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A warm spring breeze blew through the crack in the window dragging in the distant sounds of Manhattan. The yellow glow of a street light floated into the messy room, illuminating discarded medical supplies and strewn about work clothes. Two day-old coffee mugs sat on a rickety nightstand held together by tape and a prayer.

You had fallen onto the mess of sheets lying on the bed. Your suit was torn and dirty; the skin underneath was bruised. Heaviness had long since seeped into your bones, holding you down on the bed. Sleep pulled at your eyelids, but they refused to shut. Instead, they stared blankly at the old walls around you.

It had been a rough night.

It was always a rough night.

The story was always the same. You patrolled, you saw something wrong, you stepped into help, then you got your ass kicked, but at the end of it all you got the bad guy. Didn't mean it didn't hurt every time they landed a hard blow to your ribs, or knocked your feet from below you. It was what heroes did, you owed the city it, you owed everyone you couldn't save.

The window squeaked open—a reminder of yet another thing you needed to fix—and a familiar face crawled in. Peter didn't look any better than you did. His suit had a new tear right at the shoulder, with a nasty looking scratch already stitched up underneath it. Dirt, scuffs, and mud turned the blues and reds dark. He peeled his mask off and carefully threw it into a drawer, running a hand through his dishevelled brown hair. Dark bags weighed heavy under his eyes as he scanned over the room.

Your eyes trailed over him drinking in the sight of him. A tired silence filled the air, both of you too exhausted to say any words. None were needed to explain what had happened, you'd long since passed that necessity. The bed groaned as you carefully sat up and walked over to him, reaching out a hand to gently inspect him. Your fingertips gently dragged over his shoulder noting the slight wince he let out when you hit the wrong spot. His weight dropped down onto your shoulder, breath gently tickling your neck while his hand tangled into your hair.

Slowly, you leaned into him and pressed a gentle kiss on a bruise that had formed on the edge of his jaw. Then another on the scratch by his collarbone. Your eyes quickly met his as you looked for any sign of discomfort, but only found a familiar warmth. Soft, yet slightly chapped lips quickly melted onto your own. He tasted the way he always did after patrols—generously donated food and adrenaline—a taste you began to recognize as home. You pushed into the kiss allowing yourself to be lost in the moment. Hands trailed along beaten and bruised skin cataloging each blow they weren't fast enough to stop.

Neither of you pulled away for a while, you rarely did on nights like this willing yourself to forget everything in turn for one soft moment, like maybe if you stayed connected for long enough you would stop fearing of never returning.

Then his forehead rested against your own, eyes flickering shut. Both of your calm breaths aligned as the stillness seeped into the room. His hand found its way to the zip of your suit reminding you that you were still wearing the tattered clothing. Long since were the days when you would have hid the mess you were. You lightly nodded your head as he slowly began to undo it. You follow with, pulling his suit with a form of reverence you only reserve for him.

Skin tight fabric hits the floor with soft thuds as you begin to pull him toward the single bathroom in your cheap apartment. The door whines as you push it open and turn the old shower handle to hot. The pipes groaned as water gently flowed from the broken shower head. Peter plants soft kisses along your shoulder focusing on the fading bruise that takes its place. A gentle hand carefully pulls him into the shower with you.

The water hits you both scathingly hot at first, but the warmth melts into your skin soothing the aches that never seem to leave. Hands cradle around each other too afraid to part just yet. Tentative kisses trail across each other's bodies willing the other to feel even a fraction of a bit better. A light kiss on a fading bruise on your arm, another on the curve of your hip. A kiss placed on his chest, a few more on the scattered marks on his thighs.

When the water started to cool you massaged the shampoo into his curls. Money was tight but you could spare the small amount to take care of each other. You quietly ran your hands tenderly through every coil, stopping every once in a while to place small, scattered kiss anywhere you could. The scent of the lavender-cedar soap filled the air as Peter ran the old washcloth over the both of you.

The sound of dripping water filled the small bathroom when you both finally stepped out. The threadbare towel scratched at your skin as you both dried off. Hands eventually found their way back to their familiar holds, pulling each other back together. You gently swayed as you soaked in the feeling of being together. All sounds faded making room for the gentle patter of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his chest, and the hum of the rusty heater that never ran right.

You don't know how long you stayed like that before Peter carefully picked you up and carried you to the bed. The comfort of an old shirt swallowed you whole before the both of you tucked into the thin sheets. The bed creaked under your weight, the springs begging for a reprieve. Somewhere above the neighbors were shouting, the thin walls doing them no justice. A cop car sped past, sirens blaring. The hair on the back of your neck rose willing you to check and see, but strong arms pulled you back in, holding your head tight against his shoulder while the other ran along your back in a soothing pattern.

Despite the comfort, you knew neither of you would fall asleep any time soon. There were too many monsters that lurked in the depths of a dream. Instead you continued to follow the maps of each other. A scar on your arm, one on his cheek, another on your neck, a faint one plastered on his lip. Then a new sensation graced your fingertips, the soft trail of a tear. You tried to pull back to look at him, but his hand held you in place, a silent will to give him this moment.

His breathing was shaky, and he trembled beneath you. A pit formed in your stomach, one that taunted you by saying you could never do enough. No amount of love could solve this, no words could make everything okay again. More tears passed, the tremors eventually subsided to a soft rocking. Only then did he say his first words for the night.

"It was a rough night." He softly said.