Doris

SUMMARY:

A haunted and newly pardoned Bucky Barnes who’s just barely regaining his footing in a world he no longer recognizes is thrust into a relentless spiral of grief when his next door neighbor’s lullaby unearths what he thought was a forgotten past. As memory and trauma collide, an unfortunate encounter with the world’s most understanding woman offers a glimmer of hope in an otherwise bleak life. Forced to confront the soft-hearted man he once was and the weapon he was forced to become, Bucky is faced with a choice: surrendering to the familiar comforting pain of isolation, or opening himself up to the terrifying possibility of real, tangible human connection.  

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a/n: wow! finally posting the thing i've been talking about nonstop on twitter for weeks! who would've thought? anyway, here's chapter 1 of my brain-child, i hope you enjoy :D pls lmk your thoughts & i'd love to discuss on twt (linked in my description!) onwards!

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Jessica has a forehead scar from the deep end of a pool.  I ask Jessica what drowning feels like and she says Not everything feels like something else. –Angie Sijun Lou

The muffled sounds of shrieking bleed through the thin walls of Bucky’s bedroom, causing something sharp and unnervingly familiar to curl behind his eyelids like smoke, making them snap open harshly. He blinks owlishly at the ceiling for a beat­—trying to discern whether he’s still trapped in a dream, or hovering in the space between wakefulness and something more rotten, more putrid. More hollow.

The first thing he registers as he sits up isn’t his right hand curling around the sheets as they pool around his waist, or his knuckles blanching impossibly with the force of his grip, the seams of the thin blanket groaning in protest under his palm. It isn’t his heart slamming against his ribcage like a jackhammer, too loud, too quick. Like it wants out. It’s not the thin sheen of sweat that coats his upper half like a second skin either. Slick, salty, drying too quickly under the slow rotations of the ceiling fan like it was never even there. 

No, the first thing his sleep-addled mind latches onto is a sound. Something mildly foreign, but not quite. Something raw, earnest, and too human. Something that feels too much like a memory, buried impossibly deep inside his very soul. Inside the marrow of his bones, branded onto the sheath of every single cell inside his body.

Something that feels too much like before.

Before the pardon, before Vienna. Before Hydra and the Chair. Before the train and the fall. Before Bucky knew what gunpowder and death smelled like, even.

His ears zero in on the sound on their own accord with no strain or fanfare. They pick it out from between the noises of the city and the faint rattle of water in the building’s pipes, isolate and amplify it in his skull against his own volition. The sound—the song—worms its way through the soft matter of his brain, carves its way through the ridges, and settles just behind his forehead where his eyebrows instinctively draw together.

Bucky blinks and blinks again as the soft, barely audible lullaby travels through the too-thin walls of his room, and suddenly he isn’t a hundred and seven. He isn’t the White Wolf or the Winter Soldier. He isn’t the Asset, a butcher, a terrorist, or any of the deluge of unkind monikers that have been so graciously bestowed upon him by people he’ll never meet. Except maybe in hell, sixty-some years from now, he reasons offhandedly. On instinct, almost.

Suddenly, James Buchanan Barnes is just shy of seven years old, all wide eyes and wonder, mouth hung agape as he balances precariously on his tip-toes, both his palms braced against the armrest of the couch as he peers down at the bundle of blankets cradled carefully in his mother’s arms. The gentle melody tumbles freely, almost mindlessly, from between Winnifred Barnes’ lips, like a sweet mid-summer breeze kissing the tall grass, and it momentarily syncs with the slow blinks of his newborn baby sister. Bucky’s mouth curves carefully around the syllables of her name like a prayer: Rebecca.

Before he was a man, a Sergeant, a symbol, a hero, and subsequently a villain, Bucky Barnes was a brother.

He abruptly snaps out of his reverie as something awful, harrowing, and unnamed begins coiling tightly around his veins, fitting itself into the minuscule space between fascia and muscle. It starts at the soles of his feet and ends at the top of his scalp, making his skin break out in goosebumps like he’d been doused in ice-cold water. 

Not everything feels like something else. 

His breath stutters uselessly in his chest as his left hand shoots up at breakneck speed to cradle the side of his head like he’d been burned. As if he’d been slammed face-first into a brick wall with the intent to kill—not incapacitate. 

Fear, he decides far too quickly for it to be logical, but any semblance of sense or critical thinking flew out the window the second the chorus of “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” began slamming itself incessantly against the sides of his skull, trying to claw its way back out into the stuffy night air through his pores.

No, this is too innately consuming to be classified as fear. Sorrow? Maybe, but not quite. Abject horror? Agony? Anguish? Heartbreak? 

Not everything feels like something else. 

Bucky lets out a choked-off sound, one that scrapes against the back of his throat like glass on gravel as he swings his legs off the edge of the bed. 

His first instinct is to run, to flee, to put as much physical distance between himself and the muted singing as physically possible, but he stays rooted to his spot for reasons unknown to him. He barely manages to brace his hands on his knees before a tremor violently rumbles through his body, and for a moment he feels like a wounded animal. A small thing, weak and scared, caught in a bear trap. Eyes too wide, breathing too shallow, teeth bared in defense, hackles raised: all in anticipation of an incoming blow.

His head whips to the side in the direction of the wall as a different sound pierces the air, the hair on the back of his neck rising as a muscle pulls taut in his shoulder.

A child’s giggle, no more than four or five years old, he’d wager. Pretty neighbor’s niece, his mind supplies instantly. He’s seen the kid around the building, knows that you occasionally babysit her. He’s seen her with her pigtails and small glittery backpack bouncing along with her quick little steps as she animatedly chatters to you, his sweet, smiley neighbor, about whatever it is pre-schoolers talk about these days. Alex, he thinks her name is? He’s not entirely sure. She reminds him of his Rebecca when she was little, though. That he’s sure of. 

A breath—another giggle, now accompanied by your barely-there laugh. A sound he’s grown accustomed to hearing when he’s in rooms with shared walls. It always makes his mind freeze for a second, and tonight is no exception. 

Your laugh, thinner and less cheerful than usual, is one of relief that Alex is no longer screaming her little lungs out at an ungodly hour of the night. He briefly wonders if the child was having a nightmare as well. Bucky can hear that your frayed nerves are audibly appeased, and something deep inside his chest clenches so tightly it’s almost painful.

Grief.

All-encompassing and all-consuming. Horrible in its cruel and unusual nature, yet warm in the way it cradles his very soul. Like it cares, almost. Like it sees him for who he really is, just a man of flesh and blood. Not a machine, a soldier, or a weapon. Just a man, and that’s something the world around him often forgets. Something he forgets as well, sometimes.

Bucky’s chest caves inward as another innocent laugh rings out and the singing resumes, livelier this time around, as if in celebration, and his knees lock up. He tumbles gracelessly off the side of the bed, and falls onto the ground in a heap with a resounding thud. In his nearly empty bedroom, barely any furniture aside from a bed, a bedside table, and a closet serve to dampen the loud knock of his kneecaps hitting the floor.

His left hand splays out against the tile, barely preventing his nose from connecting with the floor, Vibranium gleaming in the pale moonlight that streams in through the open window. Bucky’s right hand clutches uselessly at his chest—right over his heart—and a breath rattles against his ribs as he forcibly expels it. He screws his eyes shut as images of his sister, his baby sister, his Rebecca, flash freely behind his eyelids in a ruthless twist of fate.

Oh God, this is how I die, he thinks for a moment as pure and unbridled panic grabs him by the scruff of the neck and roots around unhurriedly in his chest, stirring up emotions he'd rather get shot at point blank range than experience. 

A memory slithers out from a corner of his mind. A memory he thought he had forgotten, or had maybe been barbarically ripped away from him sometime between 1945 and 1950 when Hydra was still struggling to erase Bucky Barnes from existence. His blunt nails dig into his skin, and he lets his forehead meet the cool floor.

It’s early summer, the weather not yet stifling but warm. Mid-June, maybe? He’s not entirely sure. Bucky’s not sure about much of anything these days. It’s 1937, and Jamie is twenty. Young and soft. Too sweet, too free, not tainted by life’s unbridled wickedness—not yet. A thirteen-year-old Rebecca is slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, their joined laughter echoing through the modest living room. He twirls around, his arm carefully tightening its hold on the back of her thighs so she doesn’t fall off all the while she half-heartedly slams her fists into his back. She hollers at him to put her down, and he blatantly refuses to until she tells him where she hid his smokes. They laugh again, louder. A carefree tilt to it, matching crinkles by their eyes, the same scrunch in the creases of their noses as he finally puts her down and smushes her cheeks together in a way only a brother would.

Bucky’s heart clenches dangerously in his chest, and a sound incredibly unrefined and honest falls from his lips. His eyes crack open as he leans back on his haunches, both his shaking hands pressing against his temples as if the memory physically hurt him. It did, and for the first time since the 40’s, Bucky Barnes prays.

Mother Mary, if you’re listening, please have mercy on my mortal soul.

Bucky knows grief. He’s familiar with it. He’s lived with it—in it—for decades, nearly a century, at this point. He knows the way it crawls under his skin and settles there like he owes it something, a debt he can never repay, born from the gnashing of teeth and endless rivers of blood he’s spilled. 

Grief washes over him in waves when he looks out of the window too long, when he spots a tuft of blond hair out of the corner of his eye in the street. It prods at his mind when Sam catches sight of that haunted look in his eyes he can never mask well enough behind one-liners and dry humor. It strips him back and leaves him bare, soft innards exposed to the harsh nip of the air when his friend looks at him like he wants to say something about the crease between Bucky’s eyebrows, but ends up offering him an easy smile and a clap on the shoulder instead.

It whispers to him at the grocery store, when he mindlessly grips a ripe peach too tightly in his left hand to test its firmness, momentarily forgetting. Bucky gets jolted to reality as the saccharine juices of the fruit slide languidly in between the golden grooves of his fingers, settling there like tar. Like blood. He stands there staring at his hand as the juices rhythmically drip onto the floor in rivulets, and his breath catches in his lungs. Bucky starts wearing leather gloves out after that, regardless of the weather. 

Grief greets him in the elevator of his apartment building, extends its hand and beckons him towards it when he looks at himself a little too hard in the mirror, eyes lingering on his newly cut hair. Memories of a smaller Steve animatedly rambling about the best kind of paper to draw on as he hacks at Bucky’s hair with rusted kitchen scissors flood his mind, and he can almost smell the charcoal that always stained the blond’s fingertips when he looks away, gaze landing on the toes of his boots. He doesn’t take the elevator anymore. Too risky. 

Grief barges into his apartment in the middle of the night just as he wakes up from a nightmare, ruthlessly rips the breath from his lungs, and blames him for the bones that cracked like matchsticks under his grip, their sickening crunch still echoing in his ears. It blurs the line between the past and the present, and makes him feel so incredibly guilty to the point where he ends up crossing multiple names off his list of amends that day. 

Dr. Raynor says that guilt can be useful sometimes. She says that it’s good to feel guilt. That it’s part of what makes us human. What she doesn’t know though, is that it gnaws at his innards like a rabid dog with a taste for blood, making him feel like someone took a knife and started hacking away at his guts just for the hell of it.

The laundry list of things he’s done in his time is always hazy and just out of reach, but not quite. Maybe he’s guilty about the lives he’s taken as the Winter Soldier, or way before that in the War. Maybe Bucky feels guilty about the one life he didn’t take. The one he’s thought about taking day in and day out, ever since that afternoon at the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre in Bucharest when the Soldier was let out of his cage to play by the Baron with the grudge.

What the brunet is sure about despite the seas of uncertainty that he treads, is that he constantly feels like he’s walking on a tightrope. Always balancing dangerously on the edge of something he doesn’t have the stomach to name out loud. Something that’ll most definitely get him institutionalized if he brings it up to his therapist, and Bucky Barnes would rather meet the business end of a bayonet than ever be held against his own will anywhere ever again. So, Bucky does what he does best: represses it and shoves it deep enough in the mess of his mind and hopes that it doesn’t sucker-punch him in the middle of a sunny day. 

Grief latches onto his spirit when he’s sat at a diner and spots a family entering. The sight of a child holding onto their father’s hand hits him like a punch to the gut and reminds him of now obsolete promises he made to himself before the war. Promises that he’d be a better man than his father was if the Lord were kind enough to bless him with a family after his return. Promises that he wouldn’t leave no matter how tough things got; that he’d be in it for the long-haul. 

For a second, Bucky thinks about you. His kind neighbor with the pleasant laugh and that sweet-smelling perfume that always lingers in the hall long after you’re gone. His neighbor, who occasionally leaves baked goods on his doorstep, wrapped carefully in wax paper for no apparent reason, despite never having had an actual fully fledged conversation with him. You were always kind, though. Understanding and polite, never intrusive or too nosy. 

He lets himself picture it then, as he watches the little family over the rim of his coffee cup. A life. A real life with a partner. With you, maybe? A life with regular problems. God, what he wouldn’t give to have to worry about bills and car payments instead of whether or not the courts will wake up one day, decide to rescind his pardon, and throw him in the deepest darkest pits of the Raft to rot for the rest of his miserable life. The thought makes him jolt like he got jabbed in the side with a cattle prod, and he hastily slams a few crumpled bills on the tabletop and bolts out of the diner like he’s on fire.  

Grief holds his hand when he walks past a church and makes him stop dead in his tracks across the street. Bucky stands there, transfixed, just staring at the doors like they hold all the answers to questions he never asks aloud. Questions he doesn’t even think that God himself has answers for. He goes in, sometimes. Sits in the back, head bowed as the scent of burning frankincense and myrrh clogs his brain and transports him back to a time when he truly believed. When the words of the Lord’s Prayer didn’t carry with them the scent of blood and singed flesh. A time when he used to make the sign of the cross without the action feeling disingenuous, without making him feel like he was pretending.

 He remembers bits and pieces from when he used to go to church with his mother, sister, and Steve way back when. Bucky would be dressed in his Sunday best with his hair neatly gelled back, and he’d sit in the pew closest to the doors with Steve, in case the burning incense got too much to handle on the blond’s damaged lungs and he had to go outside. 

Winnifred always used to say that Jamie was the most Christlike person out of anyone she knew because of the care he showed everyone around him, namely the ever sickly Steven Grant Rogers. He’d scoff, bashfully brushing the comment off with reddened cheeks by saying something along the lines of how Christ would personally bar him from the gates of Heaven himself if he knew half the things Bucky’s done. His mother would whack him upside the head in retaliation, tutting and scolding him for his blasphemous speech.

Ironic now, isn’t it? Sweet Jamie's a killer with a ledger that's gushing red.

Bucky knows grief intimately. He knows the intricacies of it; the push and the pull. How it settles deep in his bones and festers like an infected wound that he can’t flush out well enough. He anticipates it, usually. Bucky knows when it’ll saunter into his chest, wrap its slender fingers around his perpetually aching heart, and squeeze just enough to maim, to make him feel it.

Grief sits in his pocket like a stone and in his chest like a knife. Grief always makes him feel whole for a few fleeting moments, then it strips him apart again and leaves him hollow and aching: a victim of his damaged brain that the Super Soldier Serum can't seem to heal. 

Bucky hadn’t anticipated it tonight, though. He couldn’t have. How could he have known that he’d get callously ripped out of what can loosely be described as sleep at four in the morning by the sound of a child crying? How could he have prepared himself for the resulting impossibly tender voice of his bright-eyed neighbor, singing something his mother used to back when he was still wet behind the ears, fully and irrevocably himself?

God in heaven above, the last time he even thought about that song was on the seventh of December, 1941, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and Rebecca was almost seventeen. She stood in front of her brother with her lips bitten raw, yet too prideful to admit that she was frightened by the prospect of war and what it may bring. A Barnes family trait passed on through generations.

Pride; how fitting. A deadly sin. Maybe I was put on this earth to atone for their transgressions, he ponders. To bleed and scream and crawl on my hands and knees, all because my family had ego issues. He banishes that thought just as quickly as it appears, the bitterness of it jarring him momentarily. God wouldn’t do that, right?

That December night, the two siblings sat side by side on the rickety fire escape of their third floor apartment. Their shoulders pressed together, legs swinging in sync off the edge as Bucky sweetly sang to his sister, just loud enough for her to hear over the faint sounds of the yowling alley cats he swore he didn’t feed. 

He did, and she knew that. Good and kind James Barnes, perpetually tender-hearted when it comes to strays. She never once called him out on it though, too partial to the sight of her brother hunched over, leftovers in his hands, half a dozen mangy cats rubbing against his knees as he talks to them about anything and everything. 

Rebecca joined in on the singing like she always did, nerves soothed considerably as she pressed her shoulder more firmly against his, her mouth curved at the corners in a barely-there smile.

He sent her off to their aunt’s place in Shelbyville the very next day. Argued with his mother about it being “the right thing for Becca, ma!” till they were both blue in the face and exhausted. Winnifred eventually conceded, her refusal no match for her son’s stubborn insistence.

He gets that from her.

Bucky secretly hid two paychecks and a half that he had stowed away from his job at the docks into Rebecca’s luggage just before she left, the money tucked neatly in between the pages of the worn copy of The Hobbit he had gotten sent over from Britain when it first came out. Bucky’s most prized possession, given to his sister to read or just look at when she missed her brother. When she missed Jamie.

She stayed there for four years as the United States joined the war, and Rebecca Pauline Barnes never got the chance to say goodbye to her brother before he got shipped off to Britain on the fifteenth of June, 1943, never to return home again. He never got to say goodbye either.

Shit, is there a word for someone who loses a sibling? Where does all the love go when you love someone who’s gone?

His knees nearly cave under his weight at the thought as he pushes himself to a stand, leaning against the wall for a moment as his heart lurches in his chest, a word that doesn’t exist begging to be freed from the confines of his mind. He blinks a few times and shakes his head, recalibrating, before he takes a few unsteady steps out of his bedroom.

Bucky blindly stumbles towards the kitchen for water, eyes hazy, tongue leaden, and his mouth achingly dry.

He fills a glass with shaking hands and brings it to his lips, choking on the very first sip. The sorrow he’s feeling, so immense, so violent and heartless, grows and weaves around his throat like a vine, blocking his larynx like it has nothing better to do than to taunt him. Like it has nowhere else to go and nobody else to torment. He coughs a few times, teary-eyed and mildly delirious as he drains the rest of the cup in one go.

For a brief instant, he thinks: Hey, maybe I can wash this feeling down. Let my stomach acid deal with it.

Bucky drinks three more glasses of water. Then a fourth, just for good measure.

His entire abdomen seizes in response, bile rising dangerously in his trachea as if his digestive tract is vehemently against the idea of dealing with that beast in particular. Bucky rationally knows that this visceral reaction was because he suddenly flooded his empty stomach with more water than it can handle, but he can’t help but feel betrayed, almost. His own body, his first and final home despite everything, actively working against him in his moment of need.

How appropriate, he deems. Wouldn’t be the first time, surely won’t be the last.

He sets his glass down on the very edge of the counter, unconsciously wishing it would plummet to the ground and shatter into a million pieces, just because he did. It seems only fair. Bucky scoffs as it stays put, nausea singeing something sensitive inside him, almost bringing him back to his knees for the second time that night. His sight drifts to the blinking clock on the microwave when a bird chirps outside. 5:20 AM, it reads.

His left eye twitches, and another bird chirps.

With a heaving sigh and a heavy hand dragged across his face, Bucky trudges back to his bedroom. He flops down unceremoniously onto his barely used bed, the frame creaking in objection under his imposing weight, as if it’s pained. Join the club, he thinks, not even bothering to get under the sheets, the city already rousing for the day.

Bucky never shied away from grief a day in his life and he surely won’t start now. There’s just something about grieving a sibling, though. One that technically grieved him first. Coupled with being so callously thrusted head-first into mourning, nearly a century too late, just because a neighbor he’s been too much of a chickenshit to actually speak to properly sang that godforsaken lullaby?

His blood boils, sorrow giving way to unadulterated, unchecked rage, and he suddenly gets the urge to pin the blame on her—you. To paint you out to be some sort of villain in his mind, vilify and antagonize you to his heart’s content. He wants to walk up to your pretty baby blue door that he’s stared at more times than he can count, and pound his fist against the wood so brutally that it splinters and cracks under the weight of his hand. Bucky wants you—the smiley, ever-polite woman he avoids like the plague because he always ends up sweaty and nervous whenever you interact with him—to open the door, and he wants to scream till his throat is hoarse and his sinuses swell up. He wants to yell and yell and yell till he makes you feel an ounce of what he’s been feeling for the past hour and a half. All this misery, because of you. And you’re blissfully unaware. 

But he can’t do that. Not because of the rules of the pardon or, God forbid, his already unsteady public image. He can’t walk over and lay into you till he’s calmed down, not because of the fact that he’s viewed as a ticking time bomb by everybody on earth with a pulse save for the Wakandans and Sam Wilson. 

No, Bucky can’t take his hurt out on you because of the way you sang.

All soft and tender, like a balm on a wound. Like you meant every syllable and pause in breath. As though “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” was written and composed all those years ago just so this woman, this stranger really, could sing it to a crying child—your niece, your own flesh and blood. Just for you, specifically. So your mouth could curve around the words, and your vocal cords could give way to the fragile swell of the melody, molding around it, making it somehow more hypnotizing. Comparable only to a siren’s call wrapped in blankets and all things kind and delicate. Things he hasn’t really allowed himself to feel fully. Things he barely just lets himself feel when he gorges himself on the pastries you leave him.

He thinks of you then. 

Bucky’s mind immediately supplies him with the image of you he’s had the chance of seeing multiple times, in all your chipper glory, standing with your hands clasped behind your back with that stupid grin on your face as you stare down at a rose bush in the small communal garden behind the building. The sunlight catches your hair, and it makes it glow around your head like a halo. He’s nicknamed you angel in his head since. 

He remembers just this Wednesday when he came back home from lunch with Yori, and he saw you sitting cross-legged on the steps in front of the building, chatting up some random stranger as a cigarette dangled loosely from your fingertips. Bucky thought that you looked so unbelievably engrossed in the conversation, and the sight made something in his chest clench while he parked his bike. 

He was also allegedly very briefly jealous of the cigarette. 

Bucky then thinks of your eyes; always shining, warm, and open when they meet his own. Your gaze, curious—watchful—but never imposing. Like you’re trying to peel back his layers and figure him out during the fleeting yet monumental times your paths cross. He still occasionally responds to your sweet hellos and dazzling smiles with curt nods and strained grimaces before he bolts to his apartment and locks the door, still unused to kindness just for the sake of it, despite being somewhat friends with you. 

After everything Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes has been through in his 106 years of life, he’s still unused to nicety and gentleness without the other expecting something in return, usually another piece of his soul.

Bucky feels shame from the fact that he even considered displacing his anger onto you—sunshine personified—pool low in his chest, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, stomach souring.

Jesus Christ, I need to calm down. She’s the nicest woman on earth. 

He read something online a few weeks ago on one of those self-help forums he kept hearing so much about that struck a chord in him. Some random holistic expert whose name he can’t recall at the moment was replying to someone’s question about how to stop feeling angry about where you are right now in life. They said something along the lines of how at the end of the day, you’re always exactly where you’re meant to be. That the life you’re leading is the path you’re supposed—no, destined—to be on. That every individual’s life is curated perfectly by the universe, and altering one’s perspective is the key to attaining inner peace, or some other watered-down and oversimplified version of positive psychology mixed with rose quartz and moon water bullshit people online believe in these days.

If this life was meant for me, then why does it hurt so much?

There’s something inherently comedic in an abysmal way about that, and for a second, Bucky fully and irrevocably understands Sisyphus.

“One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

Yeah, right. Poor bastard’s probably always a day away from blowing his brains out. Pushing that dumb boulder up a hill for eternity.

Then, a quiet realization: Huh, that’s kinda familiar.

“One must imagine Bucky Barnes happy,” more like. The notion makes him snort, and a minuscule smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

Sam’s voice rings out clear as day in his head: “If you can’t sleep, might as well just lay down and let your body rest, man.” So there Bucky lies, eyes wide, heart split open and wounded, fingers drumming mindlessly against his sternum for the next two hours.

The shrill beeping of his alarm drags him out of whatever dissociative, semi-fugue state he often finds himself in when the quiet gets too loud, and he hastily slams his hand on the poor clock so hard it shatters meekly. He blinks in surprise as he stares at the splintered pieces of plastic scattered all over his bedside table, mouth opening and closing a few times in quiet astonishment.

Wow, way to steal my thunder. Guess modern appliances really aren’t durable, huh? He reflects as he presses his lips into a thin line. Steve really wasn’t kidding.

His joints make a noise of objection as he pushes himself to a stand, knees cracking loud enough to make him wince instinctively, eyes still steadily locked on the wreckage of the clock. He huffs in annoyance and picks up the fragmented pieces of plastic, dog tags clinking softly against his bare chest as he moves around, the sound drowned out by his quiet grumbling. He stomps into the open-plan kitchen and hastily tosses the remnants of the destroyed clock into the trash can, unwillingly picking up on sounds of shuffling coming from the other side of the front door.

He stops dead in his tracks and tilts his head to the side a fraction, senses on high alert, hands curling into loose fists at his sides. Endless possibilities and probabilities swirl through Bucky’s mind, and he’s suddenly very glad that he has a myriad of weapons squirreled away in every nook and cranny in his apartment.

Have they come for another pound of flesh? 

A switch flips and his body moves on autopilot, shrinking the world to this moment. Deathly silent, Bucky creeps into the living room with his back flush against the far wall after instinctively swiping a knife out of the knife block on the counter to his right, his mind running a mile a minute. 

With the sound of his heartbeat thundering almost deafeningly in the quiet that has settled in the corners of the room like a fog, he holds the shitty chef’s knife he bought on a whim when he visited Home Depot last week up defensively. 

Bucky has his shoulders squared and his back ram-rod straight as he approaches the door, still trapped in a panic-induced haze. In his frenzy, the brunet fails to realize that the sounds he hears from outside are just you shuffling on your feet, trying to come up with a way to just knock and ask for a cup of sugar without freaking out your standoffish next door neighbor. He grabs the doorknob with a shaking hand and holds his breath, pulling the door open with enough strength to make the hinges squeak, knife aimed squarely at your neck. 

You blink, startled by the door suddenly flying open. A nanosecond later, your eyes zero in on the knife with a gasp and you choke out a shocked “Jesus Christ!” as the hand you had poised to knock flies up near your head in a gesture of surrender, eyes locked onto the blade of the knife held an inch away from the delicate skin on the column of your throat. You stumble back a step, house slippers squeaking against the tile as you stare at him, mouth agape. 

Bucky, who’s green in the face and looks like he’s a breath away from throwing up, exhales sharply as he promptly lowers the weapon, his vice-like grip around the hilt going slack, steely blue eyes widening impossibly. His mind catches up to the situation, realizing that it’s just you and not ghosts from his past coming back to haunt him, and dread settles sharply in the pit of his stomach. 

The knife clatters uselessly to the floor, the tip almost nicking the thin skin on the top of his right foot as he takes an instinctive step back, creating more distance between the two of you. Both his hands shoot up to face you as he hastily kicks the knife aside, sending it skidding across the floor away from where he stands in an attempt to seem less threatening despite holding you at knifepoint a mere thirty seconds ago. Bucky stammers out what he can only hope is an explanation as to why he almost cut clean through your jugular at eight A.M. on a Saturday morning in a single, panicked breath.

“Holy shit, I am so sorry. I… I thought— oh Christ, I thought you were someone else.”

A beat passes, stretches on far too long for comfort as his rushed words hang in dead air. You stare at him and he stares back, your arm lowering to hang limply at your side as you swallow thickly. 

With your fingers curling around the bottom edge of the robe you put on before making your way over, you exhale a slow breath, trying to reconcile what the hell just happened with your previous hopes of borrowing some sugar for the cake your niece was hellbent on baking despite the time. 

You swallow once again around the stubborn lump in your throat as you take another half-step back accompanied by a shake of your head, eyes softening considerably once your brain connects the dots. Right. Traumatized war vet, boy next door.  

You know who he is, of course you do. You pieced his identity together pretty quickly the week he moved into the building despite his shorter hair, the sunglasses he always has perched on the bridge of his nose—to hide the eye-bags, you think—and the leather gloves he wore smack dab in the middle of the oppressive summer heat. It only took two stiff, mechanical hello’s on his part and a quick Google search from yours to realize that the Winter Soldier, ex-assassin extraordinaire, honorary Avenger, Howling Commando, and a dozen other titles the internet supplied you with, moved into the empty unit next door. You never brought up the fact that you knew who he was, figured that he’d eventually tell you on his own time if he wanted to. 

“No, it— uh, it’s fine?” You wince instinctively the second the words leave your mouth, your inflection and residual panic making them sound more like a question than anything of substance. Bucky grimaces in return, his hands still held up across from you as he replies in a tone that borders on scolding, his eyebrows knitted together. 

“What do you mean it’s fine? Jesus, angel, are you nuts?”

The nickname he’s called you only twice makes your mind screech to a halt, and something hot and sticky settles between your ribs. 

He’d never been unpleasant to you, not in the ways that mattered, at least. Always quiet, always reserved, always skittish, like an alley cat that had seen better days. He very well may have had an aneurysm the first time you said hello to him the day he moved in, in your humble opinion. 

You had caught him when you got home from dropping Alex back at your sister’s place. There he was in all his six foot tall glory, a microwave stuffed under the crook of his right arm, a large bag of groceries cradled in the other, keys held between his teeth, and a little scowl cemented on his face. You thought he was strikingly handsome the moment you laid your eyes on him, even before finding out who he was. You beamed at him while shouldering the door to your apartment open, rattling off a sweet “Welcome to the building!” with your name and an open invitation to “knock whenever!” tacked onto the end. 

Bucky responded by choking on his own spit and dropping the microwave on his foot. 

You smiled at him, albeit a bit awkwardly, and entered your apartment, leaving him alone in the hallway to pick up what’s left of his dignity and the microwave off the floor. 

You and Bucky ran into each other a handful of times in the week after that. Exchanged greetings and strained smiles—the latter mostly on Bucky’s part.

To ease the weird tension between you both which you attributed to his lack of social skills given his history, you took to leaving a little bit of whatever baked goods Alex roped you into making when she was over on his doorstep. You carefully wrapped them in that fancy wax paper you splurged on just for the hell of it. Maybe because some tiny part of you wanted him to feel important? Probably. Bucky never mentioned the offerings and neither did you, but they’d always be gone when you’d check. 

You made a joke to him in passing once when you got home at the same time. Said something along the lines of how trying to befriend him was like trying to befriend a crow, and that earned you a lopsided smile and a low “guess that means you want shiny things in return, then,” from him. 

The longest sentence he’s ever said to you save for now, and you marked the day on your calendar like it was a national holiday. 

The very next day, you got home from work to find a small, potted thing of daffodils on your doorstep with a note taped to the side that said: “not shiny, my bad.” 

You took the plant inside and spent half an hour researching what daffodils meant before you tucked the handwritten note into the pages of your cookbook.

Hope, new beginnings, and rebirth. 

Daffodils.

A March flower. 

He’s born in March. 

Was that intentional? 

After that, he wasn’t as aloof and icy, but good old Bucky Barnes didn’t turn into a chatterbox either. It took him a scolding from his therapist and two weeks of hearing your laughter bleed through the walls you shared for him to offer you his name. “I’m James,” he said. James, not Bucky. Bucky felt too personal, for some reason, and he’d rather be shot dead in the street than be called Buchanan, so James seemed like a good compromise. 

It wasn’t, in retrospect.

The first time you threw a quick “Hey, James,” over your shoulder while wrangling your unruly niece down the stairs almost sent him into cardiac arrest. 

You blink, snapping out of your daze as you finally register his words. “Well, it’s not fine, per se. You scared the ever-loving shit out of me, but I get it? You weren’t expecting company and I was making a lot of noise out here. Didn’t mean to spook you, I’m sorry.” you shot back quickly, the corners of your lips curving into the little smile you often use to calm down your niece when she’s five seconds away from a total meltdown. 

It works, somehow, and Bucky visibly deflates. His arms drop to his sides as his shoulders sag, and he looks at you with the world’s saddest puppy eyes, and you barely resist the urge to reach out and smooth the crease that formed between his eyebrows with your thumb. 

You stuff your hands into the pockets of your robe as a latch ditch effort in preventing yourself from doing something incredibly stupid. Like touching him. He inhales a slow breath and drags his right hand over his face, silently wondering how on God’s green earth you’re able to be kind and considerate even in this situation. Yup, definitely an angel, he thinks to himself as he meets your eyes again. 

There you are, right in front of him, in your pajamas, robe, and slippers, looking like the softest goddamn thing to ever walk the face of the earth. His mind strays for a second as he lets himself take in your appearance for the first time that morning, and something warm spreads through his body. 

For the first time since the 1940s, James Barnes gets the strange and almost irresistible urge to feel a woman’s skin under his.

He clears his throat after a beat, looking down at his bare chest then back up into your eyes, a tight, awkward smile on his face as he jabs a thumb over his shoulder. 

“Let me just, uh, put a shirt on. And don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the lunatic here.”

You nod in response after you mumble out a barely audible “you’re not a lunatic”, shifting your weight from foot to foot as you stay rooted to your spot, watching his back as he retreats into his apartment. 

Finding yourself unconsciously tracing the way his muscles move and ripple, a sudden overwhelming need to either jump off a cliff or drag a palm flat down the middle of his back just to see if it's as warm as it looks hits you square in the stomach. 

You hold your breath when he suddenly comes to a stop halfway into the doorway of his bedroom, and exhale it slowly when he turns to look at you again. As you quickly try to shove down the mildly inappropriate thoughts you were having, you worry the side of your thumb with your nail, and plaster on your best attempt at an “I-totally-wasn’t-picturing-myself-touching-you-after-you-tried-to-kill-me-with-a-knife” smile. 

Bucky clears his throat and gestures vaguely towards the couch that’s visible from where you stand, sheepishly scratching the back of his head as he speaks, his voice thinner and back to its usual quietness. 

“Uh, come in, please. Sorry, should’a probably invited you in before I turned my back to you.” He knows damn well that if his mother were still alive and found out that he left a lady standing outside without the decency of inviting her in, she’d have his head on a stake before he could even get a word in edge wise. 

He mentally chastises himself as he promptly spins on his heel and enters his bedroom, not even waiting to see if you’d come in or not, the door closing with a soft click behind him.  Jeez, good people skills, Casanova. He rests his forehead on the door and screws his eyes tightly shut for a good few seconds before snatching the soft cotton t-shirt he was wearing last night off the floor and hastily pulling it on. 

His swift retreat into the bedroom coupled with the strained invite sends you reeling for a moment, and you stand frozen in the doorway to his unit, mouth pressed into a thin line as a product of your confusion. You roll the idea of coming in in your head a couple times, running through a quick pros and cons list while you lean back and peer through the slightly ajar door to your place, catching sight of little Alex sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, completely enraptured with the animated animals on the screen. Busy, good. 

Deciding to just bite the metaphorical bullet and enter his space, you call out a quick “I’m at the neighbor's for a second, Lex! Don’t do anything stupid!” to her, which earns you a groan and the world’s most scathing look thrown over her shoulder. You huff and half-heartedly roll your eyes, mumbling something incoherent about kids these days under your breath as you step over the threshold and into Bucky’s apartment.

You stand there for a few seconds, hands fidgeting with your sleeves as you strain your ears in an attempt to figure out if he’s having an anxiety attack in his room or if he’s actually just getting dressed. 

A heavy silence settles in the air and you shrug as you walk towards the couch to sit down, your gaze traveling over his mostly empty living room. Your eyes settle on the sole piece of anything that could be considered memorabilia in the bare apartment, and the notion makes your heart clench painfully behind your ribs, for some reason. 

It’s not like you expected the man who was once the most feared assassin in history to have a knack for interior design, but the lack of decoration or personal touches is a tad upsetting in a weirdly humanistic way. 

There on the little side table to your right, though, rests a book, edges frayed and pages dog-eared. You squint as you read the title, and a barely-there smile threatens to overtake your features. The Hobbit. So he’s a nerd, cute. 

You mindlessly reach out and brush your fingertips over the cover as if touching something of his could somehow make you understand him better, then rip your hand back abruptly like you touched a hot stove when you hear quiet cussing emanate from the closed bedroom.

Bucky Barnes hasn’t had somebody—much less a woman—in his apartment in about three months since maintenance passed by to fix the leaky AC unit in the living room, and he nearly falls flat on his face as he shoves his legs into a pair of sweatpants at the thought, a series of expletives tumbling freely from his lips. 

He scoffs and gives himself a quick pep talk as he tightens the drawstrings, reminding himself that he could charm the habit off of a nun back in the day. Yeah, but I wasn’t a brain-damaged super-soldier back then. Tough luck. 

Just as Bucky’s about to slip into another relentless cycle of endless self-flagellation, your voice, soft, honeyed, and tinged with worry calling out his name sharply snaps him back to reality like he got backhanded across the face. He shakes his head, blinking as he swallows around the ever-present lump in his throat that was exacerbated by hearing you sing that stupid song this morning, and he automatically leaves the room. 

Bucky, unfortunately for all parties involved, always finds himself somehow gravitating towards you like he’s a planet in your orbit despite never allowing himself to get too close, and right now is no exception. 

He comes to a stop a few feet away from the couch where you sit, a wry smile on his face, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the gray sweatpants he tugged on. He clears his throat, words coming out scratchy and garbled despite his attempt at sounding normal, and the tiny Bucky that lives in his head blanches in horror. “Sorry for the wait, couldn't find my shirt.” That’s a lie, the voice in his head whispers. Why are you lying to her? 

You chuckle in response, too caught up in your desperate attempt to not look at how the sweatpants slung low over the curve of his hips perfectly frame his lower half, thus not picking up on his internal battle in the slightest. With a dismissive wave of your hand, you stand up, forcing your eyes to stay trained on his face. Focus, you pervert. You’re here for a different kind of sugar. “It’s alright, don’t worry about it—” You gesticulate behind you towards the general seating area while you keep talking, “comfortable couch.” 

He frowns, eyebrows knitting together in the center of his forehead at your statement. Bucky looks between you and the couch a handful of times as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, his expression a strange mixture of mild disbelief and residual trepidation from your earlier interaction—if accidentally holding the sweetest person in the world at knifepoint could even be considered an interaction. “It’s a shitty couch, angel. Lumpy.”

The nickname slips free once again without much foresight or resistance, like calling you that instead of your name is the most normal thing in the world, and that voice in his head rears its ugly head. You don’t really know this lady, Barnes. Cool it. 

You snort in response, the nickname doing absolutely nothing to quell the heat that’s been steadily rising to your cheeks for the past minute and a half. Your nose scrunches and your eyes narrow into thin slits, a little laugh bubbling up out of your throat and making a home for itself in the cool morning air. “If you think this couch is bad, you should’ve seen the one I had in college. Now that was a lumpy couch.”

A minuscule smile graces his features at the melodic sound of your soft laughter and some of the tension in his jaw eases, his teeth no longer grinding together to the staccato beat of his heart. Bucky exhales a puff of air through his nose, unconsciously inching closer to where you stand as he replies. “Both of the couches can be bad at the same time, y’know. It’s not really a mutually exclusive thing.” 

There it is, his old easy charm and impossibly quick wit making a very sudden and unexpected return the instant he locks eyes with you again. It catches him off guard, and something warm and sticky-sweet settles deep in his chest. 

He inhales slowly as he creeps closer another inch, feeling that unnamed thing ooze in his ribcage and drip down onto his lungs like molten lava, leaving them singed and wanting. 

Wanting. 

He can’t really remember the last time he actually wanted anything. 

Bucky is close enough now that he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to. Close enough to count the beauty marks and details on your face, to map out the slope of your nose with careful eyes, to take inventory of every microscopic shift in your expression. He can smell the slightest whisper of coffee on your breath, the scent soft and warm and almost intoxicating, and he has to bite back a shudder. 

You’re dizzying, and he wants you. 

You arch a playful eyebrow in response, crossing your arms over your chest with a defiant gleam in your eyes as your words come out teasing and not malicious in the slightest despite your faux-offended tone. “Not mutually exclusive, huh? Fine, you got me there, Barnes. Can I tell you why I wanted to knock now, or d’you wanna hold me at gunpoint too before that, maybe?”

His chest feels tight as he listens to you speak, the sound of your voice bouncing off the walls of his embarrassingly bare apartment accompanied by your proximity makes his head spin. God, I could drown in the sound of her voice, he thinks to himself. I’m fucked. 

Bucky lets your words hang in the air for a beat and he just looks at you, really looks at you. He takes in the way the morning sunlight that streams through the living room window catches your eyelashes, making them look like that cotton candy he and Steve used to share at Coney Island in the late 30s. 

His eyes trail over to the way your slightly messy hair lays on your head and he feels the sudden and overwhelming urge to bury his hands in it, to tug it until you gasp into his mouth. 

Bucky shoves that particular thought away harshly and bites the inside of his cheek. Sweet merciful Christ, focus. He takes in the way you stand there, a foot away from him bare-faced in your soft clothes, with what can only be described as a coy smile on your pretty lips, and something about this moment strikes him as painfully, achingly, and irrevocably tender. 

A small, crooked smile tugs at the corners of the brunet’s lips as he shifts his weight, taking his hands out of his pockets and placing them on his hips. 

Bucky arches an eyebrow at you in return, matching your expression to a tee as he tilts his head to the side slightly. “Holding you at gunpoint seems a little excessive, don’t you think? ‘S not even noon yet. Seems more like a post-lunch neighborly activity to me,” he gestures to you with a hand as he lets out a mock long-suffering sigh, his eyes glimmering with a delicate kind of joy he’s no longer used to. The kind that’s fragile and foreign and it makes a tiny part of him want to scream. “But sure, go ahead.”

A slow warmth seeps into your bones at the sight of Bucky seemingly finally at ease in your presence, and it warms you from the inside out, causing a light dusting of pink to make itself known on the tips of your ears. 

The impulse to touch him returns tenfold, and the insane desire to become the reason his shoulders loosen and his eyes shine makes you want to fall to your knees and beg whatever gods are listening to please never let Bucky Barnes experience a negative emotion ever again. 

You know it’s silly, and you know that if anyone were to peer into your head at the moment and thumb through your thoughts, you’d probably get shoved into a straitjacket and shipped off to a psych ward in Antarctica, but you can’t seem to find it in yourself to care. 

You lace your fingers together in front of you, digging your nails into the skin over your knuckles in a pathetic attempt at curbing the affection that blooms freely in your heart. A light laugh leaves you at his ribbing and you roll your eyes exaggeratedly, sighing heavily as you fix him with a brief look that says “eat shit, dude” before you reply through a smile.

“Okay, funny guy, maybe look into doing stand-up comedy if the whole…whatever it is that you do now doesn’t work out.” He snorts in response. “I wanted to see if I could borrow a cup of sugar. Alex—my niece—wants to bake a fuckin’ cake at eight in the goddamn morning ‘cause she had a bad dream last night, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her no. I hadn’t realized that I’d run out of sugar till the eggs were already cracked,” you falter, voice trailing off when he laughs, the sound low and syrupy. 

You mentally catalogue every single detail of him in that moment; head tilted back a fraction, the column of his beautiful throat bared, eyes crinkled at the corners, and you dig the blunt tips of your nails so hard into your skin that you almost draw blood. 

“Can—” a breath, “Can I, uh, borrow some sugar?” Stupid, stupid, stupid. Get it together.

Bucky’s laughter dies down into sporadic chuckles, and he has to physically bite his tongue to keep from telling you that he’d probably jump off the moon if you asked. 

Bucky would probably peel his skin back and crack his ribs open to let you take a catnap on his still-beating heart, if you asked. For a second, he considers saying that he’d let you borrow whatever it is you wanted from him if you kept looking at him like that, but he chokes the words down instead. 

Which is a pathetic response that he most definitely needs to get a hold of and never say out loud to anybody, let alone you. 

He nods, opting to stay silent as he glances between you and the cupboard over the sink where a lone bag of sugar and three loose tea bags live a handful of times before power-walking towards it, socked feet sliding against the floor a touch due to his sudden speed and habit of mopping twice a day. 

As he pulls open the cupboard and grabs the sugar, Bucky comes to the quiet realization that you’re utterly fascinating—an endless well of contradictions. 

Soft in your nature yet loud at the same time. Snarky and whip-smart but still unbelievably polite and charming, somehow. You completely unraveled him earlier this morning with your gentle singing, and you still don’t have the faintest inkling of the effect you’ve had on him over the course of these past few months. Your sentimental tone of voice as you sang to your niece this morning left him broken and praying to a God he barely even believes in anymore, and your normal, mundane, request for some sugar is making his skin prickle.

He should be resentful, but he can’t be because your warm presence and earnest joy throws him so off kilter that he may as well be floating aimlessly through space right now instead of walking back towards you, a bag of sugar clutched in his right hand like a lifeline, and a downright embarrassing grin on his face. 

Bucky Barnes can’t quite bring himself to care about the fact that he probably looks like a fool right now as you take the sugar from him and your fingertips lightly graze his own, making every single molecule in his body freeze. 

His Vibranium arm whirrs, his breath catches in his throat like he got punched square in the gut, and he feels his heart take root in his body. He feels like he just discovered fire, and he wants to live in this feeling forever.

Bucky doesn’t believe in soulmates. The entire concept of having one single person in this whole wide world who belongs to him and him alone for the rest of his days seems preposterous. He thinks that it’s a foolish thought that people think to placate themselves into feeling better about being alone. He thinks that it’s the stuff of fairy tales, stories one would read to a young child to lull them to sleep. 

Bucky thinks that the possibility of something as far-fetched and ridiculous as love being written in the stars is plain and utter bullshit. He thinks that on the off chance that soulmates did in fact exist, that his one is probably long-dead and buried, some woman from the 40s with bouncy curls and red lipstick. Or maybe it’s Steve, who’s also dead and buried. 

James Buchanan Barnes is a man out of time, but for the split second your skin grazes his, a little part of his brain opens up to the possibility that maybe soulmates do exist. 

He sharply clears his throat and steps back once you have the sugar in hand, the loud thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears dampening the sound of your voice as you thank him and promise to drop off a few slices of cake in exchange for his generosity, making him feel like he’s trapped under water. 

Bucky nods dumbly, mumbling out a low, “Uh, sure?” as he walks you to the door, still stuck in what he’s sure is limbo. She’s not your soulmate, idiot, you’re just infatuated. He shakes the thought off and smiles weakly at you.

Before you’re out of his apartment in a flash, he can tell that your mouth is moving, probably thanking him again for the umpteenth time, but he can’t hear a single thing except for the voice in head repeatedly chanting: tell her to stay, tell her to stay. 

You don't stay.

After the door clicks shut and you’re long gone, Bucky stands there for a couple of minutes staring at the knife still on the floor, his mind excruciatingly empty for the first time in his life as he attempts to grapple with the events of this morning. The light reflects off the blade, and he automatically crouches down and picks it up. 

Bucky is suddenly, violently overwhelmed. It’s a ridiculous reaction—he’s a grown man, a trained killer, he absolutely shouldn’t be this thrown off by you, but he is. 

He twirls the knife in his hand as he stands from a crouch, his brain replaying bits and pieces from the entire past half hour like it’s a highlight reel, and the sound of your laugh rings out clear as day in his head. Loud and light, like honey and sunlight streaming through an open window, and his heart does an odd little stutter-step where it beats in his chest. 

He was used to sitting in silence before he moved in here, used to the quiet yet relentless thrum of his disorganized thoughts as ink spills over the pages of Steve’s—his—notebook. He abruptly realizes that solely due to the fact that he’s now your neighbor, he hasn’t really sat in complete silence in about six months, and the idea isn’t as horrifying to him now as it probably would’ve been a year ago. 

Bucky Barnes has never considered himself a romantic by any means. Sure, he was a charmer back in the day, but he never had this much baseless affection of this caliber for anybody back then save for that one girl he knew from school, and the realization makes him nauseous. 

Bucky Barnes is not a romantic, but God, you make him want to be. You make him want to write sonnets and paint and scream and sing. You make him want to rip his own arm off and beat himself to death with it because you’re so honest and open with your gentleness, and he hasn’t got the faintest clue how the world hasn’t crushed your spirit yet. 

Bucky swallows roughly as he walks to the kitchen and shoves the knife back into the block, suddenly feeling too hot, too cold, and too alive. 

Panic wells in his chest again and he hastily walks into his room and digs through his bedside drawer in search of the phone he never uses. 

He calls the only person whose number he has memorized despite not having called it in a long while, and the dial tone and his racing heart synchronizing does absolutely nothing except make him feel like a live wire. Or an exposed nerve. Or an idiot. Yep, definitely an idiot. 

He holds his breath when the call is answered, and breathes out his next words in a tone that's subdued, his voice quiet, like he’s telling the person on the other end of the line a secret.

“Sam, hey, it’s Bucky. Can we meet up?”

“And that’s what happens when you have three shots of espresso every morning,” LYLA teased, her voice bright with faux concern.

Miguel muttered something unintelligible in response, irritation low in his throat.

“Is the coffee finished already?” you mused, wiping your hands on the kitchen towel. “I could’ve sworn I got a fresh bag last week.”

Miguel frowned as he peered at the nearly-empty jar, sighing when he only found a few stubborn grounds clinging to the bottom. He tilted the jar, as if sheer willpower might coax more grounds.

“I suppose I do drink a lot of coffee,” he muttered, setting it down with a sigh. “But if I remember correctly, you were the one who made me switch to decaf last week.“

LYLA’s marigold-hued hologram flickered beside his shoulder. She lounged dramatically mid-air, arms folded behind her head. “Looks like you're gonna have to cut back on your coffee intake, big guy.”

“Thanks for the reminder, LYLA.” Miguel responded dryly, rubbing a hand over his face.

“It’s alright,” you said, turning back to the stove. “I’ll make sure to grab extra coffee when I go grocery shopping.”

That seemed to ease his scowl, though he still looked mildly betrayed by the coffee shortage. He always liked his brew extra strong— anything less felt like a personal insult to his stamina.

“Can you get a dark roast this time?” he asked, reaching for his mug and salvaging the last remaining coffee grounds straight from the jar.

You gave him a teasing smile and agreed. But you added not to finish it too quickly again. Miguel exhaled through his nose, admitting in quiet defeat and agreed. He knew he would have to cut down anyways to avoid another shortage.

LYLA perked up again, her heart-shaped sunglasses sliding down her nose slightly as she smirked. “You're so dependent on caffeine, Miguel. It's not healthy. Have you ever thought about herbal tea?”

“Herbal tea is good!” you chirped, slicing into an avocado. But Miguel only grimaced, like you’d just offered him hot water and lies.

“I think I’ll stick to my espresso. But thanks.”

You laid a warm egg over the toasted bagel, layered on the avocado slices, and slid the plate across the counter.

“Here’s yours,” you said, nudging it closer. “And…please try to have the whole thing and not just a few bites.”

Miguel accepted the plate with a sheepish half-smile, scratching at his jaw like a man caught red-handed. Only you could reduce him to something so soft, so quietly unsure.

“Gracias, amor. Looks great.” He paused, a flicker of guilt passing through his features. “I know I don’t eat enough sometimes. I’ll work on that.”

“More like most of the time,” LYLA quipped.

“Do you have to be mouthy all the time?”

“You did program me with sarcasm subroutines, Miguel.”

After plating your own bagel and pouring a glass of juice, settling across from him at the dining table. You weren’t nearly as reliant on caffeine as you husband— then again, your schedule wasn’t nearly as chaotic.

“So, what's the day like today?” you asked, taking in the scent of the eggs before you took your first bite from the bagel.

LYLA summoned another holographic screen, showcasing the itinerary for the day. There were some entries written in all caps for urgent matters.

“Well, you've got a meeting with the finance team at 9,” she began in a practiced tone, “training session at 11, lunch with the research division at 1, and a one-on-one meeting with Gwen in the afternoon. Oh, and the new recruit.”

Miguel sighed. “It’s gonna be a long day…”

“A new recruit?” you asked, pausing mid-bite.

“Yeah, we've got a new recruit joining the team today,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still need to handle the briefing and everything with them.”

“If I had access to the recruit’s file, they’d be briefed yesterday—”

“No,” Miguel cut her off firmly, giving the hologram a pointed look, effectively shutting down any more snide remarks. “Don’t start with that again, LYLA. We’ve been through this before.”

LYLA didn’t argue, but still retreated with a pouty expression.

“We'll get to the briefing when the time is right. Besides, I'm sure the recruit can wait a few more hours.”

“Uh huh,” LYLA drawled, plopping herself comfortably on his shoulder. “Like you wait for your coffee in the morning.”

“You're incorrigible, you know that?” Miguel retaliated.

You stifled a laugh as you watched the exchange. Miguel and LYLA’s dynamic was always amusing to witness— her snarky remarks grating on his nerves just enough to get a rise out of him. Sometimes she would say things out loud, things that you would rather keep in your head to spare his feelings

But for all her sass, Miguel respected her. LYLA kept the Spider Society from collapsing under the weight of the multiverse threats— cataloging anomalies, coordinating missions, issuing alerts. Without her, the whole operation would be in chaos.

Their relationship was a strange cocktail of frustration and loyalty, with Miguel begrudgingly acknowledging that he relies on her more than he cares to admit.

“You know, uhm.” You cleared your throat as you put your bagel back on the plate. “Our anniversary is in two weeks… Is that on the schedule, too?”

Miguel glanced over at you, his eyes softening and the tension on his shoulders eased from your words. “How could I forget? Of course it's on schedule.”

LYLA’s hologram flickered into the space between you both, grinning behind her sunglasses.

“In bold caps, highlighted in red…” she drew out her words.

Miguel sighed, already too tired to deal with her antics. “LYLA, please…”

Miguel was meticulous with scheduling— he had to be, with how fast everything moved around him. Most entries were strictly business: reports, patrol, debriefing.

But after you got together, he started to make space for the both of you. Dinner dates, gifts. Even mundane things like grocery shopping. He never said much about it, but it always meant something when you saw yourself pencilled in between saving worlds.

You imagined the look on his face when he added your anniversary to the schedule with a concentrated furrow in his brow. The one he always wore when he was deep in thought. You could almost picture it, his lips pursed as he flagged the day as a priority.

“Do you have anyone to cover for you for that weekend,” you asked.

Miguel nodded, swallowing a mouthful of the bagel. “Yeah, I’ve been putting in the notice for a while. And it’s going to be a very busy weekend for us.”

There was a faint glimmer in his eyes that sparked a suggestive undertone. It made your heart flutter, and heat crept up your neck— just like it used to when you first started dating.

He took another bite, then dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. A subtle smirk tugged at his lips, almost hidden, but you caught it before it vanished again. “But let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.”

“We still haven't got anything planned,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “Is there anything you want to do in particular, or… I could take the reins and find us something this time?”

You hadn’t exactly planned to offer, but the words slipped out on a whim with a flicker of excitement. Maybe it was the quiet confidence humming under your skin this morning, or maybe it was the way Miguel looked at you— like he trusted you with something small but significant.

The idea of planning something perfect for the both of you made your heart hammer in your chest a little harder— equal part thrill and pressure. This wasn’t just an outing. It was your anniversary, a milestone.

Miguel seemed to sense the weight of that too. His gaze softened as he leaned back slightly, choosing the latter. “I trust your taste. You always pick things I end up liking more than I expect.”

Oh, he didn’t know what that kind of trust did to you.

“Alright,” you smiled easily. “I think I’m confident enough to pick something we’ll both like.”

Before he could respond, a soft rhythmic beep interrupted the quiet. A holographic call alert blinked above LYLA’s avatar.

“Miguel, you’ve got an upcoming call from Jess,” LYLA reported.

Miguel stood up, brushing the crumbs from his shirt. “Tell her I'll call back when I leave the house.”

“Roger that. I'll let Jess know you'll call back shortly.”

He finished the last bit of bagel— finally, much to your relief— and downed the last sip of coffee before rising fully from his seat. His movement grew brisk now, more mechanical as he shifted into work mode. There was still something practical and calm in the way he adjusted his gizmo watch, smoothed his shirt.

You stood as well, brushing your hands along your thighs to clear the crumbs. He was halfway down the hallway when you caught up with him.

“Have a good day,” you said softly.

“Thanks. You too.” he echoed your affection, his voice low and fond. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”

That made the flutter return— warm, sudden, and no less potent. You reach up to press your lips on his in a kiss, lingering for half a beat longer. His mouth moved against yours, slow and certain, before you pulled away first.

Miguel didn’t turn back just yet, almost like he wanted another kiss but didn’t want to admit it.

“Can’t get enough of me, huh?” he breathed against your cupid bow, tempted to chase after your lips.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what you do to me,” you teased back, pulling yourself away completely to look at him fully.

Miguel only chuckled under his breath, but you could sense the heat brewing from him. With a mix of restraint and want, the kind that stayed even after he walked away.

Finally, he turned and tapped the interface of his watch. A swirl of colour unfurled in the hallway, casting a ripple of shimmering light across the floor.

You stood still as your husband stepped into the portal and vanished. The colours folded in on themselves, collapsing into silence and leaving you alone with the faded warmth of the kiss you just shared.

~

A few hours had passed since Miguel left, but the thought of your anniversary hadn’t left your thoughts since breakfast. Even while running errands, the idea kept looping through your thoughts— not just what you would do, but the fact that you were in charge. And that part was starting to feel real.

Back home, you dropped your keys in the dish by the door and sank into the couch with your laptop perched on your knees. The living room was quiet, warm with the late morning light, and smelled faintly of citrus from the candle you lit earlier.

With a deep sigh, you opened a browser tab and started typing without much confidence. You figured if you were going to book something for the occasion, you should start looking now. Better to have a secure idea rather than dragging it out till the last minute.

‘Anniversary ideas for married couples.’

There were a lot of results but what came up wasn’t exactly inspiring. Sunset diner cruises. Couples massages. Personalised matching mugs.

They were pretty generic, too expected. This wasn’t just another date night. This was your anniversary. Something worth remembering, even ten years from now.

You kept scrolling, clicking through half-hearted blogs and articles. A weekend getaway out of the states was tempting at first glance, but the logistics quickly killed the fantasy. Booking a trip with only two weeks notice was definitely not ideal. Not with Miguel’s schedule.

You could already imagine the grimace on his face if you sprang it on him. He’d need to prepare, clear time, figure out if LYLA could hold things down. You didn’t want to give that extra headache. You shook your head and closed the tab.

You wanted something intimate. Something thoughtful and still unforgettable.

But so far, every idea just felt like a placeholder. You changed your search.

‘Non-traditional anniversary ideas.’

‘Things to do if you hate planning but want to be romantic.’

‘Anniversary ideas that don’t involve flying or fancy dinners.’

There was nothing that sparked your interest. You tapped on the cold metal surface of your laptop, staring at your half-filled notes. You had a few decent options— couples pottery classes, a private cinema rental. But none of them really felt like you and Miguel.

You were already on the second page of your browsing session, your tabs multiplying by the minute. Another generic listicle, another Pinterest-perfect weekend getaway that didn’t feel like you. Still, there was one headline that made you pause.

‘Boutique Hotels That Cater to Grown-Up Romance’

You scoffed— corny much— but clicked on it anyway. What did you have to lose?

At first, the article felt tame. A few charming bed- and-breakfasts with clawfoot tubs. But as you scrolled through slowly, you discovered there was more than meets the eye.

‘A discreet, five-star intimacy hotel design for privacy and indulgence.’

You blinked at the screen. A hotel that catered to…that?

You’d heard of sex hotels before, sure. But the images in your head had always been less than flattering— neon signs that plastered the room, crushed velvet floors, and leftover remnants of previous…guests. Not exactly your idea of romance. Or hygiene.

But the ones that you saw on the screen seemed nothing like that. The photos shown looked sleek. Shadowy. Elegant. Velvet textures, mood-lighting, and high-thread-count sheets.

It looked more like a designer spa than something so…provocative. And the reviews were nearly flawless. Every word hinted at luxury, discretion, and absolute comfort.

There was one that stood out to you.

La Madrugada:

A private luxury hotel for couples seeking indulgent intimacy. Soundproofed suites. Mood-custom lighting. Silk bedding. All with absolute privacy and five-star discretion.

The description alone made your face warm. You couldn’t tell if you were flustered or intrigued.

The idea of sharing a place like that with Miguel made your pulse quicken. You could already picture it, his voice low in the dim light, the weight of his touch, his eyes looking up at you between your legs.

Still, if you were going to suggest something like this, it had to meet his standards. Miguel wasn’t someone you could take just anywhere.

And this was exactly his kind of indulgence. Elegant. Private. Controlled. Exactly what he deserved. It checked all the relevant boxes. There was nothing to disturb you. No work, no missions, no worries of being interrupted.

It was a perfect getaway for your anniversary.

~

The house was still and quiet, with the only light illuminating swiftly from the kitchen and the hallway. It was well past midnight when Miguel finally arrived home. The door clicked open softly, and the familiar silence followed.

You could hear his footsteps as he made his way toward the bedroom, no doubt hoping to find you there. But when he found the room empty, he turned back to the hallway, calling out for you.

“In the kitchen,” you called back. A plate of crackers and hummus sat before you as you idly snacked.

He appeared in the kitchen doorway a moment later, standing there for a beat. His brows were furrowed in confusion, the weariness of the day evident in the slump of his shoulders and the tired gleam in his eyes. His hair was rumpled from countless times he’d run his hand through it.

“Hey,” you cooed, your gaze softened as you took in the sight of him. He looked exhausted, but still so striking.

“Hey…I thought you’d be in bed by now.” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t had the time to catch his breath.

You shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“So I gathered.”

“Have you eaten yet?” you asked. “I want to discuss something with you.”

“Yeah, I picked up a quick bite before I came home.” He paused, his gaze narrowing a bit and hesitated before he spoke again. “Is something wrong?”

You gestured to the chair beside you. “Come, take a seat.”

He stepped forward, still looking slightly puzzled, and slid into the chair you pulled out for him. You offered him a cracker, and he took it, fingers brushing lightly against yours. There was a quiet tension in the air, a shift from the casual snacking to something more.

His eyes flickered between the plate of crackers and you, waiting for you to speak.

“So,” you began, taking a deep breath. “About our anniversary.”

Miguel leaned back against the chair, the tired lines on his face tightening as he focused. “Right, the anniversary…what about it?”

“Well, I think I found something.” You turned the laptop toward him, the soft glow of the screen casting a subtle light across the table and bounced off his eyes.

The screen displayed the homepage of the hotel’s website. A few images of the rooms and the navigation bar on the top. You watched his face closely, trying to read his thoughts. But his expression gave nothing away.

The moment you came across this place earlier, you hadn’t stopped thinking about it. The idea buzzed in you like static electricity. And now, with Miguel in front of you, the anticipation was too much. You couldn’t tell if he was intrigued or skeptical— or both. The silence stretched, saved by him tapping his fingers on the table.

Your pulse throbbed— part of you hoping he’d say yes, the other bracing for a no. You didn’t want to get your hopes up too soon.

“This is…definitely not what I expected to see,” he said at last, his tone still unreadable. “When you said you found something, I figured maybe a dinner reservation. I didn’t think you’d be looking at hotels. Looks fancy, though.”

Oh, another dinner? How… modest.

You bit back your disappointment, unsure where he stood. Was the hotel too far off from what he imagined? Would he even be open to the idea?

“It actually took a lot of filtering and narrowing down,” you said, a hint of pride in your tone. “I didn’t find it right away. I came across it through some random blog article.”

His mouth twitched in the beginning of a smile, a low chuckled rumbled from his throat. “Oh really? So you stumbled upon it?”

“Something like that.” You laughed. “I just didn’t want another dinner date this year.”

Miguel nodded slowly, taking another bite from his cracker— either he was delaying his response or he was using this time to think.

“I get that. But…a private hotel? It’s definitely bolder than a dinner date.” He looked back at the screen, scanning the page again. “It’s definitely a new territory for us.”

“I think it’s worth a shot,” you said softly, trying to sound enthusiastic without coaxing him too much. “Unless you want me to look for something else.”

“No, no, I’m not against it. It’s just something new.”

You still felt mixed signals from him. His words didn’t give you a firm answer, but at least he wasn’t rejecting the idea.

“Yeah…and uh it’s not a usual hotel either,” you added cautiously. Maybe saying it out loud would give you a clearer read on how he felt.

Miguel seemed intrigued. Brows lifted— one of those looks that meant he was going to dig deeper. “What do you mean by that?”

“Scroll down. The description’s specific.”

Miguel’s eyes skimmed down the page. He scanned the detailed description, reading the fine details of each room and what was offered.

He looked back at you, his voice carried a low hum of amusement— and something else. “So…you’re suggesting that we…”

“Uh huh.” You tried not to fidget under his sudden bedroom eyes. “So, what do you say?”

He paused, clearly mulling over the idea once more before he answered. “I say… I’m in. Let’s do it.”

Relief swept through you like cool water, washing the tension clean from your chest. A grin bloomed across your face, followed by a breathy laugh. You leaned in and kissed him, warmth rushing to your cheeks.

Miguel kissed back without hesitation, and you could feel the slight smile curving beneath his lips.

But after a moment, he pulled away, his expression shifting to something more serious.

“We should set some ground rules, first,” he said, tone steady. “Obviously we both want this, but I want us to be on the same wavelength. No assumptions, no pressure.”

You nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

You both leaned in, letting the conversation unfold in hushed tones. You touched on hard limits, things you wanted to try together. No judgement. No rush. You even brought up using a safe word.

Throughout it all, communication and consent remained a foundation. And there was something in Miguel’s tone, his attentiveness, that echoed leadership— measured and intentional. Like every word carried a purpose.

But the time the details were sorted, your heart felt steadier. Grounded. And a little more in love.

“So, let’s go through the hotel's information page and book it tonight,” you said, holding his gaze.

“Sounds like a plan. I want this to be something to remember.”

Miguel leaned closer, scrolling through the rest of the site while you sat shoulder to shoulder. The deeper you went, the more the hotel revealed— the sultry description and indulgent amenities designed with adult privacy in mind.

Then came the curated experiences: pre-arranged fantasy packages, role play set ups, blindfolds, rope works. You weren’t sure if it was the description or the photo, but your cheeks grew warmer just imagining it— and what it might look like with Miguel.

A little thrill zipped through your stomach, a mix of both nerves and excitement.

Once everything looked good, Miguel booked the dates. Check-in Friday evening, check-out Sunday. Two nights tucked away from the world— and maybe a few inhibitions.

You closed your laptop with a satisfied breath and you both headed to bed. Just as the bedroom lights dimmed, LYLA’s golden avatar blinked to life on Miguel’s shoulder, her glow soft but unmistakably smug.

“So… should I start syncing calendar alerts for this intimate expedition?” she chirped, already projecting a calendar menu mid-air.

Miguel groaned, teeth flashing in annoyance. The glow lit his crimson eyes in a flicker of irritation.

“Were you listening this whole time?” he grumbled.

“Miguel,” she sighed, mockingly patient. “I live in your watch. Privacy is a fantasy. Much like the weekend you two just planned.”

He stared at her flatly.

“Set the damn reminder.”

With a sparkle of data, the calendar updated. Miguel collapsed into bed beside you, muttering under his breath before you both fell asleep.

~

The night after you booked the hotel, you did everything you could to prepare for the weekend. Your bags were packed, and you even helped Miguel with his. Now a travel bag sat quietly in the corner of your room, waiting for the day you left.

You wanted to go the extra mile— researching, planning little details. You ordered a bottle of body oil, just in case there was time for back massages or something slow. Something intimate.

Then came the outfits. You already had your clothes and toiletries tucked away neatly, but this was something different. Something just for him.

You scrolled through the endless collections of lingerie, each one more daring than the last. Silks, lace, mesh. Straps and cutouts. They looked effortless on the models— women of all sizes and shapes, each flowing with confidence. Some pieces looked like they were meant to last all of five minutes before being stripped off.

You weren’t sure how something like this would look on you— you’d never worn anything like it, never thought about yourself that way. But… maybe it was time.

You ordered a handful of sets, each one in different styles and colours— something soft, something bold, something barely there. You wanted to have options and surprise him. You just hoped you’d feel good wearing them, just as the models did.

A few days later, they arrived in sleek black boxes, each set folded delicately in tissue paper. The logo was embossed in pink cursive, paired with a silhouette of a woman who almost looked too sure of herself.

You’ve opened many packages in the past, but none of them made your stomach feel so airy. Like your body couldn’t decide if it wanted to be excited or afraid.

The tissue paper crinkled as you peeled it open, the sound strangely loud in a quiet room. It was like the box itself was watching you, whispering something unspoken.

You laid the sets out across the bed one by one. Each piece— soft lace, silk ties, daring cuts— looked expensive in a way that felt unreal. They were beautiful. And they were all yours.

Still, you hesitated.

Until you finally picked one.

A deep plum babydoll— a short flowy nightie, with a sheer skirt that brushed the top of your thighs. It came with a matching thong, still modest in comparison to the other sets. You had chosen it first for a reason.

You undressed slowly, the cool air brushing your skin as you slipped on the babydoll. The silk glided down your body like water. The lace on the hem was delicate, brushing lightly with each step.

When you turned to the mirror, you stilled.

It wasn’t bad. In fact, the colour flattered you. The shape was gentle and safe. It covered your midsection and maybe that was why you couldn’t quite pinpoint how to feel.

It looked… better than you thought. Not seductive. Not glamorous. Just you, trying.

Yet, you didn’t feel the spark you thought you would either. Still, it was something. And it was a start. You still had a few more sets to try on.

You picked up the teal-coloured teddy and stepped into it slowly. Unlike the babydoll, this one was lace all the way. Sheer, delicate, and backless. Designed to trace your body’s curves with little room to hide.

The place felt beautiful in your hands, but different on your skin. It wasn’t rough exactly, but textured— enough to remind you with every shift that it was there.

You shifted your hips slightly. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, but it lacked the soft comfort of the babydoll. This wasn’t meant to be worn for comfort. This was meant to be for the visuals, admired before stripping it away.

But when you looked back in the mirror again, the flicker of excitement that had lit you up earlier dimmed rapidly.

The lingerie clung where you didn’t want it to. It exposed more than you expected— skin, softness, scars you had forgotten about.

You adjusted the steps, tugging gently at the fabric near your waist, tried standing at an angle. But nothing felt right. But no matter what you did, the image in the mirror didn’t match the fantasy you’d held in your mind.

You hugged your arms across your midsection instinctively, suddenly feeling far more aware of the dim light in the room.

There were still other sets laid out neatly on the bed— lace bras, matching panties, a crimson one-piece trimmed in satin that matched Miguel’s eyes. All of them, waiting for their moment. But now, you weren’t so sure you wanted that moment at all. You couldn’t imagine slipping into another.

You peeled the teddy off and folded it neatly, as if returning it to its box might erase the sinking feeling in your gut— and it did a fraction.

You told yourself that maybe it wasn’t the right one for you. Or maybe it was your cycle— your hormones, your body shifting. That happens, right? There were a dozen reasons why you might be feeling this way.

Then a dark thought edged its way to the forefront of your mind. What if Miguel saw you like this… and felt nothing? What if it didn’t have the effect you hoped for?

You blinked quickly, fighting the sting behind your eyes. You didn’t want to cry. Not when your anniversary was so soon. But something inside you had dimmed, like someone had slowly turned down the light switch.

You packed away the rest of the lingerie in silence and tugged on a sweatshirt before heading to the kitchen to make dinner. Maybe the warmth of something familiar might settle your thoughts.

~

The night slowly simmered into a quiet bliss, the soft clinking of dishes echoing as you cleaned up after dinner before drying your hands on a dish towel. Your weekend anniversary was getting closer.

Part of you almost wanted time to slow down— especially after the day you tried on the lingerie.

You weren’t the type to let things get to your head, especially something as fickle as body image. Still, the doubt remained, heavy and stubborn. You tried convincing yourself that it was just hormones and it would pass by the weekend.

Miguel had already moved to the living room, settling on the couch with the golden glow of his tablet reflecting faintly off the lenses of his glasses.

You, on the other hand, hovered in the kitchen for a moment. Fingered gripping the edge of the counter. The warmth of dinner faded, but now a different kind of heat rose in your chest.

Despite how you’d felt in the lingerie, you figured maybe getting closer to Miguel might help. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. Tonight felt like a chance to rekindle that intimacy.

You passed over to the living room in your socks, quietly sliding beside him on the couch. Miguel barely looked up, his brows furrowed and eyes flickering over whatever was on the screen. LYLA hovered nearby in the corner of your eye.

“What are you looking at?” you purred softly, voice low and curious.

Miguel’s eyes landed on yours briefly, then quickly back on the screen. You could see the tiredness behind them, even if he chose to ignore it.

“Just catching up. Debrief came in late,” he murmured.

You knew he’d probably rather be in bed, so you tried to coax him there. Gently. Carefully.

You started off subtle, leaning closer until your shoulders pressed against his, your fingers traced along the soft fabric of his sleeves. A quiet invitation.

Miguel barely reacted, still engrossed in what he was looking at. His hand found your thigh in a vague, familiar pat— but it still didn’t feel like he was present. His mind was still elsewhere, probably in the mission files or whatever HQ spat out.

For a moment, it felt like he forgot you were even there.

“How long will it take?” you asked, quieter this time.

Finally he lowered the tablet a little, blinking as if remembering your existence. “Not too long. Maybe an hour or so… sorry, amor. I just need to finish this up and I’ll be all yours.”

You leaned in again, lips brushing the side of his neck— a spot you knew always got a reaction out of him. Your breath hovered, delicate and teasing, just above his pulse.

“Aren’t you tired?” you whispered. “Maybe you should come and rest.”

One of your hands slid to his thigh, thumb tracing low circles.

Miguel’s focus wavered— just for a second— but his eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“Not now,” he said, a little too fast. A little too sharply. “Just give me a few minutes… I need to finish this.”

His hand lifted, palm halfway between you almost like a barrier— a wordless signal. Not a shove but still halting you.

You pulled back stiffly, like you’ve been burnt. The heat in your chest returned, but not the kind you’d hope for. This heat twisted and crawled under your skin.

Miguel didn’t seem to notice your distress.

Your swallowed thickly and looked away, shifting slightly to the side of the couch to give him space— space he didn’t even ask for but you kept your distance anyways.

Maybe you’ve misread him. Maybe he was tired. Or not in the mood.

But even then, he would at least kiss your temple, or pull you to his side, even when he was distracted. Tonight was just a pat on your thigh. A gesture that said you’re here, but not I want you here

The buzz you felt earlier— hopeful, romantic, and daring— was replaced by an uncomfortable churn in your stomach. Your libido was gone, crushed under the weight of a single glance and a half-hearted touch.

Maybe it wasn’t the lingerie that didn’t look right. Maybe it was you.

You thought back to the fabric clinging where you didn’t want it to. The way your reflection didn’t match the fantasy and felt more like a joke you weren’t in on.

Maybe it was a mercy he didn’t see you in them. You didn’t think you could stomach the same indifference in his eyes. Not then.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing lightly at the fabric of your sleeves. The silence stretched— thick and uncomfortable— settling between you like a fog that wouldn’t lift.

You don’t try again. You didn’t want to beg for his attention. The warmth between you cooled by the second, until another voice cuts in, crisp and far too observant.

“You okay over there?”

You blinked “Huh?”

LYLA hovered in your peripheral vision. Her tone was casual, but her eyes— pixelated and perspective— scanned your face.

“You’re usually less… radio silent when he’s being oblivious.” She looked back at Miguel and tilted her head.

Miguel’s head snapped up, brows pulling together. “What?”

You tried to summon a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“It’s nothing…I just thought maybe we could… unwind a little together.” You hesitated, the words felt clumsy on your tongue. “…Never mind.”

Saying it out loud made it sound foolish. Like you’d misread everything.

Miguel stared at you for a second longer, sensing something, but not quite putting the pieces together. You didn’t know why you felt so small under his gaze. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cold. But somehow, you still felt like a burden.

“We’ve got the whole weekend,” he said instead, like it was a compromise. “Let’s just get through this part.”

That stung more than it should have, like your needs were something to be scheduled around.

The weekend no longer carried the same thrill it did the night you booked the rooms together. Now the idea felt…hollow.

LYLA cuts in again, voice clipped. “Someone’s gotta read the room better.” She turned to Miguel, her digital face showing her disapproval. “You really want to go into this weekend with a vibe like this?”

Miguel’s face tightened, his patience was slowly thinning. “LYLA, now is not the time.”

“Oh really?” she shot back. “Because you seemed to be making plenty of time for work.”

“I’m gonna go shower.” You stood abruptly. The energy in the room was suddenly too much. You didn’t wait for a reply before you headed out.

You closed the bathroom door gently behind you, not trusting yourself to slam it. The mirror reflected you in a faint, silver-blue light, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look directly into it.

Your heart lodged somewhere between embarrassment and disappointment as you recalled the exchange that happened just earlier. His voice. His eyes on her tablet. The gentle push of his hand— soft, but still a rejection.

We’ve got the whole weekend.

And yet right now, you felt like you were already spending it alone.

“And here you are, sitting alone,” you turned back around to see him giving you a cocky look, you know you didn’t have to prove anything to him but being neglected by your roommate, the overzealous expression he wore, and the alcohol in your system made you see red.

“And here you are, continuing to hit on someone in a relationship and not taking a hint to back off,” you exploded at him, slamming the drink you were nursing on the bartop and turning away again before whipping back, “and not that it’s any of your business, but he is here,” you regretted the words as they left your mouth, knowing you were actively digging yourself a grave.

“Oh, I’d love to meet him,” he leaned in once again, you knew he was enjoying this and was waiting to see you fumble, and you wanted so badly to wipe that smirk off his face. You quickly tried to form a plan or an excusable defense in your head, while he crossed his arms over his chest, seemingly getting off on your misfortune. You were about to give up when a tall brunette in an olive green jacket caught your eye, you recognized him from the photography class you took a while back, you remember him mostly keeping to himself, occasionally piping up during critique and actually giving really good advice. Shit, what was his name?

“Baby, there you are, I was just about to look for you,” you place a hand on his shoulder to get his attention and give him a quick pleading look to say please go with me on this.

“Sorry, the line for the bathroom was crazy, apparently some dudes started a fight in there,” he responded, giving you a quick nod of understanding while stepping closer and between you and the other guy, whose face fell in dejection.

“We should dance,” you suggested, running your hands across your “boyfriend’s” chest, trying to sell the relationship thing without pushing it too far and making him uncomfortable, “I’m being hit on by creeps over here,” you complained pointedly at the man still watching the interaction.

“Well, um,” he cleared his throat and swallowed harshly, making you back off a bit to calm his nerves but he rested his hands on your waist and kept you in place, “well, we can’t have that,” he pulled you in closer before grabbing your hands and leading you away from the bar. Your stomach erupted in butterflies and your mind went dizzy making you forget about the creep that started this and willingly followed you wherever he took you. You came back to your scenes when he stopped and turned back to you with a concerned look.

“I’m sorry about that, the dude wouldn’t drop it and I just wanted to get away from him,” you admitted, keeping your eyes trained on where your hands were still intertwined.

“No, no, it's fine, I just-” he started before being interrupted by your drunk roommate hanging off of an equally wasted guy.

“Oh, he’s cute,” you were sure that was supposed to be a whisper, “I just wanted to tell you, we're headed out,” she blew you an overdramatic kiss before making her way back to your dorm. 

“Do you-” “Um, I-” you spoke at the same time and noticed a tinge of pink on his cheeks.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged while running a hand through his perfectly messy hair.

“Do you wanna get out of here? Go somewhere quieter?” you suggested, worrying into your bottom lip.

“Yeah,” he smiled down at you, “yeah I’d like that,”

“Just not my place,” you referred to your roommate stumbling out of the building, you made a note in your head to text her later tonight to make sure she’s safe.

“That’s fair, I think there's a pizza place that stays open pretty late near here,” he checked the time on his phone, a little past midnight. You nodded as he took your hand again and led you to the door, you can tell he was visibly more relaxed once the cool night air hit his face. 

“It’s like a 10 minute walk this way, if that’s okay?” he suggested, gesturing the way toward campus. 

“Yeah, I live that way anyway,” you think about reaching for his hand again, but the sober part of your brain reminds you that you don’t actually know this guy, you don’t even remember his name, “were you there with anyone?” you start to conduct an investigation.

“Yeah, my buddy, Harry had just left before you grabbed me, he was mad that they didn’t have some top shelf liquor or something,” he laughed at the recollection, “I was heading out too.”

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t take you away from your girlfriend or anything,” you’d like to think you were being subtle, but you were definitely not sober enough to not be totally obvious with your questioning.

“Nope, no girlfriend, besides you now,” he joked, which made your cheeks heat up, “I’m Peter, by the way.” Ohhh that was his name, he definitely knew you were interrogating him now.

You told him your name too, and surprisingly he remembered your face from the photo class. He told you that he’s a photojournalism major, you shared yours as well and talked about how school was going for both of you. You learned that he was living in Queens with his aunt and commuting to Manhattan for classes, he told you that he plans on moving in with Harry eventually but doesn’t really want to live in whatever bougie penthouse Harry wants to buy. (His friend Harry is apparently super wealthy.) You told him that you were living in the dorms since you were lucky enough to get a hefty scholarship to Empire State University that promised housing so you didn’t have to rent an apartment in Manhattan.

Once you got to the pizza place, it was pretty packed with a bunch of other college students hungry from a night out, luckily they got your slices out to you pretty fast.

“I got it, for saving me,” you lightly swatted Peter’s hands away when he tried to pay for the slices. “You're my hero, like Spider-Man or something,” you joked, hoping to flatter him, but when you looked back at him, after handing the cashier your card, you were just met with wide eyes and his bright red face.

“Heh, it was nothing like that, it was no problem,” he laughed nervously, brushing you off, “I was just trying to find someone to buy me pizza.” He joked back and you couldn’t help but chuckle too, half because it was funny and half that you were glad you didn’t embarrass him too much with the hero comment. 

“Let’s sit outside, it's hot in here.” Peter leads you outside with his free hand on the small of your back. You both sat on the curb and ate your pizza, you didn’t realize how hungry you were until you took the first bite, no wonder this place was packed, greasy pizza really hits the spot after a long night. 

Once you were both done scarfing down your food, Peter grabbed your empty paper plate from you and set them to the side. You giggled when he turned back and you saw a smear of pizza sauce on the side of his mouth. 

“What?” he laughed back, “Do I have something on my face?” He wiped the wrong side of his face with his hand.

“Yeah, come here,” you scooted closer to him, and swiped your thumb across his cheek to clean the sauce up, when you look up from his mouth to his eyes, he’s looking at yours. Before he can shy away, you give him a sweet smile. “Thank you again.” 

“Anytime,” he smiled back, that smile must have had a gravitational pull because you were leaning in as soon as it spread across his face.

Suddenly he sat up at attention, and that smile dropped from his face, like he had heard something.

“You okay?” you were genuinely concerned, you thought you were picking up good signals. You had significantly sobered up from the walk and the pizza and weren't nearly as buzzed as you were an hour ago, but maybe your judgement was still a bit skewed.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright,” He didn’t sound all that convinced, “I just, I have to go.” He stands up abruptly, but still offers a hand to help you up. You hesitantly take it and let him pull you up.

“Are you sure?” You try to search his face for anything that says he was uncomfortable, or you crossed a boundary, anything to explain the sudden shift.

“Yeah, I am so sorry to leave like this,” Peter looks you in the eyes, and you can see he means it, “I’m really, really sorry, I just have to go,” he pulls his wallet from his pocket and hands you a twenty dollar bill, “Here, for a taxi, please get home safe.” 

In your universe, you are known as the Sun Spider. It all started on a school field trip to a solar energy research center, where you were accidentally exposed to a spider that had been subjected to intense solar radiation. You woke up with a white-hot surge of power, and your life changed forever. You donned a suit of pure white, taking the name that reflected both your newfound abilities and the brightness you brought into the world: Spider-Sun.

Your ability to harness solar energy and transform it into powerful blasts or create protective shields made you a formidable superhero in your home city, Nea Yorkey. Your ability to bring light to even the darkest corners of your city earned you the love of its citizens.

However, everything changed when you were suddenly pulled into the Spider-Verse.

Upon arriving, you were greeted by the gruff leader of this interdimensional team of Spider-People, Miguel O'Hara. His reputation preceded him - the genius intellect, the imposing figure, the gruff demeanor. Everyone respected him, and some even feared him. You, on the other hand, were drawn to him. There was something about that guarded demeanor that called to your own sunny nature.

You became an integral part of the team, fighting off anomalies and working hard to maintain the balance in the Spider-Verse. And despite Miguel's stern exterior, you felt yourself falling for him.

One mission was particularly rough, and you found yourself alone with Miguel in a safe house, nursing your wounds. His usually stern face softened as he tended to your injuries. The distance that he usually maintained was nowhere to be seen.

"Thank you, Miguel," you whispered.

He looked at you, his usually hard eyes soft. "You fought well, mi sol."

There was a moment of silence, a strange tension hanging in the air. Then, Miguel leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was filled with unexpected passion.

In that moment, you were not the Sun Spider, and he was not the Spider-Man 2099. You were just two people, seeking solace in each other.

Afterwards, as you laid side by side, Miguel turned to you, a serious look on his face. "This...this can't be more than what it is. Just...you know, stress relief," he muttered, his voice just above a whisper.

His words wounded you. Naturally, they did. He had reduced your relationship to mere stress relief, as if you were some object devoid of feelings. Yet, in spite of it all, you fell for him. Perhaps you were naive, even foolish, but you didn't care. You yearned for him and were ready to accept any fraction of affection he was willing to offer, no matter how small.

During the day, as you fought alongside him against the anomalies threatening the Spider-Verse, his attention toward you was sparse. He mostly shared only necessary information, barely making eye contact. Sometimes he didn't speak at all, and you and the rest of the team would receive mission orders and briefings from Lyla, his AI assistant.

But at night, when the two of you were alone, he became a different person. He'd whisper praises into your ear, telling you how exceptionally you fought, how much he desired you. He showed you his hidden vulnerability under the cover of darkness, the sheets their only witness. He'd gently stroke your hair and peppered your jaw and temple with kisses until you fell asleep, only for you to wake up the next morning to an empty, cold spot where he once lay.

This cycle - his coldness by day, and the fervor by night - repeated itself relentlessly for months.

And so, this is how you find yourself: disoriented, frenzied, and on the verge of tears, seated on the couch of your best friend, Peter B. Parker, in Earth-616. Cradled in your arms is his sweet daughter, Mayday, who, with her innocent touch, tries to console you. Yet her wide eyes dart anxiously to her father, reflecting her own alarm at your distress.

Peter rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe we should wait until MJ gets home?" he suggests, then, with a furrowed brow, he asks, “Have you tried talking to Jess about this?”

You shake your head vigorously. "No, I haven't told anyone. I have no idea what to do," you confess, your voice breaking.

Peter, ever the caring friend, gently takes Mayday from your arms and sets her down. He turns back to face you with a sympathetic gaze. “Do you..eh.. know who the father is?” he inquires softly.

You shake your head again, even though deep down, you know the truth. “The father is out of the picture. He doesn’t know, and he never will because he doesn’t want kids,” you whisper, fighting back tears.

As you and Peter sit down on the couch in his cozy living room, you find a sense of comfort being around him. His experience as both a superhero and a parent seems like it could be a beacon in this storm you're facing. The room is quiet, save for the soft ticking of a clock on the wall.

“You know, Peter,” you begin, your voice almost a whisper. “I’m terrified. What if the baby has powers? How am I going to protect them, especially if...if I can’t stop fighting anomalies?”

Peter looks thoughtful. “That’s a valid concern. First, you should know that you don’t have to do this alone. There’s a whole community of us, and we stick together. If the child does have powers, she or he will be badass like Mayday, right?”

You nod slowly but then anxieties pile on top of each other in your mind. “But... how can I hide this? Nobody and I mean nobody is supposed to know that I’m pregnant. Especially not...” You trail off, not finishing the sentence.

Peter rubs his chin, deep in thought. “We could look into modifying your suit, maybe talk to some tech geniuses in the Spider-Verse about creating something that can shield or conceal the pregnancy.”

You roll your eyes. “That kinda defies the ‘nobody is allowed to know ‘ordeal, Peter. You have to promise me that this stays between us.”

“I promise,” Peter says sincerely.

Silence fills the room again, and then you voice another fear. “Peter, what if...what if I’m not a good mother? What if I mess this up?”

Peter smiles warmly. “You know, I had those same fears when Mayday was born. I think it’s normal for any parent. But, take it from me, the fact that you’re worried about being a good parent means you’re already on the right track. You’ve got a good heart. Trust it.”

You look down at your hands, fingers interlaced. “Thank you, Peter. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” he says with a reassuring smile. “We’re family, in this weird, Spider-Verse kind of way. But maybe… and I am sayig this as a father myself… reconsider telling the father. I can’t imagine any guy wanting to give up this.” He says, pointing to his precious daughter playing with a napkin she found on the floor.

"Maybe you should reconsider telling the father," Peter's words are echoing in your mind like a haunting melody. A part of you yearns for that possibility. Perhaps you're not alone in this. Maybe, just maybe, Miguel wants this as much as you do.With newfound resolve, you set off for the Spider-Verse headquarters, expecting to find Miguel tucked away in his office, immersed in maintaining the spider verse or as he calls it "arachno- something-multiverse-thingy” or something similar to that.

Upon reaching his office door, you pound on it sharply. No response. Frowning, you knock again, a little harder this time. When silence continues to greet you, you slowly turn the doorknob and peek inside. There he is, hunched over his desk, lost in a world of numbers and codes.

"Miguel, I-" you start, but his sharp voice cuts you off.

"No," he interrupts, his tone cold. "Did I say you can come in? Dios mio, why are you always so damn clingy?"

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. You stare at him, taken aback by his blatant disregard for your feelings. You can feel the beginnings of tears prick at the corner of your eyes, but you will them away.

He doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it like that. This mantra plays over and over in your head, like a broken record. You take a deep breath, forcing down the hurt his words cause.

"Look, Miguel," you begin, struggling to keep your voice steady. "There’s something we need to talk about, and I think it's important for you to listen to me."

“Fucking hell, woman! What exactly don’t you understand. I’m busy. I don’t care about your little problems, right now.” he barks, not even looking up.

“Miguel,” you speak up, forcing the words out through clenched teeth, “ I’ve never asked anything from you. Not once have did I ask you to stay, to feel the same I feel, to fucking talk to me when people are around. Please all I am asking you is to just ... listen to me, fpr once.” Your voice grows stronger as you speak, a determined fire igniting within you.

Miguel finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours. For a moment, he seems taken aback by the resolve he saw there.

He rubs his temples. “Can we do this later?”

“No!” you shout. “It’s always later with you. You’re like...like a ghost. Just a figure in the hallway. I don’t need a figure, I need a person! I need someone who listens when...”

He glares at you, his eyes narrowing. “Okay, okay I will listen just not now. Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“No, it can’t,” you retort, your voice shaking a bit. “Why is it that every time I try to talk to you, you just brush me off? Am I that insignificant to you?”

He stands up abruptly, the chair skidding behind him. “This? This is what you want to talk about?” he says with a tone of annoyance. “Look, I have a million things to deal with and-”

“And what? And I’m not one of them? Just five minutes, Miguel! That’s all I ask!”

The room is tense. Your heart is racing. His eyes are fiery. It's a standoff.

“And what is so important that you have to disrupt everything right now?” he challenges.

Your breath catches in your throat. This is it. You're about to say it.

“I...” you stammer. “I need to tell you that...”

Suddenly, the door to the office swings open and Jess storms in.

“Miguel, we have a major issue in Sector 12! The anomalies...” she starts, then catches sight of your tear-streaked face. “Oh, am I interrupting something?”

Miguel seems to shake off the tension and slips back into commander mode. “No nothing important. What’s happening in Sector 12?”

You can't believe it. Just like that, he turns away. It feels like your heart is being squeezed.

Jess starts rattling off data and scenarios. The two of them are talking, but you don’t hear it anymore. All you can think of is how you almost told him. How you just wanted five minutes.

Your hands shake and you quietly step out of the room. The door closes behind you, and it feels like a chapter that you can’t read has been sealed away.

The next day you are on Earth-8311, an anthropomorphic animal-dominated universe. It's the home of Peter Porker, the Spectacular Spider-Ham, and you can't help but find it amusing.

The mission: to transport an anomaly, which resembles an enormous floating jellyfish, back to its home universe. It's been pure chaos here, and you are determined to set things right.

The team: Gwen, Hobie, and Peter B. Parker. You're all in your suits, eyes sharp, and webs at the ready.

"Alright, Spiders. Let's round this jelly up and send it home," Peter B. Parker takes charge, shooting a web towards a nearby building.

You swing alongside him, your thoughts a whirlwind. The world around you blurs - the animal citizens, the bustling cityscape, the strange yet familiar surroundings.

The anomaly appears before you, thrashing and pulsating as it floats through the sky. It releases blasts of energy that ripple through the air.

"Watch out, Sunny!" Gwen calls out as she dodges a blast.

You, however, are a split second too late. Your reflexes are off, your movements sluggish. The blast sends you spiraling towards the ground.

Hobie swings in and catches you mid-air, his guitar strapped on his back. “Get it together, Sun!” he shouts over the noise, his punk-styled hair waving wildly.

You shake off your daze and look up to see Peter B. Parker shooting webs to pull the anomaly back down, while Gwen is deploying a device to open a portal back to its home universe.

Your heart races as you focus on the task at hand. You need to get this right, not just for yourself, but for the life you’re now carrying. Your suit seems to glow even brighter in the chaos.

With a final combined effort, you manage to lasso the anomaly and push it through the portal. The anomaly disappears, and the portal closes behind it.

The team regroups on a rooftop. Gwen is catching her breath, Hobie is tuning his guitar, and Peter B. Parker gives you a concerned look.

“Are you okay?” Gwen asks, her voice laced with worry. “You weren’t yourself up there.”

The weight of the secret you’re carrying feels unbearable. But you're not ready to share it.

“Promise me you won’t tell Miguel about this,” you say, your voice barely audible.

Gwen raises an eyebrow, while Hobie crosses his arms. Peter B. Parker simply nods.

“Nah, Bossman doesn’t need to know about this,” Hobie says, and there’s a firmness in his voice that is strangely comforting.

Back in the HQ, your head spins, and your stomach feels like it's doing somersaults. You mumble a quick excuse about feeling nauseous and practically sprint to the nearest restroom.

Meanwhile, Gwen, Hobie, and Peter B. Parker head to the cafeteria to grab something to eat.

As they sit down at a table with their trays, Gwen breaks the silence. “Is it okay if I say that this mission was kind of easy? Like, I’ve seen Sunny take down Doc Ock from Earth-818, and she did that without any problem. So what was that today?” Gwen’s concern is apparent.

Hobie, munching on a sandwich, nods in agreement. "Yeah, it's like her spidey senses were jammed or somethin'. Never seen her like that before."

Peter B. Parker looks thoughtfully at his sandwich, then glances up at Gwen and Hobie. He’s torn, having promised you to keep your secret but also wanting your friends to understand why you were off your game.

"You guys remember when she fought Morlun on Earth-001? She was a totally smashin’ it, and today, she nearly got turned into spider-paste by a floating jellyfish. That ain’t right," Hobie adds.

Gwen’s eyes suddenly widen. "Oh my God! Do you think she’s in trouble? Like, something from her universe? Or maybe she's having an identity crisis! Should we stage an intervention?"

Peter B. Parker clears his throat. “Maybe she’s just having an off day.”

Gwen’s eyes narrow as she scrutinizes Peter. “You know something, don’t you?”

Peter scratches the back of his head, obviously uncomfortable. “Nope, no idea.”

Hobie puts down his sandwich and leans in. "Oi, mate. Spill your guts. There's something dodgy going on. She's always been our burst of sunshine, lifting the mood. But now she's... dimmed. What's going on with our Sunny, Parker?"

Before Peter B. Parker could answer Gwen’s barrage of questions, Jess - Spider-Woman - appears, her belly showing. She takes a seat at the table and, oblivious to the serious conversation that was taking place, asks them about their latest mission.

"So, how did your mission go?" Jessica asks, while munching on her Burger.

"Nothing to report, Jess," Gwen answers, a little too quickly, her face all sunshine and false smiles. Peter simply nod in agreement.

“Yah, all good!” Hobie chimes in, flashing a grin that seems a little too bright.

“How about you? How are you holding up?” Peter asks Jess, trying to steer the conversation away from the mission.

Jessica shrugs, not overly concerned, and bites into her burger. "'M good. You know,  I'm so glad I can finally eat a burger again. At the beginning of my pregnancy, practically every food made me nauseous, especially after swinging around on missions.”

Suddenly, there's a moment of collective realization among Gwen, Hobie. It’s as if their spider senses are tingling in unison. They exchange knowing looks, all of them silently putting the pieces together.

Gwen’s eyes are wide, Hobie’s eyebrows are raised, and they both turn to look at Peter, who simply nods.

Jess, noticing the silent exchange, squints at them. “What is up with you guys? You’re acting weird. Well, weirder than usual.”

“Uh, nothin’!” Hobie says, a little too quickly.

“Yeah, just tired from the mission,” Gwen adds, trying to play it cool.

Jess rolls her eyes and stands up. “Alright, weirdos. I’m gonna go find some normal people to talk to,” she says jokingly and walks away.

After she leaves, the trio leans in.

“Sunny’s pregnant, isn’t she?” Gwen whispers.

Hobie's eyes are as wide as saucers. “That would explain everything!”

Peter B. Parker nods. “We need to be there for her, but remember, it’s her news to share when she’s ready.”

They make a pact to support you without pushing you to reveal anything before you're ready.

As you walk back into the cafeteria, you find your friends huddled together. They break apart when they see you and welcome you back with smiles and light conversation, but something in their demeanor is different but you can’t put your finger on it. They are being more attentive, considerate, and frankly, a little too curious about your well-being.

"Are you sure you're okay, Sunny?" Gwen asks for the third time since you sat down. Her concern is genuine, but her intensity is slightly off-putting.

"Yeah, do you need anything?" Hobie offers, his eyes gleaming with unspoken curiosity. "Food, drink, or maybe... pickles?" Pickles? Thats oddly specific.

There's a burst of laughter from Gwen, and even Peter is suppressing a chuckle.

"What's up with the pickles?" You ask, looking at them suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing!" Gwen says, a little too quickly, trying to hold back her laughter.

"Hmm, pickles and ice cream, a weird combo, innit?" Hobie wonders aloud, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

Again, there's suppressed laughter, and you look at each of them, a realization slowly dawning on you. You turn to Peter, your gaze steady and serious. "You told them, didn't you?" Peter looks shocked, but quickly composes himself. "I didn't exactly tell them, per se," he confesses, "I might've confirmed their suspicions when they asked, but they figured it out on their own. Spider senses and all that jazz.”

Before you could respond, Gwen and Hobie jump in, both talking over each other in an attempt to apologize.

"We're sorry, Sunny," Gwen says sincerely. "We didn't mean to invade your privacy, it's just that... we're worried about you. Please don’t be mad."

Hobie nods, adding, "And we're right behind ya, whatever comes our way. We've got your back, no doubt about it."

You are happy, while the situation isn't ideal, but at least you're not alone. You have friends who care about you and, despite their unconventional way of showing it, they are there for you. You smile, comforted by their concern, and grateful for their support.

"Yeah," you finally say, "I guess we’re gonna need a lot more pickles and ice cream around here, huh?"

“Sooo...who’s the dad? Is he hot?” Gwen, leaning on the table with her elbows, asks shyly after a while.

You let out a long sigh, “He’s very hot... but also a colossal jerk.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You took my advice and talked to him then?”

You shake your head, your eyes starting to well up. “No, I tried. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He was busy, and I guess I wasn’t important enough. So, the baby won’t be either,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hobie's eyes narrow, and his face is flushed with anger. "Who's this bloke, eh? I swear on me nan's grave, I'll give him a right proper earful! No one treats our Sunny like a tosser and gets away with it!"

Gwen jumps in, her eyes wide with speculation, “Wait, is he a Spider? Is it Peter? Or the other Peter? Or—”

“Guys, guys!” you cut them off, your voice cracking. “Please, it doesn’t matter. He made it clear where I stand, and it’s not with him.”

There’s a silence that settles over the table as your friends look at each other and then back to you. Their faces are a mix of concern, sadness, and frustration.

Peter B. is the first to break the silence. “You don’t have to go through this alone. You’ve got us. If the dad doesn’t want to step up, then he’s missing out on something amazing.”

Gwen nods, her eyes firm with resolve. “Yeah, we’re family. We’ve got your back, no matter what.”

Hobie, still fuming, finally calms down enough to say, "All you gotta do is whistle, love, and we'll be there in a blink. Even if it means thumping some manners into this mystery idiot."

You can't help but crack a small smile, despite the tears. You’re overwhelmed by the love and support your friends are giving you.

“Thanks, guys. You don't know how much this means to me.” 

They all reach out and there’s a group hug right in the middle of the cafeteria. You didn’t know how much you needed this until it happened.

Part 2 Webs of Fate

One moment there’s no one, and the next, an older woman is suddenly standing in your way and you can’t help the brief twitch of annoyance that she’s there. You have a meeting, you have groceries to get… you can’t just play chicken with a stranger on the pavement all afternoon.

She freezes, like many others you notice, and your frown deepens, confusion starting to take over the irritation. They all look at you, but not just you.

Time seemingly comes to a momentary freeze and you just don’t understand. Why is she looking at you like that?

The next minute—panic.

There’s a rush.

People scramble for their phones, they run. Cars swerve and there’s chaos. There are people crying, people start screaming, but there’s also awe, laughter. People embrace strangers. You know they’re strangers by the way they look around in complete bewilderment in the arms of the other, seemingly just as confused as you.

Five years.

Why do you keep hearing ‘five years’? Why are shop fronts different? What the hell has happened? 

“You’re… you’re all back,” the woman utters, tears starting to build along her lash line.

Back?

You feel it in the pit of your stomach, a sick feeling of dread slowly building until it feels like it sticks uncomfortably in your throat. Something happened. You don’t know what, you don’t know how, all you know is that you need to go home immediately.

It’s halfway back to the apartment, after passing things that weren’t there previously, shops that you had passed just hours before now different, and your phone simply refusing to connect for unknown reasons, that you break into a panicked run.

You want home, you want somewhere familiar.

Matt left for work the same time as you—would the new mayhem taking over the streets bring him home to you? Maybe he’d already be waiting, sensing the frenzy before you?

The view of your building is a welcome relief, and you slow as you reach the door, heart pounding in your chest as you take the stairs as quickly as possible. The apartment is unlocked, and you berate yourself for forgetting to lock up earlier, but Matt’s cane resting by the door turns your inward irritation to understanding.

He’s home. He got here before you. He must be waiting, maybe he’d have answers—

“Matty?” you call, “do you have any idea what’s—”

A clatter, a sweep of air, and then he’s on you.

He’s curled around you before you can even finish, his arms so tight and constricting you struggle to take in a full breath. He’s talking, muttering incoherent words into the skin of your throat and all you can do is stand there, mind whirling in a maddening rush, not even able to lift your arms to return his embrace due to his restrictive hold.

“You’re here,” he breathes, almost disbelieving, “you’re here. I didn’t want to have hope but—God, I—”

“Matt, I’m so confused,” you breathe, unsure of why tears are starting to gloss your eyes or why your heart suddenly feels like it’s beating in the back of your throat, “what’s going on? It’s crazy out there, I don’t know wh—”

“I know. I know, sweetheart. I’ve missed you. God, I’ve missed you. It’s been so long, I didn’t think I’d ever—” he trails off, unable to finish his sentence and a few more panicked kisses press into the side of your throat.

He’s crying.

You feel the wetness of his tears smear over your skin and it’s enough to bring your own falling heavily from your eyes. What is he talking about? You saw him this morning, only mere hours ago. You made breakfast, you kissed him goodbye like every other day, nothing had been different. 

“Matt,” you whimper, “what the hell is going on?”

—

Five years. You were gone for five years. Just one day—poof. Out of existence, never to be seen again. The city had been clouded by dust, remnants of those also taken disappearing with the autumn breeze. So many people just lost. You don’t remember any of it.

There was no pain, no suffering. You had no recollection of the time lost at all, and yet for Matt it had been years.

Years since he had touched you, kissed you, felt you. He tells you that he looked for you for weeks, months. Even went to the damn Avengers—or what was left of them—and found out what had happened. He’d been distraught, falling into a deep, dark pit of despair and heartbreak from the sudden loss of you.

You cry for him, for the time you’d lost together.

Nothing could ever make up for it. Sure, you’re here now, but could you ever truly make up for the loss of time? What had he gone through during your absence?

The two of you don’t part for what feels like hours.

Matt clings to you, inhaling you deeply and kissing whatever inch of skin he could reach. He doesn’t pull away to answer your questions, instead letting the low rumble of his voice melt through the fabric of your shirt and flooding warmth along your shoulder.

His hands still roam over you, almost as if they’re retracing your dips and curves to remind himself of how you felt when you disappeared five years ago. You catch his fingers with a sweet flutter in your chest, lifting his hand to press a tender kiss to the back of it when the smooth feel of metal catches your attention.

It’s a simple gold band, fit snug around the fourth finger of his left hand and you rub your finger over the shiny surface of it in curiosity. He wasn't wearing a ring this morning...

A ring. 

A wedding ring.

You feel sick.

He senses the moment you realise it, picking up on the sudden quicken of your heartbeat and the clammy sting of sweat that builds along the back of your neck.

His tongue darts out to moisten his lips as you stare at the smooth gold band in shock, feeling as if the room had suddenly gotten ten times smaller. He starts to shift, his fingers quickly flipping to wrap around your wrists to keep you from moving away.

“Let me explain—”

“You… are—are you married?”

“Sweetheart, please—”

You hurriedly stand, wrenching your hands from his and stumbling on your quick step back as he advances after you. He’s married? How can he be married?

Maybe he’s not. Maybe he just slid the ring you both picked out onto his finger when you disappeared in an effort to keep your memory fresh… but with the shine of guilt starting to seep into his features, you fear it’s not as sentimental as you hope.

Panic consumes you. Your eyes flitter around the room, your ears filling with a dull ring that drowns out whatever words fall from his lips as he cautiously steps after you.

It’s your apartment, but it’s… it’s not.

You start to notice the little things you had missed upon coming home so quickly. That throw over the back of the couch isn’t yours. The coffee mug next to Matt’s on the kitchen counter isn’t yours. Your trinkets aren’t lingering on the shelves where you’d placed them. Your shoes aren’t thrown by the door. Your photo with Matt isn’t in its usual spot on the wall.

Instead, another picture hangs there.

Bile burns the back of your throat. Your heart thunders away in your ears. You know what it is, you can see the general feel of it and who stands within the frame through blurry eyes, but you simply can’t accept it.

It’s morbid curiosity that makes you take those few steps towards it, a part of you screaming to not look, to turn away before it really hammers that final nail into the coffin and fucking destroys you. Maybe your mind needs to truly see it in order to make sense of it… but no. It only makes you more confused, more distressed.

What the fuck?

Oxygen is impossible. You can’t fucking breathe. You can’t—

“Sweetheart—”

It’s a wedding photo.

Matt’s wedding photo.

Matt and Karen’s wedding photo.

“Oh my god,” you whimper brokenly, clutching a hand to your chest in an effort to keep yourself together. You press where you feel the rapid beat of your heart, half wondering if you’d be able to feel the break of the frantic organ under your palm.

The room starts to spin.

This morning you’d woken up with an apartment and a fiancé, and now, only a few hours later, you have nothing. How can you have nothing? The apartment is home to you—you left your pyjamas on the floor of the bathroom this morning. You had your coffee at the counter. The love you feel for Matt is present as it always had been, there in the centre of your entire being, so sweet and consuming and yet, his love for you had seemingly vanished.

Disintegrated, along with your body apparently five years ago. Maybe with a clearer head, you’d come to understand that five years is a long time and it’s understandable that he had to move on at some point, but in the moment you feel nothing but hurt—rage.

Matt’s hands are frantic on your body, grabbing at your arms and keeping you from falling to the floor as a sob tears its way out of your chest. You can hear him try to soothe you, hear his worry that your heart is erratic and you just need to breathe.

Breathe, sweetheart—please, breathe.

You can’t. You simply can’t.

Oxygen isn’t coming as easily as it should. Your lungs burn. You’re shaking, unable to stop the tremble taking over your body as you choke on your tears. They burn your skin, painting your cheeks with the bitterness of your heartbreak and they just won’t stop. 

He supports you as you sink towards the floor, legs no longer having the strength to hold you up. He goes down with you, hands cradling your head to his chest and you can’t find it in you to push him away and escape his touch.

It’s Matt. Your Matt. 

You shouldn’t want to shrug him off. You shouldn’t feel guilty at his touch. He’s your Matt, has been for the eighteen months you’ve been together. It was meant to be you in that frame, swimming in white with a smile stretched along your lips, Matt dressed to the nines in an immaculate tux and his ever present red shades beside you.

But it’s not. It’s… it’s Karen.

It’s not you, there’s no trace of you anywhere to be seen. Had you been that forgettable? Foggy’s there, Marci a step behind holding a beautiful little girl with ribbons in her hair. They had a baby? You’ve missed so much.

You start weeping for the life you’d missed out on, for the chances and opportunities of growing older with them and the sweet potential you had had with Matt.

Gone.

All of it, just—gone.

Where would you be now had your soul not been chosen? Married? Promoted? A godmother to the sweet little angel cradled in Marci’s arms? 

“Sweetheart, come back to me,” Matt’s voice cuts through your despair, low and soft in your ear and you cling to him tighter, “breathe. I’ve got you, I’m here.”

“I-I’ve lost so much,” you choke out, hiding your tear stricken face in his throat and desperately trying to get ahold of your body jerking with each difficult inhale and broken exhale, “and I didn’t even know—”

You didn’t know. You didn’t know anything when you apparently ‘returned’. It’s all so haunting and overwhelming and so fucking confusing. 

He stills smells the same, feels the same, despite all these years. You cling to him, desperate for comfort in the moment of your utter heartbreak, but it doesn’t work like it used to and that only makes your pain increase tenfold. His hold feels wrong now. His hold isn’t for you anymore. He has a wife.

You still don’t understand. You can’t comprehend the fact that he’s married, that the arms that hold you are now meant for someone else. They were yours this morning. It’s not possible. You had him this morning; you felt him this morning, you kissed him—

“Sweetheart,” he’s urgent now, manoeuvring you in his hold until you sit in front of him, your back pressed up against his chest and his arms tight around your torso, “breathe with me. Feel my chest, listen to me and follow—in… and out. Come on—”

You pay attention to the exaggerated feel of him breathing against your back, focusing on every expansion of his chest and attempting to match the pace of your inhales. It doesn’t work. Your heart still thunders away against your ribs, your mind still runs fucking wild, and your eyes threaten to roll back from the rush of it all.

“Stay with me,” he begs, but his voice starts to sink to the back of your mind, taken over by the high pitched ring sounding in your ears.

It’s not long until black fully engulfs your vision, and Matt’s voice calling your name is the last thing you hear, frantic and terrified. Maybe you'll find peace in the darkness.

-

When it came to Mj, I had little information on why she hadn’t visited the condo. The most that Peter had been willing to fork over was that her dad didn’t want her to be around Peter anymore, given that the entire world knew that he was Spider-Man. But I found it odd that I hadn’t seen her at all in the past several days, assuming that we would’ve crossed paths at some point. Regardless, for the sake of her protection, the three Peter’s tried to do extra patrol around her apartment. Just in case. 

Ned declined Peter’s offer for him to stay with us, saying he felt more than safe with his Lola. And, to be fair, the majority of his time was spent in the basement of the Sanctum anyways, providing assistance to Peter, Pete, and Parker as they tracked down the rest of the villains. 

He seemed the least stressed of us all, relishing in his new-found magic and enjoying his interactions with the other-worldly villains that they had managed to catch. 

And Peter—unwilling to share with the other two—spent most of his nights on the couch. Despite taking up residence there, he rarely slept. 

I began to make it a habit to come out of my room throughout the night, wandering to the kitchen for a glass of water or going to the bathroom, just to see if he had fallen asleep. Yet, every time I would look in on him, I would always find him sitting criss-cross on the cushions, eyes glued to the windows. 

He was usually gone by the time morning came around, already back on the streets.  

His stress was becoming more and more apparent. 

The trauma and pain of the past few weeks had begun to almost radiate off of him, following him around like a rain cloud in an old cartoon. Parker had started trying to offer to help him—in whatever ways he could—constantly telling him he could take on an extra patrol shift so Peter could rest more, or even saying he could swing by Mj’s to make sure she was safe. 

Peter always said no. Insisted that he didn’t need the help. 

“It’s gonna take some time.” The hushed voice had me jumping out of my skin, doing everything in my power to withhold a scream as I jerked my head to the side to meet Pete’s stare. He stifled a chuckle at the reaction. 

I wasn’t sure how long he had been here, too lost in my own mind to notice that he had already gotten back from patrol. I assumed his silent approach meant that he had come in through his bedroom window. God forbid he use the door, I thought to myself sarcastically. 

“I know.” I responded just as quietly, wanting to avoid making too much noise as I continued to peer into the living room from where I stood at the kitchen counter. 

When I had come out of my room to check-in on him again, I was shocked to find that he was actually asleep. I could only guess that his exhaustion had finally won out, his body forcing him to rest after running himself ragged. 

“But he can’t keep it all inside like this.” I added on, never taking my eyes off Peter. “He can’t get through this alone.” 

Pete inched closer to my side, pressing his elbows against the counter beside me. He didn’t look towards Peter, though, keeping his focus on me. “And he doesn’t have to get through it alone.” He reminded me. “It’s just gonna take him some time to open up.” 

I frowned at his words. “He needs help now.” 

The dim rays of the morning sun had just barely begun illuminating his face, the beams of light dancing along his now-healing skin. All of the cuts that had once littered his face—the physical markers of what had happened to him, what had happened to May—were beginning to fade. 

But I knew that he was far from healed, far from even beginning to recover from it. It felt as though my worst fears were coming true, and the idea of that left me feeling sick. Peter was finally breaking, the agonizing pain he had been subjected to finally starting to change him. 

It was already so evident, and I feared that it was unavoidable at this point. It was in his eyes, that distant look he couldn’t escape, his inability to stay in the present. It was in the way he spoke, how the boy who used to have the temper of a saint now suddenly snaps at the drop of a pin. 

Even now, while fast asleep, you could see it. How guarded he was, how on edge, every muscle in his body stiffened as if he needed to constantly ready himself for a fight. 

“He’s gonna come around.” Pete assured me once again. “What he’s going through… It’s–it’s hard. Right now he just needs some space, and to know that when he’s ready, the people he loves will be there for him.” 

I forced myself to turn and look at him, having to practically pry my attention off of Peter. Interestingly enough, Pete had a similar look. That familiar distance, the pain, the readiness. I considered asking him about it, considered asking if anyone had been there for him when he needed it. 

I ultimately decided against it, deciding it was best to keep my focus on just one Peter Parker at a time. 

“I just wanna help him.” 

I hated sounding so desperate, so terrified. Truth be told, it wasn’t something I was used to when it came to Peter. Time and time again he had been the one worried about saving me—saving everyone. I had never really considered that maybe one day he would be the one that needed saving. 

“You do.” Pete slid a hand across the countertop, letting it rest atop mine. His hands were freezing, even through the fabric of his suit. “You will. He just needs some time, okay? He’ll get through this.” 

Maybe he was right. Maybe, with time, Peter would come around and be willing to open up all on his own. I wanted to believe Pete, especially since he had gone through such similar circumstances. But, ultimately, it was because of that—their similarities—that I didn’t believe him. 

Whatever had happened to Pete—the death of his uncle, the loss of the girl he loved, and whatever other tragedies I was unaware of—the pain was still there. He was still tormented by it. 

I wasn’t willing to sit around and wait on a maybe. I wasn’t willing to risk letting that pain consume Peter, too. 

But I knew better than to say anything about it, not wanting to bring up any of Pete’s own past trauma or wanting to give him any indication at all that I had no plans of sticking to what he said about giving Peter space. 

So, I settled on simply saying, “I hope so.” 

Pete reacted the way I had hoped he would, another soft smile, a kindness he never offered to anyone other than me, assuming that I had nothing else to say about it. He clearly thought I’d at least take his words into consideration, give Peter some time to open up on his own. 

“You should get some sleep.” I added the suggestion on, glancing towards the digital clock on the oven reading 6:02. “You’ve been out all night, you’ve gotta be exhausted.” 

He did look exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes had become increasingly more prominent, and even his posture signified that he was just seconds away from passing out somewhere. He was hunched over as if his aching muscles weighed thousands of pounds. 

“I am.” A breathy laugh followed as he leaned back from the counter, stretching his body as he began to slowly inch away from me. A hand went to rest on his middle back, rubbing incessantly at the area. But he didn’t leave yet, not without one final statement. “He’s gonna be okay.” 

“Thank you.” 

And I meant it. I was appreciative of how willing Pete was to comfort me, how he didn’t mind standing here in a mostly dark kitchen as I panicked over my best friend's mental state. His advice was much appreciated, and my thanks very genuine. 

That didn’t mean that I was going to listen to him. 

It didn’t take long for him to make his exit, clearly desperate to go lay down before his physical form gave out on him. I couldn’t blame him, either. Mr. Stark had furnished the bedrooms with the most luxurious mattresses I had ever laid on, and I was certain that he and Parker both were enjoying sleeping in such comfort. With how busy the two of them stayed I felt as though they deserved a nice place to rest. 

I waited for a moment, even once he was out of sight. My body remained pressed against the counter where I had been standing the entire time, carefully listening out for any sign that he might be coming back. It wasn’t until I heard the click-ing sound of the bedroom door being shut that I was satisfied. 

After that, my feet practically moved without permission from my brain, acting on pure instinct as they carried me over to the living room, stopping only once I was planted in front of where Peter laid on the couch. 

He looked incredibly uncomfortable. 

The couch obviously didn’t match the beds in terms of comfort, clearly having been a purchase made solely for style and appearance. It wasn’t quite large enough for anyone to spread out across it, practically ensuring that you’d wake up with a sore back should anyone ever sleep on it. Though, I wasn’t sure that Peter would have been willing to spread out even if he had been given enough space. 

Somewhat gangly limbs were wound up tightly—arms wrapped around his middle, knees brought up to his chest. His head lolled off to the side of the back cushion, his neck turned at an awkward angle that couldn’t feel great. The corners of his mouth twitched every once in a while, leaving me to assume he was dreaming. And, by the way his eyes kept roughly squinting shut, I assumed it wasn’t a good dream. 

If anything, the realization that he was likely having a nightmare caused me to feel a bit more justified in what I planned to do. 

He needs to wake up anyways, I thought to myself, trying to form a defense for my actions, No one wants to stay in a nightmare. 

I took a sharp inhale of breath, offering him a silent apology before reaching out and roughly grabbing his knee, effectively shaking him awake. 

In less than a second, his limbs unraveled from his body, practically falling off the couch and sending me jumping a few inches back to avoid being hit by his frantic movements. As soon as I saw his jaw fall open I held a finger to my lips, trying to gain his attention, “Be quiet!” 

I didn’t want to risk Pete hearing him, not at all in the mood to explain to him why I had decided to wake Peter up when this was one of the first times he had slept in what felt like ages. Then I would have no choice but to tell him that I had no plans on giving Peter any sort of space. Not now, not with this. 

Peter was quick to listen to me, keeping his voice low as he got to his feet, head jerking violently from one direction to the other as he looked around the room. “What’s wrong?” 

I frowned. I knew that it would be a less than pleasant awakening, but for some reason I hadn’t taken the time to consider the current circumstances surrounding our life, hadn't thought about the fear it would invoke in him. 

A part of me felt bad for him, for the panic my action caused. The other part, however, was too frustrated with him to focus on that right now. 

“You!” A hushed shout, narrowing my eyes at the boy in front of me. “You are what’s wrong!” 

Confusion quickly spread across his features, strong enough that it almost masked the pain that had taken up a residence there lately. 

“What are you talking about?” 

His eyebrows were tightly knit together, lips parted as a million other questions rested on the edge of his tongue. It was almost hard to stay mad at him when he looked like this, so innocent (not to mention vaguely disoriented from being shaken awake so suddenly). It didn’t help that he was wearing his I Survived my Trip to NYC shirt, practically drowning in the oversized fabric, only adding to the air of innocence. 

It caused me to hesitate for a second. Just a second. 

“You’re not talking to any of us.” I stated bluntly, crossing my own arms over my chest, trying to feel as if I were standing my ground. 

Peter only narrowed his eyes, becoming even more lost as to why I had woke him up. “Aren’t we talking right now?” 

“No!” I exclaimed too quickly, following it up with a frustrated correction, “Well, yes, but no!” 

Peter sighed loudly, moving to run a hand through his somewhat messy hair, tugging at the roots as he combed his fingers through. “Can you please explain whatever point you’re trying to make? Cause it’s really going right over my head right now.” 

“You said you wanted things to be normal, right?” I questioned him, referencing the conversation we had at the Sanctum. Peter nodded. “Okay, well normally we would talk to each other. About everything, especially the important stuff.” 

“Do we not still talk about that stuff?” Peter allowed himself to step back towards the couch again, letting his body sink into it once again now that he knew there was no threat. “I mean we’ve had several conversations lately about the multiverse having an actual vendetta against you. Is that not important?” 

“Well, yeah, I guess.” I droned, frustrated that he made a good point. “But that’s not the stuff I’m talking about.” 

“Then what stuff are you talking about?” 

“Your stuff!” 

“My stuff?” 

“Yes, your stuff!” 

“What stuff?” 

I truly wasn’t sure whether he was playing coy or if he was just downright oblivious, having shoved his own feelings and needs so far back in his own mind that he couldn’t fathom the idea of anyone actually caring about what he’d been through. 

“Everything that’s happened to you, Peter. I mean, things have been hard for you for a long time now. Dealing with what happened to Mr. Stark, the stuff with Mysterio, your identity getting leaked to the entire world, and May.” I worked to keep my tone soft, approaching the subject in the most delicate way I could. “It’s a lot for someone to go through alone. You’ve gotta at least try to talk to someone.” 

The color drained from his face at the mention of her name, that distant look returning. It was as if he was trying to separate himself from his thoughts, trying to hide from the pain they brought. 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He lied through his teeth. “And even if there was, we don’t have time for it right now.” 

“Yes we do.” I quickly countered his argument, shaking my head at him. “All we’ve done lately is fight. Maybe instead of staying at each other's throats, we could spend that time doing something productive. Like helping you.” 

Peter’s eyes widened a smidge, “We haven’t been fighting.” 

“Oh really?” I snorted at his words, “Then what do you call our past few conversations?” 

“I don’t know… Arguing?” He threw it out like a guess, as if he were scrambling to find a different descriptor than the one I used, one he felt was less harsh. 

“That’s the same thing, Peter.” 

“No it’s not, they’re different.” 

“Look, I know that English is your weakest subject, alright?” I deadpanned, my arms still tightly wound around my body, “But the two are literally synonymous!” 

“Okay, fine, whatever!” Peter huffed to himself, the sudden burst of air blowing a few stray strands of hair up from his forehead. 

There was a strange comfort that surrounded the conversation, an odd sensation of familiarity. It just felt like two friends talking—and even if it would technically be categorized as an argument, it was so tame compared to the ones we had been having recently. And, in a way, that felt nice. 

“I just want to make sure you’re okay, Peter.” I told him plainly, trying to shift us back on topic, despite finding some sort of pleasure in the banter. “And there’s always enough time to make sure you’re okay. Even if we have to make time, ok? And I know things are kind of awkward between us, so you don’t even have to talk to me if you don’t want to, ok? Talk to Ned or Mj or whoever. Just talk to someone.” 

His face paled as Mj’s names left my lisp, suddenly shifting on the couch cushion, curling himself back up into the cocoon he had formed prior to me waking him up. He glanced down at his hand as they were tucked behind his legs, seemingly picking at his cuticles. 

“What is it?” I probed, a bit confused by his reaction. 

“Things are complicated with Mj and I right now.” He shyly admitted, quiet enough that I had to strain my ears to hear him. 

“Oh.” I fell silent, unsure of what to offer. “Well, I doubt I’m really the one you’d wanna go to for advice on your girlfriend.” 

“She’s not my girlfriend.” 

He said it so quickly, but not at all harsh. His eyes remained focused on his lap, never once coming up to meet mine. “Not right now, at least.” He clarified. 

It was a surprising statement although a part of me was thankful that he was at least sharing something about his life. It just wasn’t something that I had been expecting. 

“Did something happen?” I tried to pose the question as carefully as possible, moving over to come sit on the cushion beside him. I kept a decent distance from him, a foot or so of space between us, much more than I had kept from Parker. “Was it the conversation with Strange?” 

A rough guess, the only thing I could think of that might have made Mj a little uncomfortable with their relationship. The things that Strange had said, the connection I seemed to share with the various Peter Parker’s of the universe… If I were her, it would’ve been enough to make me a little insecure in the relationship too. 

Surprisingly, though, Peter shook his head. “No. I mean, I don’t know. Yes and no.” 

“Thanks, that really clears things up.” I had hoped the sarcasm would lighten the mood a bit, as much as it could, and it had clearly worked as he shot a joking glare in my direction. 

“It’s just difficult to explain, I guess. She didn’t really give me a lot of information, basically just that there was a lot going on right now. Ned said she had talked to one of the guys from Parker’s universe, the electricity guy, and after that things just kind of got really tense between us.” He explained, a bit calmer than I expected given the topic. “After talking about things for a while we just kind of decided it was best to call it quits. At least for now, ya know? It was a mutual thing.” 

“I get it.” I nodded along as I spoke, slowly taking in the information. “Or as much as I can, at least. Either way, it sucks. And I’m really sorry.” 

And I meant it. I was sorry, for both of them. 

“It’s ok.” He was lying, once again building up that same wall he placed around all of his trauma, all of the things that caused him pain. But he smiled anyway, trying to make it more convincing, even if he knew that I could see right through it. “But thanks anyways. And I promise that when all of this is over, we can talk about things, alright? I just… can’t right now.” 

Pete had been right. There was no forcing Peter into talking, no pressuring him into opening up. He wasn’t going to share anything, wasn’t going to begin tending to the emotional damage the past few years had caused to him until things had settled. Until he could be certain that no more would be piled on top of it. 

So I didn’t push any further, didn’t try to dig deeper. Instead, I just returned his smile, allowing myself to just enjoy this moment of existing alongside my best friend, without any of the stress of frustration our recent interactions had carried—all the while remembering something he had said, something that I had hoped would help me fill in the gaps with what had happened in Parker’s universe, the story he wouldn’t tell. 

They had caught Electro. 

“Are you supposed to be here?” 

I forced myself to maintain my composure, refusing to show just how intimidated I was as Dr. Strange himself stood in the entrance of the Sanctum, a brow quirked in my direction. 

“Well, I’m here.” I motioned around myself, attempting to mask my lack of confidence with sarcasm. “So yeah, I think so.” 

Strange narrowed his gaze at me, standing firm in the doorway, still unwilling to move aside and let me in. “But are you supposed to be here alone? Shouldn’t one of those other bozos be watching you?” 

I tried to contain my laugh at his word choice, biting back a comment about how it showed his age, aware that it would probably be taking my act a bit too far. “I’m not on house arrest, sir. Nor am I incapable of being alone.” 

“I wasn’t trying to suggest-” 

“One of the Peter’s sent me.” I interrupted him, my forwardness catching him off-guard and causing his eyes to go wide. I panicked a bit, halfway regretting my choice—both the one to cut him off and the one to come here at all. “Believe it or not, I’m actually quite useful. They thought I could help with working on cures for the guys they’ve already caught. At least until we’re able to send them back home.” 

Dr. Strange didn’t speak, let the silence between us build for just a moment as he studied my face, looking for any sign of a lie. If he found one, some little tell that I was being dishonest, then he must’ve decided he didn’t care. “In all the universes I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you in,” He began plainly, annoyance lacing his tone, “this version of you might be the rudest.” 

I considered responding, considering getting down on my knees and begging for forgiveness, but held myself back. I didn’t let myself move, didn’t falter in the slightest, holding his stare and waiting. 

He stepped aside. “If one of the Peter’s sent you, then I trust they told you how to get them, correct?” 

I glanced into the vast foyer of the Sanctum, swallowing roughly. “Of course they did.” 

Of course they didn’t. 

I had been trusted with very little information on the villains, likely due to the fact that all three Peter’s had one common goal: keep y/n safe. Part of ensuring that they achieved that goal was working to keep me as far away from any of the villains as possible, especially since they had no way to tell whether or not one of them had been in contact with the Green Goblin. And until they knew his plan, there would be no such thing as too safe. 

But I knew that they were keeping them in the basement. I knew that the basement obviously implied below ground-level. Unfortunately, however, what I didn’t know was which direction to go in order to reach the basement. 

And, with the way that Dr. Strange was eyeing me like a hawk as I stepped past the threshold and entered the Sanctum, I only grew more nervous at the thought of moving in the wrong direction. 

I took a moment, allowing myself to take a deep breath as I looked to either side of the grand staircase in front of me. Left or right, right or left? It was a fifty-fifty shot, a flip of a coin. Strange cleared his throat from beside me, forcing me to make the decision before I felt ready. 

I went left—exuding confidence as I kept my head high, one foot right in front of the other as I walked as though I had memorized the floorplan to this place. Then, from behind me, I heard Strange sigh. 

“It’s to the right.” He told me flatly. “And please try not to do anything stupid while you’re down there.” 

I spun on my heel, confidence gone in an instant and my head held extremely low as I walked past him once again, murmuring out a fast, “You got it.” 

At this point, I could only hope that Electro wasn’t nearly as intimidating as Dr. Strange, otherwise this entire evening will have been a bust and I’ll have to make up an excuse for sneaking out during Parker’s watch-duty for absolutely no reason. On top of that, I had to hope that Dr. Strange wasn’t going to immediately run-off and report back to Peter that I was here at the sanctum, completely unattended. 

Luckily, Strange didn’t seem all that bothered by my presence here, and I had a feeling that even if I couldn’t see him, he would be watching over me while I was here regardless. 

“Okay, do me a favor,” I began as soon as I finished descending the steps to the basement, Ned already in my line of sight as the scent of lavender flooded my nostrils, “next time I ask you to help me get into a literal sorcerer's dungeon, please tell me whether I should go right or left.” 

Ned didn’t even glance up from his computer, fingers tapping away on the keyboard. “You should always go right.” 

“In what world am I supposed to know that?” I asked him. 

“Just think about it: right is right.” Ned stated, a bewildered look on his face as he glanced at me from over the screen. “C’mon, it’s that easy. I’m sure you know that in at least one of the literally infinite universes you exist in.” 

I grinned over at him, running a finger across his makeshift desk. “Maybe, but it’s definitely not in this one.” 

Ned jokingly rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “So what are you gonna ask him?” 

Glancing in the direction of the containment cells, I wondered the same exact thing. I was unprepared, embarrassingly so. 

“I don’t know.” A truthful answer, one Ned had expected. “Maybe I won’t have to ask him anything at all, ya know? I mean, I should be familiar to him, right? Maybe he will just sorta start talking on his own.” 

Ned considered what I said, shrugging lightly. “Worth a shot.” 

He had been supportive of my idea to confront Electro, which is exactly why I knew I could trust him to omit this information to Peter. Both of us knew that he would flip if he knew I was going to talk to one of them alone—all three of them would. 

But Ned was just as interested as I was in learning more about my past, in trying to figure out what had happened in Parker’s universe. I respected the fact that Parker wasn’t yet willing to divulge the information, and understood that he didn’t have to share his trauma with me. 

Still, I wanted to know. And just as much as he had a right to withhold information, I had a right to ask someone else who might be more willing to share the story he was too scared to tell. 

“So Mj didn’t tell you anything? Not a single word about what he might’ve said to her?” I had asked him this several times now, ever since earlier when Peter had shared that Mj had spoke to Electro. 

“Nope.” The word popped from his mouth, his head shaking. 

I sighed. I hadn’t expected the answer to change, but it was still just as disappointing anyways. 

If she had mentioned something to someone about what was said—what had been serious enough to make her want to break up with Peter—then at least I’d have a place to start. 

“Remind me again,” Ned interrupted my anxious thoughts, “why are we gonna talk to an otherworldly evil electricity dude instead of just asking Mj what happened?” 

It was a fair question, one that had crossed my own mind a few times. 

“Do you really think she’s gonna wanna talk to me right now?” A rhetorical question, both of us aware that out of everyone in the world that could come to her after their breakup, I was likely the one she wanted to see the least. 

Ned’s head tilted to the side, his lips forming a thin line as he considered Peter and I’s complicated past and the issues it had already posed in their relationship, eventually settling on saying nothing more than, “Fair.” 

There was little else to be said, despite the fact that both of us knew there was nothing fair about our lives right now. Not for any of us. 

And so, Ned gave me a comforting grin, accompanied by a silly little salute that made me laugh. “Good luck in there.” 

I returned his smile, moving in the direction of the cells. It felt as if a brick had been dropped in my stomach, and I was fairly certain that by the end of all this multiverse drama I would need to be put on a very strong probiotic. If I made it to the end, that is. 

Parker hadn’t spoken little of Electro, sharing only the most basic details. He told me about his previous life, before his accident. From what it sounded like, Parker seemed to believe that he had been a good guy, only turned evil by tragic circumstances outside his control. 

I hoped that part of him still existed; the good part. Maybe then if the cell somehow failed, he would at least consider not killing me. 

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” A surprisingly cool voice spoke up, somehow certain of my identity before I had even shown my face. 

I tried to match his tone. “Didn’t know you were expecting me.” 

I stepped into view, examining the man sitting in front of me—Maxwell Dillon. He was different than Parker had described, a product of his transformation I assumed. 

Parker had described him as a rather odd man, with an overwhelmingly dorky persona. But, as far as I could tell, he was nothing like that now. He had ditched the glasses Parker had mentioned, as well as the unsightly combover, leaving behind a strikingly handsome version of the man Parker had planted in my head. 

At this point, I wasn’t sure what the cause for my growing nerves was: the fact that he was a villain or the fact that he was attractive. I hoped it was the former, not wanting to deal with unpacking the latter in therapy. 

“Not everyday you get to see the dead walk again.” He apprised, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he watched me, eyes slowly dragging from my head to my toes. “I was just hoping I’d get the chance to see it for myself.” 

I took another step closer, then another, leaving about three feet of space between myself and the cell well. I looked around the wall, wondering what it was made of, if it was some sort of magic. I hoped it wasn’t electricity. 

“Well from what I’ve heard, you’re dead too.” I reminded him, a comment that seemed to tick him off a bit, his dark eyes rolling back in his head. 

“Guess we’re both getting a second chance then, hm?” A swift response, one with no detectable sense of the irritation that had previously crossed his face. 

He seemed surprisingly confident, so determined that he could change his fate. I considered asking him if he was actually willing to be cured, if that was the second chance he was referring to, or if he had a trick up his sleeve that he planned on using against the Peter’s. I decided against it, figuring he wouldn’t tell me the truth. 

“You’re here 'cause of that little anti-social girl, aren’t you?” He let his arms fall behind him, supporting his weight as he leaned back from where he sat cross legged on the concrete floor of his cell. I must’ve done a poor job at hiding my shock response to his knowing statement, a smug grin starting to tug at his lips. 

“You’re the only reason I talked to her.” He continued, offering up an explanation for his accurate guess as to why I even bothered to come down here. “Hoped that our little conversation would bring you out of hiding, that you’d wanna come down here and hear the full story for yourself.” 

I made quick work of wiping away any of my remaining shock, kicking myself for having shown any emotion at all. Stay composed, I reminded myself, chewing the inside of my cheek as I tried to keep a straight face, he’s your enemy. 

“What made you wanna talk to her anyways?” I questioned him, attempting to take some sort of control over the direction of the conversation. 

“I’ve been hearing them throw your name around for days now, ever since they threw me in this stupid magical shoe box.” He huffed, a disgusted look shot at the cell walls, “There’s not even a bathroom in here. I thought Spider-Man was supposed to be a hero, ya know? Figured he could at least provide the basics if he’s gonna keep us locked up like animals.” 

My eyes narrowed, firmly crossing my arms across my chest. “How about we stay on topic, yeah?” 

Electro’s brows raised at that, off-put by my demanding attitude, but listening anyways. “I thought it was a coincidence at first, someone else with the same name. But it was weird, right? They’d all been traipsing around down here, all your little friends, but never you.” He rolled his neck, reclining a bit further, desperate to get comfortable. “Then I noticed the way the weird girl was acting around that other Spider-Man, and finally the other day I overheard them arguing about something some witch doctor said, and your name just kept coming up.” Electro chuckled, as if there were some joke I hadn’t been let-in on.

“What were they saying?” 

He lazily lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Whole bunch of multiverse bullshit, stuff that didn’t make any sense. Except for one part, she was saying something about soulmates and told him he had to make a choice—you or her. And that!-” Electro flashed a toothy grin, that same amusement so evident on his face, “I knew that wasn’t a coincidence, cause that whole thing sounded too much like the y/n I knew. Always stuck in the middle.”

“That’s how I knew you were here in this world, that it was actually you. And I figured she’d be the easiest way to draw you out, cause ain’t no way in hell Spider-Man was gonna let you anywhere near this place.” He stared up at me, an odd look in his eyes, a knowing look. “He’ll let her parade around here all damn day, unrestricted access to all of us villains-” there was a playful tinge to his voice that I couldn’t miss, “but not you. Never you.” 

I was a bit caught off guard at his willingness to answer, the way he was handing over so much information, not even asking for anything in return. It didn’t make sense, and neither did his words. My brows snapped together. “What do you mean?” It was the first of many questions his response had posed, “Why wouldn’t he want me here?” 

“I was there.” Electro spoke, seemingly breezing past my question. “The night that you died.” 

I almost flinched, almost allowed myself to react, but I stopped myself. I didn’t want him to know that his words had shook me, that he had that sort of power over me. I needed to maintain some semblance of control. 

“Spider-Man had me messed up, so overloaded on power that I could barely move—it was killing me. And, because of that, I got a front row seat to his biggest fuck up.” 

Something cracked in his expression, that calm mask of his faltered, a hint of sadness breaking through. I didn’t understand it, but I also didn’t dare mention it. He was quick to try and shake it off, although there was still a difference—he was softer now, a bit mournful, even. 

“Spider-Man didn’t just take my life that night. He made me watch someone I care about die a pointless death, all ‘cause he was too weak.” Electro’s jaw clenched, thinking back on that night. 

My eyes widened before I could stop them, disbelief flooding through me. “Were we friends?” 

“Don’t sound so surprised.” He told me, clearly offended by my question. “You were nice to me. Long before all of this.” A single hand lifted in front of his chest, small sparks of electricity shooting from his fingertips. It was mesmerizing, perhaps one of the most incredible things I had ever seen, and for a moment, I let myself forget he was our enemy. 

“Why was it pointless?” I continued to interrogate him, not wanting him to acknowledge just how captivated I was with his powers. Surely he didn’t need the ego boost. 

“Because you could’ve been brilliant, y/n!” He hissed, suddenly leaning forward, his stare unrelenting. Suddenly I felt as if I were the one in a cage. “Out of all those jerks at Oscorp you were the only one that could’ve actually done something meaningful with your life. And with the way you were all cozied up with Harry Osborn? That whole place could’ve been yours.” 

As he spoke, his body jolted from the rage that coursed through him, at the intense feelings he held about my life, my potential, my death. 

“Everyone in that building was intelligent.” He carried on, his dark eyes illuminating slightly, as if his anger only fueled his powers. “But you? You were the only one with heart. You had the power to change the whole damn world if you wanted to, but all that had to come to an end cause Spider-fuck couldn’t get his head out of his ass and make the right choice.” 

I furrowed my brows, another question already falling off my tongue. “The right choice?” 

“Osborn gave him a choice.” In both of their universes, an Osborn was involved in my death. “He had you and he had Gwen, and he wasn’t gonna let Spider-Man keep you both. He told him to pick, make a decision on who he wanted to save—you or her, but never both.” 

Electro paused for a moment, his stare still cold as ice. “He made sure that Spider-Man wouldn’t be able to save you both. He had Gwen with him on that glider, threatening to toss her a couple hundred feet to the ground, and left you tied up in his old office at Oscorp, surrounded by dozens of those grenades he kept throwing everywhere, and he had the detonator in his hand.” I realized his remorse wasn’t an act, that I could practically see his pain as he relived it. I wasn’t sure how close we had been in his world, but I could tell that regardless of any of that, he had clearly cared. “Even heroes can’t be in two places at once.” 

“What happened?” 

I knew what happened, in a technical sense, at least. The ending to this story had already been spoiled for me long ago, another tragic end sequence leading to my death. But the details were still fuzzy. 

“He just stood there.” Electro shook his head. “I know it couldn’t have been an easy choice, but the idiot didn’t even make a choice at all. Just stood around blubbering and begging Osborn to let you both go. Kept at it for long enough that I guess Osborn got tired of waiting, decided to make the choice for him—only neither of them realized that you had already made the decision for both of them.” 

I hesitated. “What did I do?” 

“Osborn used Oscorp’s hologram tech to make sure Spider-Man knew he wasn’t bluffing. So he could see you, talk to you, same as Gwen. I guess to make the choice even harder, ya know?” Electro glanced up—no, Max looked up—sympathy flooding his eyes as the light in them went out. “But you were always a step ahead of everyone. Smartest girl I’ve ever met.” He mused, more to himself than to me. “I don’t think you ever planned on letting Spider-Man make that choice. Honestly? I think you were counting on him not to.” 

I gritted my teeth, anxiety bubbling up inside of me, that brick in my stomach getting heavier and heavier. “What did I do?” 

“You got yourself free.” He stated simply. “Managed to untie your hands from the chair, probably during all the time Spider-Man had spent crying like a damn baby. And as soon as Osborn asked him again—asked him to choose—you forced him to pick Gwen, to save her. Grabbed a letter opener from Osborn’s desk and removed yourself from the running.” I dug my nails into my side, my breath caught in my throat as I tried to keep myself from showing my fear, my panic, anything. “But he messed that up, too. You died for absolutely nothing.” 

Another chance for Spider-Man to save me, another failure, another brutal death. A story that repeated itself over and over again, a sick sort of destiny. 

I didn’t wanna think about it. Didn’t wanna think about the possibility of it being unavoidable, about the possibility that they could fail again. That even now, even in this universe, they’d have no choice but to let me die. 

Maybe Parker had been right not to tell me about it, to spare me the gory details and keep this one to himself. Don’t be a hero, the promise he tried to get me to make suddenly echoed in my mind, loud enough that it felt like I couldn’t hear anything other than him. 

“I-I don’t understand.” I cursed at myself for stuttering, for letting my emotions begin to slip out. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop it, fear coursing through my very bones. “Why did this bother Mj so much? Why is she upset with Pe-Spider-Man, over it?” 

I wasn’t certain if Electro knew his secret identity, nor was I sure if it even mattered if he found out now. Still, I caught myself. 

“Because.” He said it as if the answer were so obvious, so clear-cut. I only continued to stare at him, urging him to explain. “I was there,” he pointed out again, “and I might’ve been on the way out myself, but just before you made your choice, I saw Spider-Man make his, even if he was too late.” 

I swallowed, my skin stinging and I buried my fingernails deep into my sides, arms still crossed over my chest. It took every ounce of strength in my body to remain calm, to appear as if I weren’t on the verge of panicking. “Who did he choose?” 

“You.” A part of my felt sickly satisfied with his answer, the idea of being the one Peter might save, being the one Parker wanted to save. The other part felt guilty, that same sickening feeling that suffocated me every time I looked in Mj’s direction. I wasn’t sure which feeling was stronger—the satisfaction or the guilt, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. “Gwen, Mj, the name doesn’t matter. When it comes down to it, he’s never gonna pick anyone else if you’re a choice.” 

It felt like my throat began to close, the simple act of breathing suddenly becoming so difficult. My mouth got dry, my vision distorting suddenly as if I were viewing the world through a fish-eye lens. 

It was me. I was the reason Mj decided not to be with Peter. The friendship I was trying to rebuild, the guilt that followed me around, the conflict my presence created in their relationship. I wondered if I had a similar relationship with the girl from Parker’s world, Gwen. If these were problems that were destined to follow me from universe to universe, just as Electro had said. Always stuck in the middle. 

I took a step back, my arms falling to my side and I tried to steady myself. I didn’t wanna hurt Mj. I didn’t want Peter to ever have to make a choice like that. I didn’t want to die. With another unsteady step backwards, I felt myself collide against something, someone.

“She deserved to know.” Electro stated, not to me, but to the person behind me. 

“That wasn’t your choice to make, Max.” 

My nerves started to settle, a bit of air seeping into my pained lungs as I recognized the voice. Parker. I practically crumbled into his touch at the realization, spinning myself around and letting that wall of confidence I had tried to build in front of Electro crumble down. 

He’s here, and I’m still alive. 

I repeated the sentence in my head like a mantra, hoping it would begin to sink in. 

“Doesn’t matter.” Electro countered, disinterest flooding his tone. “She wanted to know, so I told her. Maybe now she’ll know not to trust Spider-Man to save the day.” 

I felt Parker stiffen against me, the loaded words having hit their target head-on. Before he could open his mouth, before he could lose his cool, I spoke. “I wanna leave.” I wrapped my hands tighter around his waist, my arms squeezing against his sides so tightly that it could leave a bruise. “Please.” 

He listened. 

Ignored Electro’s jab at him, focusing only on my desperate request, on the sight of me breaking down in front of him. He knew that it was catching up to me, the weight of what had happened in these other worlds, the fate I wanted to escape. 

Parker had lifted me into his arms, not trusting my own legs to carry me as the anxiety rocked through my muscles, leaving them to shake relentlessly. I wasn’t entirely sure where he took me, another room in the Sanctum, before he himself broke down to the floor, still cradling me in his arms. 

“I’m sorry.” 

I wasn’t sure how much he had heard, how long he had been listening to Electro’s retelling of the trauma Parker so desperately wanted to hide from. But, whatever the answer, it had obviously been long enough to reopen the wound. To remind him of his biggest failure, his biggest regret. 

“No.” My voice shook, my own anxiety still wracking through my body as I brought a hand up to his face. A few tears began to slip down his cheeks, his eyes screwed shut as he tried to shake the images of that night from his mind. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not okay!” A deep guttural noise erupted from his throat, his fingers clinging tighter to my skin as he continued to hold me close to his chest, always so afraid to let go. “I should’ve made a choice. I should’ve found a way to save you—to save both of you!” 

“You couldn’t have!” I matched his tone, his loudness. “It was an impossible choice! He tried to make you choose who would live and who would die! No one could make that choice!” 

He didn’t listen, didn’t let the reality of my words sink in. Even I knew that Harry had likely never intended on letting either of us live, on letting Parker save one of us. He did it to torture him, to make him pay for not saving him. 

“You were supposed to be safe.” He still refused to look at me, even as my thumb wiped away the free falling tears, “I was supposed to come see you that night. Supposed to tell you that I had been stupid, that I hadn’t realized how much it hurt to see you with Harry. I was supposed to have a chance.” The words broke my heart, pieces of a story I still hadn’t completely heard, all the while knowing how horribly it would end. “And I-I’m the reason you’re dead!” 

“Don’t say that.” I told him, my other hand moving to grab one of his, prying his grip off my waist to hold it in my own. “I made a choice, alright? The me you knew—she knew what she was doing, ok? That is not on you.” 

“I was supposed to keep you safe.” He repeated the phrase, and I could nearly hear the sound of his heart breaking as it rolled off his tongue. I couldn’t stand it; his pain, his guilt. He didn’t deserve it. “I need to keep you safe.” 

I knew now he wasn’t talking about his past failings, wasn’t beating himself up over his mistakes. He wasn’t just crying because he hadn’t saved me then—but because he was absolutely petrified that he wouldn’t be able to save me now. That he would be forced to watch the same scene unfold, one way or another. 

“You will.” I promised him, gripping his hand even tighter. And, at least in this moment, I believed it, too. I was beyond terrified of death, and yet if I had to place my life in the hands of anyone, it would be Peter Parker. “You’re gonna save me, Peter.” I repeated the words he needed to hear, his eyes fluttering open to meet mine, desperately searching for any sign of doubt. If it was there, he couldn’t find it. “I promise.” 

Another brush of my thumb against his skin, another breath, another moment. He stared at me, once again letting himself selfishly commit my face to memory, just in case. 

Maybe I should’ve felt uncomfortable from the lack of space between us, yet the closeness of our bodies had become so incredibly natural at this point, having found myself in this position with Parker time and time again. 

I wasn’t sure how long he would let it last, how long he would let me enjoy the comfort of being held, of feeling safe. He never let himself get wrapped up in it for long, always reminding himself that this wasn’t his world, that I wasn’t his. 

He missed his shot, his opportunity to save the me that he knew. He would tell himself that he was protecting me to prevent history from repeating, to keep Peter from experiencing the same pain that he and Pete couldn’t escape. He needed that reminder, needed to tell himself that this wasn’t his world, that I wasn’t his. 

I squeezed my eyes shut, tightening my grip on his hand and choosing to savor the feeling; the warmth radiating from his skin, his arm wrapped around my waist—but I couldn’t help but prepare myself for the emptiness that would consume me when he would inevitably pull away. 

Only, this time, he didn’t. 

Parker didn’t force himself to hold back, didn’t remind himself that I wasn’t his, a realization dawning on him. Maybe this had been Peter’s world, his version of me, but I belonged to no one—a thought that drove him to act on his purely selfish desire to let his lips find mine, kissing me with enough passion to make up for the life that had been stolen from him; for every day, every minute, every second he had went where our lips weren’t able to touch. 

In an instant, everything went quiet, as if the world around us had faded from existence. There was no multiverse, no villains, nothing at all. My anxiety melted away, my fear of death little more than a distant hum—his touching willing me into a state of pure bliss I could have never imagined. I was so stunned, so lost in the sensation, that I nearly forgot to kiss him back. 

The feel of my own mouth coming to life against his only encouraged him to keep going, his hand pulling away from mine to burrow in my hair, the other still resting at my side. 

Lavender flooded my senses, his soft lips desperately colliding against mine with an urgency that rivaled anything else I had ever felt. I was certain I could spend eternity like this, locked away in this room with him, hiding from the rest of the world. But, eventually, the need for oxygen won out as he pulled back, his forehead resting against mine. 

I wasn’t sure what would happen next, what the implications of this would be, and for now, I didn’t care. I just sat there, my chest heaving as I forced myself to breathe. 

Parker lightly nudged his nose against mine, the kind of simple comforting touch he always offered. “Sorry,” slightly swollen lips parted to let an unnecessary apology escape. “But I’ve wanted to do that for a while now.” 

I only smiled in response, too dazed to form any string of words that would make sense. Yet, I was almost certain that he knew what I was thinking.  

I might’ve wanted you to do that, too.