part of him still hesitated every single time, still ran through the math of whether tonight was an acceptable night to knock, whether this was a real enough reason, whether he was spending down some invisible balance of goodwill that was going to run out eventually.

He stood in the hallway for a long moment, his hand half-raised to knock, his heart beating too fast in his chest. 

He knocked.

The sound was soft, barely loud enough to carry through the door. He almost knocked again, louder this time, but before he could, the door swung open.

You stood in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the living room. You were in your pajamas —a tank top and a pair of sleep shorts, your curly hair pulled up into a messy bun that was starting to escape its elastic. You looked tired, but not the bad kind of tired. The soft, content kind of tired that came from a lazy evening at home.

Your eyes found his face, and your expression shifted. Not surprise, exactly —you'd long since stopped being surprised when he showed up hurt. More like resignation, mixed with a worry that you were already trying to hide.

"Hey…” He said, already talking too fast, already reaching for the apology before you'd even said anything. "Sorry, it's late, I know it's late, I wasn't going to come over, I was gonna just — deal with it myself, but then I heard you guys were still up, and I figured, I don't know, maybe you wouldn't mind if I—"

"Peter." Your voice was warm, a little amused, cutting cleanly through the ramble. "Just get inside."

"Right. Yeah. Sorry." He stepped past you into the apartment, still apologizing under his breath as he went, mostly on reflex at this point. "Thank you. Sorry it's so late. I really wasn't trying to—"

"Stop apologizing."

"Sorry."

You gave him a look over your shoulder as you shut the door behind him, somewhere between exasperated and fond, and he had the grace to look sheepish about it even as he opened his mouth again.

"Sorry, I'll stop, I just — sorry."

You made a small sound that was very clearly you trying not to laugh, pressing your lips together as you turned and led him toward the living room, and something in Peter's shoulders loosened just from that — from the fact that you weren't annoyed, that this whole exchange was as familiar and comfortable to you as it apparently was to him, comfortable enough to be funny instead of a problem.

The living room welcomed him the way it always did — warm lamp light, the low blue flicker of the TV, the couch that had definitely absorbed some permanent Peter-shaped dent into one of the cushions at this point from how many movie nights he'd fallen asleep on it. Remy was sprawled across it in his usual boneless, king-of-the-castle way, one arm slung along the back cushions, watching the television with rapt attention.

"I'll get the kit…” You said, already peeling off toward the hallway closet where the first aid supplies lived now.

Peter lowered himself carefully into the recliner across from the couch, wincing as his bruised side complained about the movement, and turned his attention to the TV out of habit.

Jonah Jameson's face filled the screen, red and apoplectic, a chyron scrolling beneath him that read SPIDER-MAN: SKRULL SLEEPER AGENT? in aggressive yellow letters.

Peter stared at it for a solid three seconds before he found his voice. "Skrull? Seriously?"

Remy didn't even look away from the screen. "He make some interestin' points."

"Which ones?!" Peter's voice cracked upward, outrage momentarily outweighing the throbbing in his cheek. "Name one!"

Remy held up a finger, counting off with the easy confidence of a man reciting facts he'd clearly already turned over in his head more than once. "Spider-Man activity spiked right around de same time as increased alien activity in de city. Refuses to cooperate wit' authorities, even when dey ask nice. Costume's never been properly identified — coulda easily been Skrull tech. And he fight like one."

"None of that is true." Peter's voice climbed another notch, indignant in a way that made his split lip twinge. "None of it! That's not — that's not how any of that works!"

Remy finally turned his head, one eyebrow arched. "So your activity didn't pick up right after de alien invasion."

Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. "That's — okay, that's a coincidence."

"Dere's no such t'ing as coincidence, homme."

"Yes there is! That's, like, the definition of a coincidence!"

You came back into the room at that exact moment, first aid kit in hand, and took one look at the television screen still going full volume with side-by-side slow-motion footage — a Skrull mid-punch on one half of the screen, grainy security-cam footage of Spider-Man on the other — before your expression flattened into something sharp.

"Remy. Channel. Now."

"Chère, dis is important information. De man is speakin' truth to power. We need to be informed citizens."

"It's Jameson comparing punch stances."

"Dat's exactly de kind of detail people miss." Remy didn't so much as reach for the remote. "You gotta pay attention to de little t'ings."

You gave him a long look, then apparently decided the cut over Peter's eyebrow was a more urgent use of your energy than the remote control battle, and came to crouch in front of the recliner instead, setting the kit open on the coffee table beside you.

Up close, he could see the faint lines of concern around your eyes, the way your gaze kept flicking to the gash above his eyebrow and the bruise spreading across his cheek. He could tell you were refraining from asking what happened tonight. You always did, in these first few moments. Waiting to see if he'd offer it up himself, or if he needed to sit with it for a while first.

"Okay…." You said softly, pulling out an alcohol pad. "Deep breath. This is going to sting."

"Let me see…” You said, and your voice had changed — gone quieter, more focused, the particular tone Peter had started to associate specifically with this exact moment, this exact chair. You tilted his chin gently with two fingers, angling his face toward the lamp, and your eyes moved over the damage with a kind of careful, assessing attention.

He could tell you wanted to ask what happened. He could see the question sitting right there behind your eyes, the same way it always did. And he could also see you deliberately not asking it, the same way you always deliberately didn't, waiting to see if he'd offer it up himself, or if he needed to sit with it for a while first.

"This looks worse than it feels.” He offered instead.

"Mm-hm." You didn't look convinced. You reached for a cotton pad and the little bottle of antiseptic, tipping some onto it. "Deep breath."

He took one.

The cotton touched the cut above his eyebrow and he hissed through his teeth, flinching back before he could stop himself.

"Hold still....” You said, gentle but firm, your free hand coming up to steady his jaw.

"I'm holding still."

"You're tensing."

"I'm not tensing, I'm — okay, maybe a little."

"Skrulls wouldn't feel pain the same way…..” Remy said from the couch. "Different nervous system. Dat flinch is very suspicious."

Peter turned his head as much as your grip on his jaw allowed, which wasn't much. "I am not a Skrull."

"Course you'd say dat." Remy shrugged, spreading his hands like the logic was self-evident. "A real Skrull wouldn't just confess. Dat'd blow de whole operation."

"That's not — that logic doesn't work, Remy, you can't just—"

"Hold still…” You said again, dabbing at the cut with a fresh pad, and Peter subsided, grumbling, while you worked.

He watched you out of the corner of his eye as you cleaned the wound with the kind of unhurried precision that told him you actually had been paying attention in that class. You reached for the little tube of medical glue next, warming it briefly between your fingers the way you'd apparently been taught, and he made himself hold still through the sting of it, focusing instead on the argument still unfolding across the room.

"Okay, fine…” Peter said, mostly to distract himself from the glue. "Let's say — hypothetically — someone thought I was a Skrull. How would you even prove something like that?"

Remy's face lit up like Peter had just asked the one question he'd been dying for someone to ask. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and Peter had the distinct, sinking feeling he'd made a tactical error.

 "Well, de most accurate way is when dey die. Skrull revert back to dey true form de second dey stop breathin'."

Peter's eyes went wide. "Die?"

"It's very conclusive."

"Remy…." You said, warning, not looking up from the small bandage you were smoothing over the now-closed cut.

"What? I'm not suggestin' we kill anyone. I'm just sayin', if you wanted to be absolutely certain, dat's de most reliable method." He paused, considering. "Dere are other ways, of course. DNA testin'. Telepaths who can read deir minds and pick up on de different thought patterns. And dey're weak against magic, so a simple spell detection could work if you know de right people."

Peter swallowed. "So none of us would have any way of knowing who's a Skrull or not. Great. That's reassuring."

"I know a few telepaths...” Remy said, entirely too casually.

"You are not calling Jean at one in the morning to ask if Peter's secretly an alien…” You said, without even glancing up, taping down the edge of the bandage with a final, decisive press.

"I wasn't gonna call Jean."

"Remy."

"I was gonna text her." At your look, he raised both hands again. "Fine. No telepaths. Tonight."

You shook your head, closing the tube of glue and setting it back in the kit, but Peter caught the small smile tugging at your mouth before you smoothed it away.

"Besides….” Remy went on, warming to this subject in a way that suggested he'd thought about this at some point, unprompted, in his own time, which was its own kind of concerning, "Skrulls don't get most of de memories of de person dey're impersonatin'. Childhood stuff, personal details, dat kind of t'ing. So if you really wanted to test someone, you'd ask 'em questions only de real person would know."

"That's actually not a bad idea…." Peter admitted.

"Of course it's not. I'm full of good ideas." Remy leaned forward, his eyes glinting with mischief. "So let's test it. If you're really Peter Parker, you won't mind answerin' a few questions."

"Remy—" You started.

"No, it's fine." Peter waved a hand, then winced as the motion pulled at his ribs again. "Go ahead. Ask me anything. I've got nothing to hide. Because I'm not a Skrull."

"Dat's exactly what a Skrull would say." Remy grinned. "But fine. Let's start simple. What's your favorite movie?"

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it. "I—that's hard. I don't know if I have one favorite. I like a lot of movies."

"Uh-huh. Pick one."

"Okay, um. The Empire Strikes Back? No, wait—Alien is a classic. But then there's Interstellar, which is just—the visuals alone. And 2001: A Space Odyssey changed cinema forever. But if I'm being honest, I've probably watched A New Hope more times than any other movie. So maybe that one?"

Remy's eyes narrowed. "So all your favorite movies are space movies."

"They're not all space movies. I just —I like space, okay? It's a fascinating subject. The vastness of the universe, the possibility of life beyond Earth—"

"De possibility of life beyond Earth…." Remy repeated slowly. "And de movies you like most are about space. And aliens."

"That doesn't mean anything!"

"It means you're drawn to stories about your true home…." Remy said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Subconsciously seekin' out representations of your own people."

"My own people are from Queens!"

"Queens is just a cover. A very good cover, I'll admit. But a cover nonetheless."

You snorted. "Remy, you're ridiculous."

"I'm thorough….." Remy corrected. "Next question. What's your favorite sports team?"

Peter blinked. "I….don't really have one. I'm not super into sports."

Remy stared at him like he'd just confessed to a crime. "You live in New York. You're an American male in your twenties. You should have opinions about sports."

"I have opinions! I think sports are fine! I just never got into them. I didn't really have anyone around to get me into it. My uncle was more of a build-something-in-the-garage guy than a watch-the-game guy, and it just never—"

"Mets or Yankees?"

"I….don't really have a preference? They're both baseball teams. I don't—"

"You don't have a preference between de Mets and de Yankees." 

"I'm sure they're both great!"

"Dat's not how it works. You have to pick one. Dat's de whole point of livin' in New York."

Peter looked at you for help, but you were busy examining the cuts on his hands, your expression carefully neutral. He got the distinct impression that you were enjoying this more than you wanted to let on.

"Fine…." Peter said, desperate. "Yankees? I guess? Are they good?"

Remy threw his hands up. "He's guessin' about baseball! Dis is not de behavior of a native New Yorker!"

"It's just baseball! It doesn't matter!"

"It absolutely matters! It's de fabric of de city! It's tradition!"

While they argued, you continued your work. You'd moved on to the scrapes on Peter's knuckles, cleaning each one with gentle, methodical care. 

"Next question…." Remy said, settling back into the couch with the air of a prosecutor preparing his next line of attack. "What's somethin' you're genuinely afraid of?”

Peter considered the question. "The ocean, I guess."

"The ocean?"

"Yeah. I hate getting water in my ears and nose. The feeling of it—it just gets in there and won't come out, and then everything sounds weird for hours. And the ocean is full of things. Big things. Things with teeth. And it's so deep that once you're out there, you can't see the bottom, and that freaks me out."

Remy nodded slowly, a knowing look crossing his face. "Skrulls are afraid of oceans too."

Peter stared at him stunned. "They are?"

"They don't have oceans on their home world. Dey're naturally uncomfortable around large bodies of water."

"That's not a real thing…." You said, not looking up from your work. "You're making that up."

"How do you know? Have you ever been to deir home world?"

"You haven't either."

"I've read t'ings. I'm educated."

You rolled your eyes. "You're making things up to fit your narrative."

"I'm connectin' dots. Dat's different."

Peter couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him. It hurt a little —his ribs, his face, the general state of his body—but it felt good, too. The kind of laugh that came from being in good company, even when the company was absurd.

"Most embarrassing memory……" Remy continued, clearly enjoying himself now. "Somethin' so specific and humiliatin' that a Skrull couldn't possibly replicate it."

Peter's first instinct was to deflect. To make a joke, change the subject, say something vague about high school being generally awful. But there was something about the challenge in Remy's tone —and the warmth of your hands on his, and the late hour, and the lingering exhaustion that had worn down his defenses— that made him answer honestly.

"First day of high school….." He started. "....some seniors decided I looked like an easy target, which — fair, honestly — and they jumped me in the locker room, stripped me down to basically nothing, stuffed me into this deli meat costume from some theater department, and paraded me around the entire school as 'Fresh Meat.' It stuck. That was my nickname for the first two years."

The words hung in the air. For a long moment, no one spoke.

Peter shifted uncomfortably. He'd meant to tell it as a funny story —dark humor, the way he'd learned to tell most of his worst memories— but it had come out flatter than he intended. Sadder. The kind of story that made people look at you with pity instead of laughter.

Your hands had stilled on his. He could feel the tension in your fingers, the way you'd gone very quiet.

"That's horrifying...." You said softly.

"It was—" He forced a smile. "Character building? I learned a lot about resilience? And it gave me a thick skin. Literally."

Remy was staring at him with an expression that was difficult to read. "I don't believe you…." Remy said. "Dat's too sad to be real. You're makin' it up to throw me off."

"I'm not making it up! Why would I make that up?"

"Because you're a Skrull who's been given a cover story designed to make people feel bad for you. Nothin' disarms suspicion like pity."

"That doesn't even make sense!"

"It makes perfect sense," Remy insisted. "You're usin' sympathy as a weapon. Weaponized pathos. Very Skrull."

You resumed your work on Peter's hands, but your touch was gentler now, almost absent. When you spoke, your voice was quiet. "Peter, was there any follow-up? Teachers? Disciplinary action?"

Peter blinked. "What? No. I mean—it was high school. Stuff like that just happened. The teachers didn't care. Half of them were checked out by then anyway."

"That's not okay."

"It was a long time ago. I'm over it." He shrugged, then winced. "Mostly."

You didn't say anything else, but Peter could tell the story had rattled you more than he'd intended. He felt a flicker of guilt for bringing it up at all. This was supposed to be light. He was supposed to be making jokes, not dragging old trauma into their living room.

Remy, mercifully, changed the subject. "Alright, next question. When did you lose your virginity?"

Peter choked on air. "What?"

"You heard me. It's a simple question."

"I'm not —why do you need to know that?"

"Skrulls have weird matin' habits….." Remy said, as if that explained everything. "If you hesitate too long, it's suspicious."

"I'm not hesitating because I'm a Skrull! I'm hesitating because that's a completely inappropriate question to ask someone you've known for three months!"

"Three months is plenty of time. We're friends. Friends know dese t'ings."

Peter looked at you again, hoping for rescue. You were studying the back of his left hand with intense concentration, your lips pressed together in a way that suggested you were trying very hard not to laugh.

"You're enjoying this…." He accused.

"I'm not enjoying anything….." You said, but your voice was strained. "I'm focused on first aid."

"Traitor."

"Answer de question, Parker...." Remy said. "Or I'll assume you're a virgin, and Skrull virgins have very specific—"

"Twenty!" Peter blurted out. "I was twenty. I lost it at twenty."

Remy's eyebrows rose. "Twenty. Dat's a late bloomer."

"I was busy! With school! And the —the spider thing! Which you know about! So you know I was busy!"

"Lots of people are busy. Dey still find time for romance."

"I'm not most people! I'm—" Peter gestured at himself, at the bandages and the bruises and the general disaster of his existence. "Look at me! I'm a mess! I've always been a mess! It's a miracle anyone ever wanted to sleep with me at all!"

You'd given up trying not to laugh now. You were shaking silently, your shoulders trembling, one hand pressed to your mouth. Peter felt a warm flush of embarrassment —but under it, something lighter. Amusement, maybe. The absurdity of the whole conversation catching up to him.

"Okay…." He said, turning to Remy with as much dignity as he could muster. "You want to play this game? Fine. How do we know you're not a Skrull?"

Remy didn't miss a beat. "Because I'm too handsome and charmin' for any Skrull to properly impersonate. Dey'd never capture de full range of my appeal."

You snorted —a loud, undignified sound that made Peter grin despite himself. "You're impossible."

"I'm a national treasure…." Remy corrected. "De Skrulls couldn't handle de accent."

"They'd probably think you were a Skrull too…." Peter said. "With the eyes and the—" He gestured vaguely at Remy's face. "You know. The whole thing."

Remy's eyes narrowed. "De whole thing?"

"The, uh. The glowing. The card thing. The—" Peter made a vague exploding motion with his hands. "Boom?"

"Boom…" Remy repeated flatly.

"You know what I mean. You're not exactly a normal human either."

"I'm not a Skrull…." Remy said. "I'm a mutant. Dere's a difference."

"Sure there is."

"Dere is! Mutants are born on Earth. Skrulls are from outer space. Completely different t'ing."

You'd finished with Peter's hands now. You sat back on your heels, surveying your work with a critical eye. The bandages were neat, covering the worst of the scrapes without being bulky. Peter flexed his fingers experimentally, and the sharp sting had faded to a dull, manageable ache.

"How's that feel?" You asked.

"Better…." Peter admitted. "A lot better. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just stop getting hit in the face."

"I'll try. No promises. There are a lot of people in this city who want to hit me in the face."

"Wonder why…." Remy muttered.

You ignored him. You were still kneeling in front of Peter, your first aid kit spread out around you, and you reached up to touch his jaw with careful fingers, tilting his head to get a better look at the swelling on his cheek. Your touch was warm. Gentle. Peter found himself leaning into it without meaning to.

"This is going to bruise pretty badly…." You said. "Ice it when you get home. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. And try to sleep on your right side, not on the swollen side."

"Okay."

"I mean it, Peter. If you sleep on that side, you'll wake up looking like a chipmunk."

"I like chipmunks. They're resourceful."

You gave him a look —the kind of look that was supposed to be stern but came out fond. "You're impossible too."

"So I've been told."

She stood, brushing off her knees, and started packing up the first aid kit. Remy, meanwhile, had turned his attention back to you.

"How do we know you're not a Skrull?" He asked, his voice innocent.

You paused, looking at him. "Excuse me?"

"It's a valid question. We're testin' everyone. Peter's clearly suspicious—"

"I'm not suspicious!"

"—and I've established my innocence through sheer charisma. But what about you? How do we know you're not a shape-shiftin' alien?"

You folded your arms. "If I was an alien sent to infiltrate Earth and help my Skrull people take over, don't you think I'd be dating someone with more influence and power?"

Remy considered this. "Sure, dat would make sense as de original plan. But den you met me, and you fell so madly in love dat you decided to abandon your mission and betray your people. Obviously."

"Obviously…." You repeated, deadpan.

"I understand completely. I'm very hard to resist."

"You're very hard to shut up."

"That too."

Peter laughed. It hurt, but it was a good hurt, the kind that came from being somewhere safe and warm with people who made him forget, even for a little while, that the rest of the world was still out there waiting for him.

You disappeared into the kitchen, and Peter heard the sound of the refrigerator opening, the clink of a container being pulled from a shelf. A moment later, the microwave hummed to life.

"Soup…." Remy said, answering a question Peter hadn't asked. "Leftover creamy mushroom. She made it yesterday. She's been waitin' for an excuse to feed you."

"I don't need an excuse….." You called from the kitchen. "He just needs to show up more often."

Peter felt that warmth in his chest again, spreading through his entire body. He leaned back in the recliner, letting his head fall against the cushions, and closed his eyes for a moment. The exhaustion was still there—bone-deep, relentless—but it was softer now, less sharp. Easier to carry.

He heard you return from the kitchen. Felt the warmth of the bowl as you pressed it into his hands. Smelled the rich, savory scent of mushrooms and cream and herbs.

"Eat…." You said, settling onto the couch next to Remy. "And then you can tell us about the fight, if you want. Or not. Whatever you need."

Peter opened his eyes and looked at the two of you. Remy had pulled you against him, your legs tangled together on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder. The TV was still on, Jameson's show replaced by something else —a movie, bright and colorful and mostly ignored.

They looked so comfortable. So easy together. Peter had spent months watching them, studying the way they moved around each other, the way they communicated without words, the way they'd built something solid and warm and unshakable.

He'd never had that. He'd never let himself have that. But sitting here, in their apartment, with a bowl of homemade soup in his hands and the weight of their attention settling around him like a blanket, he thought he understood it a little better.

"Thanks…." He said quietly. "For….all of this."

You smiled at him, soft and warm. "Always, Peter."

The movie played on. They talked through most of it —commentary about the plot, and arguments about the dialogue. Peter drifted in and out, eating his soup and adding the occasional comment when he could gather the energy.

At some point, your voice faded into silence. Peter glanced over and saw that you'd fallen asleep against Remy, your face slack and peaceful, your breathing slow and even. Remy's arm was around you, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your shoulder, his expression soft in a way that made Peter feel like he was witnessing something private.

The movie credits rolled. Peter's bowl was empty. His body ached, but it was a distant ache now, muffled by warmth and food and the strange, fragile contentment that had settled over him like a second skin.

He stood slowly, careful not to make too much noise. Remy's eyes tracked him but didn't say anything, just gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

Peter carried the bowl to the kitchen and washed it in the sink, drying it and putting it away in the cabinet where he knew you kept the extra dishes. It was a small thing—a domestic thing—but it felt significant somehow. Like he belonged here. Like this was his place too.

"Goodnight, Remy…" He said quietly, pausing at the door.

"Goodnight, homme." Remy's voice was low, careful not to wake you. "Watch out for Skrulls. And body snatchers."

Peter let out a soft laugh. "Who would want this body?" He gestured at himself—the bandages, the bruises, the general wear and tear. "It's not exactly in peak condition."

Remy's eyes glinted in the dim light. "You'd be surprised."

Peter didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded and let himself out, closing the door quietly behind him.

The hallway was cold compared to the warmth of the apartment. Peter crossed to his own door and fumbled with his keys for a moment, his hands clumsy with exhaustion. Inside, his apartment was dark and quiet and just as sparse as it had been when he'd left. The first aid kit was still open on the bathroom counter where he'd abandoned it. The mirror still had that crack in the corner.

He brushed his teeth. Changed into the softest pair of sweatpants he owned. Downed a glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen for the swelling. And then, finally, he climbed into bed.

The sheets were cool against his skin. The mattress had a dip in the middle from years of use, and the pillow was flat in a way that probably wasn't good for his neck. But it was familiar, and it was his, and right now that felt like enough.

He lay on his right side, just like you'd told him, and stared at the ceiling. The city hummed outside his window, distant sirens and the occasional horn and the constant low murmur of eight million people living their lives. His body hurt. His face throbbed. Tomorrow, he'd have to work and patrol and pretend like he hadn't spent the night getting beaten half to hell by a guy with a metal bat and a grudge against public infrastructure.

But tonight, he was warm. He was fed. He was cared for.

Two months ago, he'd been alone. Two months ago, he'd been bleeding in his bathtub, too exhausted to even finish patching himself up, certain that no one in the world would notice if he died. Two months ago, he'd forgotten what it felt like to have people—real people, who saw him and stayed.

And now...

Now he had you and Remy. Now he had movie nights and dinner invitations and a group chat that never seemed to stop buzzing. Now he had someone to clean his cuts and glue his wounds and tell him to ice his bruises. Now he had people who noticed when he was tired, who asked questions and meant them, who stayed awake until 1 AM just in case he needed them.

He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. That was the thing. The part he couldn't quite shake. He kept waiting for the moment when it would all fall apart —when he'd mess something up, or push them too far, or they'd get tired of the blood and the danger and the constant low-level chaos of his life. He kept holding his breath, waiting for the catch.

But it wasn't coming. He was starting to believe it wasn't coming.

You and Remy were his people. He wasn't a burden to them. He wasn't a third wheel, an obligation, a charity case. He was their friend. They liked him. They wanted him around.

He was loved.

The thought was so big, so overwhelming, that it took his breath away. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him —the warmth, the safety, the sheer impossible miracle of being known and accepted anyway.

He was happy. That was the truth of it. Despite the bruises and the exhaustion and the never-ending grind of being Spider-Man. Despite the losses and the loneliness and the years he'd spent convincing himself he didn't need anyone. Despite everything, he was happy.

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe it would last.

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(Your POV)

The first day was easy to brush off.

You'd sent a text to the group chat in the morning—a photo of the sunrise from the kitchen window, the sky streaked with pink and gold. Remy had responded with a string of heart emojis. Peter hadn't responded at all.

That wasn't unusual. Peter went silent sometimes. He got busy, got caught up in patrol or work or whatever crisis the city had thrown at him that week. You'd learned not to take it personally. You'd learned to trust that he'd resurface eventually, usually with a sheepish apology and a rambling explanation about how he'd lost his phone or broken his charger or been trapped under a collapsed building for six hours.

So you didn't worry. Not that first day.

The second day, you sent another text. A question this time—Hey, we're making stir-fry tonight if you want to come over. No response.

Remy texted him separately. You alive, homme? Nothing.

That evening, you knocked on his door with a plate of food in your hands. No answer. You stood there for a long moment, listening to the silence on the other side of the door, then left the plate on the floor outside his apartment with a sticky note that said We know you're probably busy but we just wanted to make sure you had something to eat - Your Favorite Neighbors 

The third day, the plate was still there.

You stared at it as you left for work, the food untouched and congealing on the ceramic. The plastic wrap had fogged with condensation. The sticky note had curled at the edges.

Your stomach twisted. Peter always ate. That was one of the constants of the universe, like gravity or the sunrise or Remy's inability to resist stealing bites of whatever you were cooking. Peter Parker ate. Peter Parker never left food untouched.

You knocked again. Harder this time. No answer. You pressed your ear against the door and heard nothing —no TV, no music, no creaking floorboards. Just silence.

By the time you got home from work that evening, the plate was still there. You picked it up and carried it back to your own apartment, scraping the ruined food into the trash. Your hands were shaking slightly. You told yourself it was just because you were tired.

Remy watched you from the couch, his cards forgotten in his hands. He didn't ask what was wrong. He already knew.

"Still nothin'?" 

"No." You dropped the empty plate into the sink and turned on the water, scrubbing it harder than necessary. "He's not answering any of my texts. He's not answering your texts. I knocked on his door three times today. Nothing."

Remy was quiet for a moment. Then he set his cards down and stood, crossing the room to stand behind you. His hands found your shoulders, warm and steady, and he guided you away from the sink.

"Come here…." 

You let him pull you into his arms. Your face pressed against his chest, and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. His arms wrapped around you, solid and grounding, and for a moment you just stood there, breathing him in.

"He's fine…." Remy said. His voice rumbled against your ear. "Kid's tangled up in some alien goo or somethin'. He'll show up in a day or two, lookin' for leftovers and apologizin' for goin' radio silent."

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to let yourself be comforted. But the knot in your stomach wouldn't loosen.

"He's never gone this long without checking in…" You whispered. "Not since we found out. He always texts. Even if it's just a thumbs up or a stupid meme. He always lets us know he's alive."

Remy's hand came up to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair. "I know, chère. But he's a grown man. A superhero. He's been takin' care of himself for years before we came along. He doesn't need us hoverin'."

"I'm not hovering."

"You're worryin'. Same t'ing."

You pulled back far enough to look at him. His expression was soft, but there was something serious underneath, something that mirrored what you were feeling.

"You're worried too…." It wasn't a question.

Remy's jaw tightened. "I'm...concerned."

"That's the same thing as worried."

"No, it's not. Concerned is more rational. Worried is what you do when you've got a bad feelin'. I've got a good feelin'. Peter's a tough kid. He'll be fine."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to point out that Peter might be tough, but he was also reckless and self-sacrificing and prone to getting himself into situations that would kill a normal person. But Remy's arms were warm around you, and his heartbeat was steady, and you were so tired of carrying this knot of anxiety in your chest.

"Promise?" You asked quietly.

Remy pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Promise."

It wasn't a real promise. He couldn't know if Peter was okay any more than you could. But it was enough to get you through the night.

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(Remy's POV)

Five days.

Five days since anyone had seen or heard from Peter Parker. Five days of unanswered texts and ignored knocks and meals left outside his door that he never touched. Five days of watching you worry yourself sick, checking your phone every few minutes, pressing your ear to the wall like you could hear him breathing on the other side.

Remy had stayed calm through all of it. He'd told you not to worry, told you Peter was fine, told you the kid had survived worse than a few days of silence. But the truth was, Remy was starting to get worried too. Not the rational, controlled concern he'd shown you. Something deeper. Something that prickled at the back of his neck like a warning.

So when he stepped out of the apartment to take the trash down and saw Peter fumbling with his door lock, the relief that flooded through him was almost overwhelming.

Then Peter turned, and the relief curdled into something cold.

The kid looked bad. Worse than bad. His skin was pale and sallow, like he hadn't seen sunlight in a week. One eye was black and swollen nearly shut, the bruise spreading across his cheekbone in ugly shades of purple and green. His clothes were wrinkled and mismatched —a shirt that hung off his shoulders, pants that were too short, shoes that looked like they'd been dug out of a dumpster. His hair was greasy and unwashed, sticking up at strange angles. He looked like he'd been living in the subway tunnels for a week, not holed up in his apartment across the hall.

"Homme….." Remy said, taking a step toward him. "You look like death warmed over. You okay?"

Peter's head snapped toward him. For a moment, there was something in his one good eye —a flicker of surprise, maybe, or confusion. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something cold and hard.

"What do you care?" Peter's voice was rough, like he hadn't used it in days.

Remy blinked. "What do I care? I'm your friend. We've been worried sick about you. You've been MIA for five days, homme. No texts, no calls, nobody's seen you."

"Maybe I didn't want to be seen." Peter turned back to his door, fumbling with the key. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated. "Ever think of that?"

"Look, why don't you come over? Get cleaned up, let me take a look at that eye. Wait around ’til mah chère gets back from work. She’s been worried sick ’bout you."

The key finally slid into the lock. Peter paused, his hand still on the doorknob. "Tell her to stop worrying."

"She won't stop worryin' until she sees you. You know how she is." Remy forced a smile, trying to keep his tone light. "Come on. You don't have to stay long. Just let her fuss over you for a few minutes. She's been makin' enough food to feed an army, waitin' for you to show up."

Peter's shoulders stiffened. "I'm not hungry."

"Den come over anyway. We've missed you, homme. It's been quiet around here without you."

Silence. Peter stared at the door, his back to Remy, his shoulders hunched. For a moment, Remy thought he might actually turn around, might let some of that coldness crack, might be the Peter they knew again.

Then Peter spoke, and his voice was ice.

"Leave me the hell alone."

The door opened. The door slammed. Remy stood alone in the hallway, the trash bag forgotten in his hand, staring at the closed door like it had personally insulted him.

Five days. Five days of silence, and this was what he got? Not an explanation, not an apology, not even a goddamn hello. Just leave me the hell alone and a slammed door.

Remy's grip tightened on the trash bag. His jaw clenched. Something was wrong here. Something was very, very wrong.

He took the trash out. He came back. He stood in the hallway for a long moment, listening to the silence on the other side of Peter's door. Then he went back inside to wait for you.

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(Your POV)

You came home to find Remy sitting on the couch, the TV off, his fingers moving restlessly, shuffling and reshuffling a deck, the cards whispering against each other in the quiet apartment.

The knot in your stomach —the one that had been growing for days— tightened another notch.

"What's wrong?" You asked, dropping your bag by the door.

Remy looked up. His expression was carefully blank, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders were set just a little too rigid.

"Saw Peter tonight…." 

You froze. "You saw him? Is he okay? Where's he been?"

“I ain’t got no idea where he been.” Remy's voice was flat. "Stepped out to take de trash down, and dere he was, tryin' to get into his apartment. Looked like hell. Pale, black eye, clothes all wrong. Like he hadn't slept in a week."

"Was he hurt? Did you talk to him?"

"I tried." Remy's jaw tightened. "He tol’ me t’ leave him da hell alone and slammed de door in my face."

You stared at him. "He…what?"

“Yeah. Dat's exactly what he said. Didn't sound like himself, chère. Somethin' ain't right.” Remy shook his head slowly. 

You sank down onto the couch beside him, your mind spinning. Peter had been short with them before. He'd been grumpy, exhausted, lost in his own head. But he'd never been cold. Never cruel. Never told them to leave him alone like they were strangers.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Remy's fingers continued to shuffle the cards, the rhythmic whisper filling the silence. You stared at the wall, trying to make sense of the jumble of thoughts in your head.

"Maybe he's just..." You started, then stopped. You didn't even know what to say. There was no explanation that made sense. No excuse that fit.

"Maybe he's just what?" Remy prompted.

"I don't know." You rubbed at your temples. "Maybe he had a really bad week. Maybe something happened on patrol and he's not ready to talk about it. Maybe he just needs space."

"Space is one t'ing. Actin' like we're de enemy is somethin' else."

"Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

Remy snorted. "Dat's one hell of a wrong side."

You sighed, leaning back into the couch cushions. He was right. You knew he was right. But you didn't want to admit it, didn't want to give voice to the fear that had been growing in your chest since the day you'd found that plate of uneaten food outside his door.

Remy shifted beside you, his arm coming up to rest along the back of the couch. "You know what he reminded me of tonight?"

"What?"

"A Skrull."

You turned your head to look at him. "Remy."

"I'm serious." He leaned forward, his expression intent. "I’ve been thinkin’ about it. De way he looked at me —like he didn't know me. De way he talked— like he'd never had a real conversation in his life. De way he moved —all jerky and wrong, like he wasn't used to his own body. Dat's classic Skrull behavior."

"Remy, he's not a Skrull."

"You don't know dat. None of us know dat. He could've been replaced days ago, and we'd have no way of tellin'."

You gave him a look. "Don't start."

"I'm not startin'. I'm just sayin'—"

"Well, don't say." You reached over and squeezed his hand. "He's not a Skrull. He's our friend who's going through something weird. I'll check on him tomorrow, invite him to dinner, and we'll figure out what's going on. Okay?"

Remy sighed, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased. "Okay. But if he starts glowin' green or speakin' in tongues, I'm callin' Jean."

"You are not calling Jean."

"Fine. I'll call Logan. He's better in a fight anyway."

“If Logan's coming over, I'm feeding him meatballs, not sending him after Peter.”

“You t'ink you can solve all de world's problems wit' dinner parties, don't you?” Remy said, pulling you closer.

You let yourself lean into him, your head finding its usual place on his shoulder. “Not all of them. Just this one, hopefully.”

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Remy ordered takeout from the Thai place you both liked, and you ate on the couch, your feet tucked under you, his arm draped over your shoulders. He turned the TV on to some old movie —a comfort film, one of your favorites— and you let the familiar sounds wash over you.

Every few minutes, you caught yourself glancing toward the door. Listening for footsteps. For a knock. For anything.

Remy noticed, but he didn't say anything. He just pulled you closer, his thumb tracing slow circles on your shoulder, his lips pressing occasional kisses to the top of your head.

"Stop thinkin' so loud…." He murmured at one point, his voice low and warm. "I can hear you worryin' from here."

"I'm not worrying."

"You're always worryin'. It's one of your many charms."

"One of many?"

"Mm. Dere's also de way you make dem little noises when you eat somethin' good. And de way you talk back to de TV. And de way you look at me when you think I'm bein' ridiculous."

"You're always being ridiculous."

"See? Dat look right dere." He grinned, and you felt some of the tension in your chest ease. "I love dat look."

You turned your face into his shoulder, hiding a smile. "You're insufferable."

"Tragically."

The movie played on. The city hummed outside. And for a little while, you let yourself pretend that everything was fine.

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(Your POV)

You knocked on Peter's door at six o'clock the next evening, still in your work clothes, your feet aching from a long shift.

You hadn't planned to check on him tonight. You'd planned to change into pajamas and collapse on the couch and let Remy feed you leftovers while you complained about the rude customer who'd sent his soup back three times. But your feet had carried you across the hallway before you'd even realized where you were going, and now here you were, knocking on Peter's door like you had so many times before.

It took a long time for him to answer. Long enough that you'd started to think he wasn't home, or just wasn't going to answer.

Then the door swung open, and you forgot how to breathe.

Peter looked even worse than Remy had described. His skin was a sickly gray in the dim hallway light, and the bruise around his left eye had deepened to a dark, ugly purple. His hair was matted and unwashed. The clothes he was wearing —a rumpled button-down shirt that was missing two buttons and a pair of jeans that didn't quite fit— hung off his frame like they belonged to someone else.

He stared at you with an expression of blank confusion, like he'd never seen you before in his life.

"What the hell do you want?" He asked.

The words hit you like a physical blow. You'd known, after what Remy told you, that Peter was acting strange. You'd braced yourself for it. But hearing that cold, hard edge in his voice —directed at you, of all people— was something else entirely.

"I haven't heard from you in a bit…." You said carefully, forcing your voice to stay gentle. "I just wanted to check in. See how you're doing."

He blinked at you. "Why?"

"Because I was worried about you."

The confusion in his expression deepened, and something like suspicion flickered in his one good eye. "Why would you be worried about me?"

The question was so strange, so fundamentally wrong, that it took you a moment to find your voice. "Because you disappeared for a week? Because you haven't answered any of our texts? Because you're our friend, and we care about you?"

Peter's jaw tightened. He shifted in the doorway, his weight moving restlessly from foot to foot. "I've been busy…." 

"Too busy to send a text? Too busy to let us know you're alive?"

"Yes."

The word hung in the air between you, sharp and final. You felt a flicker of frustration rise in your chest, but you pushed it down. Getting angry wouldn't help. Whatever was going on with Peter, anger would only push him further away.

"We're having dinner tonight…." You said, changing tack. "Tortellini and meatballs. I made the pasta from scratch. There's plenty, if you want to come over."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Why would I do that?"

"Because it's what we do. We have dinner together. We spend time together. It's been a thing for months now." You paused, studying his face. "You remember that, right? Movie nights? Dinner? The group chat?"

He stared at you, and for a long, uncomfortable moment, you couldn't read anything in his expression. Then something shifted —a flicker of recognition, maybe, or just exhaustion.

"I remember…" He said, but his voice was odd. Flat. Like he was reciting a fact he'd learned rather than something he'd lived.

"Then come over." You smiled, trying to keep it warm. "Seven-thirty. I'll set an extra plate."

He didn't answer right away. His eyes searched your face, looking for something —a trap, a lie, a hidden motive. You held his gaze, keeping your expression open and honest, and finally, something in his posture eased.

"Fine…" He muttered. "Seven-thirty."

He closed the door without saying goodbye.

You stood in the hallway for a long moment, your heart pounding in your chest. Something was wrong. Something was deeply, terribly wrong. But he'd agreed to dinner. That was a start. That was something.

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Peter arrived at 7:22.

You'd made the tortellini from scratch, rolling the pasta dough by hand and shaping each piece with careful precision. The meatballs were a recipe that you’d learned during a summer in Italy, and they simmered in a rich tomato sauce that filled the apartment with the warm, savory scent of garlic and herbs and slow-cooked comfort. You'd set the table with care, folded the napkins, lit a candle in the center. It was the kind of meal you made for people you loved, and you'd wanted Peter to feel that, to taste it, to know that he was welcomed here.

He walked in without knocking.

That was the first sign that something was off. Peter always knocked. He hesitated, he second-guessed, he apologized for things that didn't need apologizing. But tonight, he just pushed the door open and walked inside like he owned the place.

Remy was on the couch, watching Jameson's show —he'd had it on for the past hour, and you'd given up trying to change the channel. Peter's eyes landed on him immediately, and his expression soured.

"Why the hell is he here?"

The words came out sharp, accusatory, and they stopped you in your tracks. You'd been walking to the kitchen to check on the tortellini, but now you turned back, your brow furrowed in confusion.

Remy raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral. "Because I live here, homme. Last I checked."

Peter stared at him for a long moment, his jaw tight, his eyes hard. Then he turned away with a dismissive snort, like Remy's answer had somehow confirmed something he'd already suspected.

Remy caught your eye from across the room. His expression said everything: What the hell is this?

You could only shrug, helpless, your stomach sinking further with every passing second.

"Peter…." You said, keeping your voice light, "....dinner's almost ready. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Wine? We've got some of that lemonade you liked last time."

He didn't answer. He just pulled out a chair at the dining table and sat down heavily, his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him.

You exchanged another look with Remy. Then you went to the kitchen and poured three glasses of water, because you didn't know what else to do.

Dinner was a disaster.

It started with the food. You'd plated the tortellini and meatballs, the pasta glistening with sauce, the meatballs tender and fragrant. It was good. You knew it was good. You'd tasted it half a dozen times while you were cooking, and Remy had already stolen three meatballs from the pot.

Peter took one bite and made a face.

"The hell is this?" He asked, his mouth full.

You blinked. "It's tortellini. I made it from scratch."

He chewed with his mouth open, and you could see the half-masticated food on his tongue. "Tastes burnt."

You frowned. "Burnt? The sauce didn't burn. I was watching it the whole time."

"Tastes burnt…." He repeated, shoving another forkful into his mouth. "And it's not seasoned well either. Tastes like nothing."

Remy's fork clinked against his plate. "Nothin' tastes burnt, homme. De food is good."

Peter pointed his fork between the two of you. “It isn't. You clearly can't cook, and Remy's been lying to you this whole time about your basic domestic abilities if he told you otherwise.”

The words hit you like a physical blow.

For a moment, you just stared at him, your fork frozen halfway to your mouth. You'd spent hours on this meal, and Peter was sitting there, chewing with his mouth open, telling you that you couldn't cook. That Remy had been lying to you about your basic domestic abilities.

The word domestic echoed in your head, sharp and demeaning. Like you were nothing more than a housewife playing at being a chef. Like the hours you'd spent in the kitchen —the love and care and effort you'd poured into every meal— meant nothing. Like the food you'd been feeding him for months, the leftovers and the welcome dinners and the containers of soup left outside his door, had all been some kind of joke.

Your throat tightened. You set your fork down carefully You would not cry. You would not let him see how much his words had hurt you.

But Remy saw.

Under the table, his hand found yours. His fingers were warm, steady, and when you looked at him, you saw the anger in his face —not the sharp, explosive kind, but something colder. His jaw was tight, his red-on-black eyes fixed on Peter with an intensity that made the air in the room feel thin.

"De food is good…" Remy said, his voice dangerously quiet. "She's been cookin' for years. She don't need me to lie to her about dat."

Peter didn't look up. He just pushed another forkful of pasta into his mouth, chewing with that same open-mouthed, almost theatrical disdain. "Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night."

The casual cruelty of it made your stomach turn. This was Peter. Peter, who'd eaten three servings of your gratin and asked if there was more. Peter, who'd told you your coq au vin was the best thing he'd ever tasted. Peter, who'd looked at you with those big, earnest eyes and said "Vegetables shouldn't taste like this" like you'd performed some kind of miracle.

Now he was looking at you like you were nothing. Like the food you'd made for him —the hours of work, the love baked into every bite— was just another thing to be dismissed.

"Peter…" You said, and your voice came out steadier than you expected, "....if you don't like it, I can get you something else. There's leftover meatloaf in the fridge."

The excuse felt flimsy, even to you. You were giving him a way to backtrack, to apologize, to pretend this had all been some kind of mistake. But Peter just made a face —that same dismissive, almost disgusted expression he'd been wearing all night.

"Meatloaf…" He repeated flatly. "What is this, a retirement home? I'm not eighty."

The words stung. You felt them land somewhere in your chest, sharp and cold. "It was just a suggestion. I thought you liked meatloaf."

"When did I ever say that?"

The question caught you off guard. "You—you've eaten it before. I made it a few weeks ago. You said it was good. You said it reminded you of something your aunt used to make."

Peter's expression flickered—a brief, almost imperceptible twitch of something that might have been confusion. Then it was gone, replaced by that same cold, dismissive mask.

"I don't remember that…" 

"Peter—"

"I said I don't remember." His voice sharpened, cutting you off. "Why do you keep pushing? Maybe I just didn't think it was important enough to remember."

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. You could feel the heat building in your chest, the pressure behind your eyes. You would not cry. You would not cry. You would not—

Remy's hand tightened around yours under the table. When he spoke, his voice was controlled, but you could hear the steel underneath. "You're actin' real rude in someone else's home. You notice dat?"

Peter looked up at him, and for a moment, something passed between them —a flicker of challenge, of hostility, like two animals sizing each other up. "If you don't like how I talk, don't invite me over. Simple."

"Trust me…" Remy said, "...dat won't be happenin' again any time soon."

Peter shrugged, utterly unbothered. "Fine with me."

You felt the situation spiraling, slipping toward something ugly and irreversible. You had to do something —redirect, change the subject, find some way to break through the cold, hard shell Peter had built around himself. Because if you didn't, Remy was going to say something he couldn't take back, and Peter was going to leave, and you'd be right back where you started— standing in a hallway with a plate of uneaten food, waiting for a door that might never open. 

"So, Peter…" You said, your voice just a little too bright, "Remy and I were talking about going to that new exhibit at the Natural History Museum. The deep-sea one. You'd probably like it. There's a whole section on bioluminescent creatures."

Peter grunted. He didn't look up from his plate.

"You know…." You continued, undeterred, "...the way some creatures generate their own light. It's really fascinating stuff. They use it for communication, camouflage, attracting prey—"

"I know what bioluminescence is…" Peter snapped. 

"I didn't say you didn't—"

"And I don't need you explaining basic science to me like I'm a child." He pushed his plate away, the half-eaten food congealing on the ceramic. "This whole conversation is boring. I don't know why I even came."

You'd been trying so hard —trying to keep the peace, trying to find some common ground, trying to remind him of the friendship you'd built over months of shared meals and movie nights and late-night conversations. And he was sitting there, telling you it was boring. Telling you he didn't know why he'd even bothered.

Your throat tightened again. The pressure behind your eyes grew stronger.

"You came because we’re friends…." You said quietly. "I’m worried about you. I-I just want to make sure you’re okay."

Peter's gaze flicked to yours, and for just a moment —a fraction of a second— something softened in his expression. Something almost like confusion. Like he was trying to understand what you were saying but couldn't quite make it fit.

Then it was gone.

"Friends…." He repeated, the word flat and hollow. "Right."

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. You flinched at the sound, but Peter didn't seem to notice. He was already moving toward the door, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, like he wasn't quite sure how to work his own body.

"This was a waste of my time…" He muttered, not looking back.

The door slammed behind him, hard enough to rattle the glasses on the table.

And then the silence rushed in, thick and suffocating, pressing against your chest until you couldn't breathe.

You stared at the closed door, at the empty chair where Peter had been sitting, at the half-eaten plate of food he'd pushed away like it was nothing. The candle flickered in the center of the table, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. The tortellini had gone cold. The sauce was congealing on the plates.

Your hands were shaking.

The first sob came out of nowhere —a raw, broken sound that tore its way out of your throat before you could stop it. Your hand flew to your mouth, trying to muffle it, but it was too late. The tears were already coming, hot and fast, streaming down your cheeks faster than you could wipe them away.

You were crying. Really crying. The kind of crying you hadn't done in months, the kind that came from somewhere deep and wounded and utterly exhausted. Your shoulders shook with it. Your breath came in ragged, gasping bursts that made your chest ache.

Remy was at your side in an instant.

He didn't say anything at first. He just pulled you out of your chair and into his arms, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other wrapped tight around your waist. You buried your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart, your fingers clutching at his shirt like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

"It's okay…." He murmured against your hair. "It's okay, chère. I've got you."

But it wasn't okay. Nothing about this was okay. The Peter who'd sat at your table and called your food burnt and looked at you like you were a stranger —that wasn't the Peter you knew.

You tried to calm yourself down. You tried to breathe, to count backward from ten, to do all the things you'd learned over years of managing stress and anxiety and the general chaos of life. But your body wouldn't cooperate. The sobs kept coming, wave after wave, each one leaving you more drained than the last.

"I'm sorry…." You gasped, the words muffled against Remy's chest. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm —I can't—"

"Don't apologize." Remy's voice was firm but gentle. "Don't you dare apologize for feelin' somethin'. You got every right to be upset."

"It's just—" You pulled back far enough to look at him, your vision blurry with tears. "It's just that he's never—he's never talked to me like that. Not once. He's never been cruel. And tonight he was so—" Your voice cracked. "He was so cruel, Remy."

Remy's jaw tightened. You could see the anger still simmering in his eyes, but his hands stayed gentle, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

"I know…." He said quietly. "I know."

"Do you think—" You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. "Do you think we did something wrong? Something to make him act this way?"

Remy's expression softened. He cupped your face in his hands, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his eyes. "Listen to me, chère. We didn't do nothin' wrong. We've been nothin' but good to dat boy. We fed him when he was hungry. We patched him up when he was bleedin'. We gave him a place to belong when he had nowhere else to go. We didn't do nothin' to deserve de way he treated you tonight."

"Then why is he acting like this?"

"I don't know." Remy's voice was honest, stripped of its usual bravado. "But I know it ain't your fault. It ain't our fault. Somethin's goin' on wit' him, somethin' we don't understand yet. But dat don't give him de right to talk to you de way he did."

You sniffled, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. "It just hurts. Everything he said—about the food, about me, about—" You couldn't finish the sentence. The word domestic was still echoing in your head, sharp and demeaning.

"I could go over dere right now…." Remy said, and there was an edge to his voice now, a hint of the old danger lurking beneath the surface. "Go across de hallway and slap some sense into him. See how he likes bein' talked to like dat."

Despite everything, a small, watery laugh escaped you. "That wouldn't make me feel better."

"Wouldn't be for you." Remy's eyes glinted. "Would be for me. Didn't appreciate de way he was talkin' to you. Not one bit."

You pulled away from him slightly, reaching up to wipe the remaining tears from your face. Your skin felt hot and swollen, and you were sure you looked like a mess, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. "That wasn't the real Peter…." You said quietly. "The real Peter would never talk to us like that. He's just going through something. Something bad. I just wish I knew how to help him."

Remy sighed, his hands settling on your shoulders. "You've done everyt'ing you can to help him. More dan most people would. You've been a good friend to dat boy. Better dan he deserves right now."

"But it's not enough."

"It's enough, chère. It's always been enough." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips —soft and sweet, lingering just long enough to make the tight knot in your chest loosen a fraction. When he pulled back, his expression was serious. "Now you listen to me. Whatever he's goin' through, it don't give him no excuse to treat you de way he did tonight. And he's not allowed back in dis apartment until he's on his knees wit' a grovelin' apology. You hear me?"

You nodded, though the thought of Peter on his knees was almost enough to make you laugh again. "A groveling apology?"

"On his knees, chère. Beggin' for forgiveness. Maybe wit' flowers. And chocolate. And a written statement acknowledgin' dat your cookin' is de best he's ever tasted."

"That's a lot of conditions."

"He's got a lot to make up for." Remy's thumb traced the curve of your jaw, gentle despite the steel in his words. "But for now, give him space. Let him figure out whatever mess he's gotten himself into. And in de meantime, we take care of each other. Like we always do."

You took a shaky breath and nodded again. "Okay."

"Okay." He kissed your forehead, then pulled back, his hands dropping to your waist. "You hungry at all? Dere's still plenty of tortellini left."

You shook your head. "No. I'm not hungry."

Remy studied your face for a moment, then nodded. "Understandable. How about a glass of wine? Somethin' to help you relax."

"That sounds nice."

He guided you to the couch, settling you against the cushions with a blanket draped over your lap. Then he disappeared into the kitchen, and you heard the soft clink of a wine glass, the familiar pop of a cork being pulled from a bottle. A moment later, he was back, pressing a generous pour of red wine into your hands.

"Here…" He said, his voice soft. "Drink dis. I'll take care of de food and de dishes."

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I want to." He kissed the top of your head. "Just sit here and relax, chère. Let me take care of you for once."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words died on your tongue. Because he was already moving toward the table, gathering plates and silverware, carrying the leftover food to the kitchen. You watched him work, his movements unhurried, and something in your chest eased at the sight of him —the quiet competence, the steady presence, the way he'd dropped everything to hold you while you fell apart.

He'd been angry tonight. You'd seen it in his face, felt it in the tension of his body when he'd told Peter to go. But he'd pushed that anger aside for you. He'd held you while you cried and kissed you when you needed it and told you that it wasn't your fault. He'd taken care of you, the way he always did.

You sipped your wine and let the warmth of it spread through you, chasing away some of the cold that had settled in your bones. The apartment was quiet except for the soft sounds of Remy moving around the kitchen, the clink of dishes being stacked, the gentle rush of water from the sink.

You closed your eyes and tried to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and steady, the way Remy had taught you when the anxiety got bad.

Peter was going through something. That was what you kept telling yourself. Something bad, something he didn't know how to ask for help with. He'd pushed you away because he was hurting, not because he'd stopped caring. And when he came back —when he finally realized how much he needed you— you'd be there. Waiting. Ready to forgive him, because that was what family did.

Remy reappeared a few minutes later, the dishes done and the leftovers packed away. He settled onto the couch beside you, pulling you against him, and you went willingly, curling into his warmth like a cat seeking sunlight.

"How you feelin'?" He asked quietly.

"Tired…" You admitted. "But better. A little."

"Good." His arm came around you, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder. "You want to talk about it some more? Or you want to just sit here and not t'ink about anyt'ing for a while?"

You considered the question. Part of you wanted to talk —to dissect every word Peter had said, every strange look and awkward pause, until you'd made some kind of sense of it. But a bigger part of you was exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that went into the deepest parts of you.

"Can we just sit?" You asked. "Just for a little while."

"Of course, chère." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "We can sit as long as you want."

So you sat. You leaned into Remy's warmth and drank your wine and let the silence of the apartment wrap around you like a blanket. Outside, the city hummed its nightly song, indifferent and eternal. Across the hall, Peter was behind his closed door, alone with whatever demons were eating at him.

You hoped he was okay. Despite everything —despite the cruel words and the cold looks and the way he'd made you cry— you hoped he was okay. Because he was still your friend. He was still Peter.