a ghost, a story

It was the most convenient place available, and the arrangements were truly supposed to be temporary but so much happened in between that you didn't have the time to look for a new place.

Between College, your side job, and your relationship—-yeah no chance. A majority of your weekdays were spent slaving for good credits, and a good chunk of your nights were used for work. Somehow in between that, Peter time.

So it all boils down to this. 

You had been taking a nap when you heard the first sets of screams down the hallway. The nap was very much unplanned, you’ve been elbows deep in another textbook, reading in advance for the upcoming week of lessons so you can focus a bit more on your job.

You worked as a waitress in some retro-style diner a few blocks away. They’re open 24 hours so you were able to take the graveyard shift while juggling classes. 

Peter was very much worried for your lack of proper sleep but you always made up for it on your rest day. He also knew how stubborn you are, so there was no use arguing over your schedule. As unhealthy as it is.

Busy schedule aside, you managed well. You were just studying, but you must’ve dozed off because you woke up disoriented, and there was so much smoke. It was all you could see, smell and taste when you pushed yourself off the couch.

Smoke clouded your vision, you could barely see your apartment through the thick veil of it. You coughed after getting a good chunk into your lungs from the gasp you let out, you instantly try covering your nose and push get up. 

You reach the kitchen in a set of rushed steps, almost tripping over your coffee table.

Looking around your kitchen, you grab a dish rag and turn your faucet on (thank god there’s water running this time) to wet it. You squeeze out the excess water and replaceyour hand with the wet dish rag, you allow yourself to breathe through it as you look around for anything worth grabbing before you went.

It was as if a switch had turned in your brain. Fire. There’s a literal fire in your apartment! What the actual fuck!? Honestly, you’ve ran over this situation many times in your head. It’s one of those things you hear about in the news and imagine yourself in the scenario.

But the imaginations pale in comparison to the real thing. Being here, trying to find your way through your smoke-covered apartment.

Because at least then you can turn off the scenarios in your head and you’ll be back to your very safe reality. In here, this is very much real and the danger could very well be right outside your door.

Fuck.

So much for studying, you are so gonna hold this over yourself next time you decide sitting down and studying in advance was a good way to spend your only rest day. You should have just gone to Peter’s.

Also why now? Couldn’t this have happened while you were away at least? You would totally mourn your belongings, but at least there won’t be the need to fight your way out of the apartment.

Oh shit, you lived on the 7th floor. 

Where’s the fire? No clue. There’s no use trying to find out anyway, you grabbed your phone. The only thing worth carrying at this point, and headed to your fire escape. You hurriedly climbed on only to look down in absolute shock.

The entire floor below is almost covered in fire, smoke escaping through the windows.

The flames are also big enough to reach the fire exit, your route is blocked. You also did not think trying to run through it would work, must the stairs give up on you on the way down.

You turn to your left and saw the next set of fire escape stairs remain unscathed. Okay, if you hurry now you can break your way into the apartment a few doors down and use their fire escape before the flame swallows it too.

It’s the only option you’ve got left. The stairs and the elevator down are out of commission.

You hardened your resolve and rushed out of your apartment. Your legs are shaking from the panic but you powered through it, this is not the time to trip and fall on your face like an unfortunate horror movie character.

Your door knob felt hot to the touch. It was enough that you recoiled with a hiss at the contact, but you twisted it open anyway, rushing out and feeling the heat on your skin now. You look down the hall in horror to see how close the fire is to your own apartment—it was inches away from your face. You had to step back before you get burnt. You were that close.

If you hadn’t woken up, you’d probably be waking up in heaven next. No time to dwell on that, you turn to the other side of the hall ready to proceed with your plan but stumbled on your way as if the floor had suddenly turned to jelly.

You must’ve inhaled more smoke than you thought before waking up, because your head is feeling light. You hold out your hand to steady yourself, probably flat against the wall. Focus. By pure sheer will to live, you commanded your legs to keep going.

There’s no time to collapse now. You can worry about the state of your lungs later, you just need to get out. So with much effort, you forced yourself to keep going, and you were so close to victory when barely audible, barely there—you heard a baby.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck indeed, because instead of just proceeding on your merry way to safety, you abruptly stopped and turned to the sound of the cry. It was that instinct again, the one your Mother told you would kill you one day.

She always told you, you should keep your head straight and eyes cast down low. New York streets were dangerous, and the people ruthless at times. She told you to mind your business, to keep to yourself and maybe this city and its people won’t eat you alive.

But you’ve never been one to listen to your Mother.

You didn’t keep to yourself. You saw a boy getting bullied and threw your whole backpack at Flash Thompson. That was how your fates intertwined with one Peter Parker. You didn’t mind your business like you should have.

And your Mother might be right, like she usually is about everything. Because instead of proceeding with your plan, you allowed your sharp ear to pick up where the cry was coming from, walking down the hall to where the sound appears loudest. It was the apartment right across yours.

Who the fuck left their baby alone?

You ran the fastest you’ve ever ran your whole life and slammed your whole weight onto the door. It opened and you ran to the sound where the baby’s crying was coming from. Barely able to see through the cover of smoke and running on pure adrenaline, you picked it up the baby. You thought to cover its face with the wet dish rag but it wouldn’t be enough.

You rushed to the kitchen, tripping on the many toys scattered on the floor on your way. You hurriedly unwrapped the baby’s blanket and grabbed a pitcher of water from the fridge. You took the lid off and dunked the whole blanket inside, making sure it absorbed enough water.

You have no fucking clue what you’re doing, your brain is mostly shut off and you’re running on pure instincts. But you wrapped the baby in the now wet blanket anyway.

You can hear the crackling of the fire and just how warm it’s getting. It’s like being inside an oven, and the heat is rising and rising and rising. You have to get out now..

You grabbed the crying baby and rushed out that apartment only when you did, the flames have reached farther down your hallway that the flames managed to get a lick of your skin. It happened so fast, you barely had time to react and dodge out of the flames’ way. You scream out in pain, your skin sizzling at the contact.

It’s probably small, you hope. But it’s somewhere in your right arm, the pain travelling all the way to your back. You grit your teeth, looking down to find the baby is still crying but otherwise unharmed.

That is gonna be one sexy scar for sure.

You then do your best to rush back to the apartment you were aiming for before getting distracted, only to find that it’s locked. You grit your teeth and try your best to channel your remaining strength and consciousness, before full-on body slamming the door. 

It didn’t give the first two tries and the baby’s crying continues to ring in your ears. The fire appears closer and closer but finally, with the third try, you push it open. But you must’ve been too disoriented by all the smoke now, that you lost your footing and landed on the floor.

Like a scene in slow motion, you fell to the floor with all the noise overwhelming your senses and the warmth from the fire wrapping you in a very uncomfortable blanket.

Your body moved on instinct to shield the baby from the fall so you just ended up injuring yourself more, probably applied pressure to your singed skin and just gave yourself a giant bruise as well. You definitely hit your head during it too, feeling like a headache will be paid in full tomorrow if you survive this. Hissing out a curse, you push yourself up and adjusted the baby in your arm.

This is officially the worst day ever.

With a light head and an aching body, you head for the fire exit. 

You felt like your soul had escaped your body when it was finally a good feet away, a blue of red and blue swooped int through it. You scream at the shock and jostled the baby in your arms. Holy fucking shit, Spider-Man appeared out of nowhere!

You can feel your tensed muscles relax a bit, but it’s still nto enough. You’re still in the building.

“_____!” Spider-Man called out.

You frown. “Spider-Man?” How did he know your name?

You had no time to ask when he looked down and found a baby in your arms, you blink down at the baby all of a sudden having grown tired of crying, and managed to blurt out a quick: “It’s not mine!”

Why would Spider-Man even care to know that? You cringe at yourself and turn back to Spider-Man. He looks very tensed and ready to jump, which is honestly normal, given the situation. You’re only grateful he’s finally here now.

That doubles your chances of survival for sure. You don’t even remember what he said, or what happened next when your body having recognized your saviour finally decided to shut down.

Last thing you remember was your vision fading as Spider-Man rushed to grab you, or at least you hoped that’s what he planned. Oh, you sincerely hope you did not just drop the baby you were holding as you passed out.

When you came to, you were in a sterile hospital room. What greeted you first and foremost was the blank white ceiling. You had mistaken it to be heaven at first, until you trailed your eyes down and found yourself lying on a hospital bed.

Okay, hospital is better than heaven. You tell yourself with a sigh of relief. 

Oh god, how is Peter going to react? You’re not even sure you managed to take your phone successfully, you could have dropped it from all the running you did. And that baby—he better grow up to cure cancer or something. Or something equally amazing. Or just… healthy, that’s good too.

How fucked up would it be if the baby you saved grow up to be some big bad villain for Spider-Man to have one mega battle with?

Your brain is running laps again, it’s something you did to cope with intense emotions and situations. You groan and try to shift in your position only to find your back hurts, like a shit ton. You don’t even wanna know how much of your skin was actually burnt and how badly.

You were halfway into fiddling with your hospital bed’s controls to hopefully raise your backrest higher when the door opened, in came Peter who looks like he had been losing a full week of sleep. 

His eyes widened at the sight of you awake and moving about. You managed to plaster on a giant grin, greeting your boyfriend like normal, like you weren’t currently bedridden. Peter rushed to your bedside in an instant, crossing the distance in a hurry.

“_____,” he called out and you felt yourself melt, he must have worried so much when he heard about Spider-Man saving you from a burning building.

“Hey,” you greet him and take in the bags under his eyes. “How long was I out?”

Peter heaves a tired sigh, his hand reaching for your face. Caressing your cheek lightly, as if to prove to himself that you were real and you’re very much here, alive. 

“2 days, you inhaled too much smoke and you got third degree burns on your back.”

You cringe at that answer, the extent of your injuries just now dawning on you. Well, a burn scar is a small price to pay for having survived with your life. And of course—

“The baby—”

He cut you off, “Safe. The Mother was very grateful, she was just down to get her laundry, she didn’t think the short time she was away that a fire would break out.”

Still shouldn’t have left her baby alone, you thought bitterly but you’re just glad the baby is safe in the end. 

There was a short moment of silence. The reality of it probably settling in, for both of you. You just survived a fire, not without injuries, and he probably worried so much he lost 2 whole days worth of sleep over your well-being.

You grab his hand on your face and bring it down to settle on your lap, yout thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. Peter has been your boyfriend since high school. You’ve been together for almost three years now, and you can always tell when he has something eating away at him.

He looks almost the way he did when his uncle died.

“Peter,” you called out, testing the waters, “what’s wrong?”

He hesitated, inhaling sharply. Then retracted his hand. “It’s my fault.”

Your eyebrows stitch into a frown, scoffing at his words. “Unless you’re about to confess your arsonist tendencies, then I doubt it was your fault.”

That was one of his flaws, he always took on so much. So much work, so much blame. He didn’t even know! How could any of you know that a fire would just start one random afternoon? Hell, even if you had predicted it, it still would not be his fault.

He was at work, taking pictures of Spider-Man or whatever it is Jameson has him doing this time. He was nowhere near the apartment, and even if he was, it’s not like he can swoop in and save the day.

You actually preferred that he was away. That is was just you. You don’t think you would have reacted as well as you did if Peter was there, because you would worry too much over him and most likely panic and just endanger yourselves more.

You said those words as half jokes but he seemed very much affected either way, you try and reach for his hand again but he avoided your touch. Okay…

“What’s going on?” You ask, wondering what on earth could he be thinking. Just how could he spin this to be his fault?

“I should’ve gotten there faster,” Peter mumbles, barely enough for you to hear. But he said it with that defeated expression of his, like he carried the sky and it was up to him to keep upright must it all come crashing down on you all.

You cannot fathom it. “And then what? Just put us both in danger?” Because realistically, what could he have done? He’s no firefighter, and there was no way he can rush to the seventh-floor and save you.

“No, it’s—” Peter abruptly stopped, letting otu a sharp exhale of frustration. Your frown only deepened, what’s going on? Why is he so angry? “I should have been there. But there was this robbery nearby that I had to stop first and—”

You stop listening after that, did he just say he stopped a robbery? You know your Peter. He’s someone who kept his head down… mostly, he knows how New York and its people worked. But he always lectured you on safety, especially at night.

So what is he saying about stopping robberies now? None of it is makign sense. Perhaps you truly inhaled too much smoke.

“---I almost lost it when I saw you still inside the building.”

You try pushing yourself up again, sitting upright now to face him with a conflicted look on your face. You take in his words, although confusing and how defeated he looks. You carefully choose your words before speaking again.

“Peter, I know it was scary. You almost lost me, I would be terrified too, if the roles were reversed but… you couldn’t have helped. I was only lucky Spider-Man showed up last minute. But I’m okay, I’m here.”

Peter was not at all comforted by your words. “But that’s exactly it! I showed up at the last minute—”

It was like a chord was snapped. You blinked once and everything came rushing to you. Oh my fucking god. There was no way but—the timing lined up too well, all the missed dates makes so much sense now, and the mysterious bruises. He had used the Spider-Man excuse, saying he had to be onsite to snap pictures.

It was for his job, but that was only half-true.

Oh my god, your boyfriend is Spider-Man.

Well, maybe there had been signs all over. But it’s not like you wanted to dive head first into believing that yes, your boyfriend, your sweet, adorable Peter, is the vigilante in red and blue spandex swinging around the city saving civilians.

What kind of crazy person would you be if you just assumed that?

In hindsight though, it makes too much sense now. Only Peter would have the heart big enough to put on that mask and go out every night to look after the people of New York. Only Peter would have the conviction strong enough to be a… a superhero.

“Holy shit,” you breathed out in exaspheration, “holy fucking shit, Peter.”

Peter’s entire body froze as he took in your expression. Shell shocked, your eyes blown wide open as you slowly lift your head to look at him. As if you were finally seeing him for who he is, for all he is.

He’s not just Peter anymore. He’s also Spider-Man, and he was too late.

He came way too late. You had gotten hurt and he almost didn’t make it in time.

“Shit…” you are probably cursing too much, but that’s the least of your worries when your whole world had just turned upside down. “Oh god…”

Peter is not sure whether that reaction is positive or not. He cannot get a read when you’re raining curses while looking like you are going crazy, he moved on instinct to put both hands on either sides of your shoulders.

“____, breathe,” he tells you inn a soft voice, trying to calm you down must you trigger a panic attack from his unprompted identity reveal. “It’s just me.”

Oh but it’s really not. It’s also Spider-Man now. And you’re gonna have to take some time to sit down and process that your Peter is the very same hero swinging around fighting villains and stopping crimes.

Is that what he’s been doing all this time? Of course it is, and you were oblivious to all of it. You didn’t know—why now?

“Were you ever planning to tell me?” You ask, not sure if you wanted to hear the answer.

“I wanted to keep you safe, away from all this. From Spider-Man and all the danger.”

You nod slowly. You know Peter too much, much more than he probably knows himself, so it was safe to assume that—”But you just learned that danger will come anyway, whether I know, or I don’t.”

Peter’s silence was the confirmation you needed. 

Peter fell forward, grabbing your face in his hands and levelling his gaze with yours. You look into his doe brown eyes, unable to get angry. Were you even supposed to? You’re not entirely sure.

You’re entitled to being pissed that he hid an entire other identity from you, for three whole years, or probably more— Spider-Man has been around for four years. But you can’t get angry, because you hold too big of an understanding for everything involving Peter.

You will always choose to understand him, no matter what. Because you love him. That’s right, you… “I love you,” you tell Peter. A reminder to him and yourself, and his hands on your face trembled at the declaration.

He was afraid he wouldn’t get to hear it again. First, when he almost lost you to the fire. And second, when he revealed the truth that he had been lying to you all this time.

“I love you,” he repeated.

And you know he means it.

the end. masterlist