Euclid: Part 2~ (p.p x f!reader)
A/N: SOOOOO. i tried to post the whole 22k words for part 2 and it didn't work–so there WILL BE a part 3. it is done, it is completed. it will probably be posted tomorrow night. sorry for the wait–i got carried away hehe. also heads up the only thing from bnd in here is the mutation that is the main focus.
summary: after you find out peter is going through changes alone–you do everything in your power to show him he’s not and will always have you. no matter the circumstances
warnings: violence, stitching, blood, migraines, angst, light fluff ??? (idk what else if there is anything else lmk pls!)
i listened to this song while writing: song
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You adjusted your glasses, rubbing tired eyes before forcing them back to the bright glow of your computer screen. The tiny apartment was silent except for the rhythmic clicking of your keyboard and the occasional scratch of your pen across paper. Empty coffee cups littered your desk, textbooks lay open in uneven stacks, and every inch of available space had been claimed by hastily scribbled notes.
It had been two weeks since everything had unraveled in Peter's apartment.
Two weeks since he'd nearly lost himself.
Two weeks since you had watched the boy you cared about become something almost unrecognizable.
There wasn't much you could do physically. You couldn't fight whatever was happening inside him. You couldn't take away the splitting headaches or stop the violent tremors that overtook his hands. You couldn't slow whatever change his body had decided to force upon him.
You did the only thing you knew how to do.
You weren't a science major at ESU for nothing.
Every lecture suddenly felt ten times more important. You sat in the very front row, filling notebook after notebook with anything that even remotely sounded useful. Professors had started giving you curious looks after the sheer number of questions you asked, but you didn't care.
You even managed to schedule a meeting with Dr. Bruce Banner under the excuse of an independent research project. It wasn't much—just enough to get Peter in the same room as someone who might actually understand what was happening to him better than either of you could.
And lately, hope was all either of you had.
The second your classes ended each day, you'd practically sprint back to your apartment. Shoes abandoned at the front door, backpack tossed onto the couch, laptop opened before you'd even caught your breath.
Genetic mutation studies.
Buried beneath article after article discussing different spider species, one recurring detail finally caught your attention.
Hormonal shifts that temporarily altered behavior before reaching maturity.
You stared at the screen, rereading the paragraph over and over.
It couldn't be that simple...
Something in your gut told you this mattered.
You grabbed the closest notebook and started writing so quickly your handwriting became almost unreadable. Arrows connected random thoughts, scientific terms were circled three different times, and entire sections were crossed out only to be rewritten in the margins seconds later.
But somewhere inside that chaos...There might be an answer–
The past few days had also brought an unexpected change between you and Peter. You'd been spending nearly every waking moment together. Sometimes you worked in silence while he rested on the couch, an ice pack pressed against the back of his neck as he fought through another blinding migraine, or to ice his bruises from another long night as the masked hero. Other times, you'd sit beside him reading your notes aloud, hoping that somewhere between the scientific jargon and your theories, something would finally click. And on the harder days, neither of you spoke at all. You simply existed in the same room, the silence saying everything words couldn't.
When his hands started shaking uncontrollably, you didn't flinch anymore. When his breathing became uneven and his jaw clenched from the pain, you stayed exactly where you were. If frustration got the better of him and he snapped, you'd wait quietly until the inevitable apology came, accepting it every single time without hesitation. You had learned to give him space—not because you were afraid of him, but because you knew he needed room to breathe. A couple careful steps back whenever his instincts became too much. Never farther. Never enough to make him think you were leaving.
Because despite everything...
The news wasn't helping either. Clips of Spider-Man's recent fights flooded every social media feed, but one video in particular had your stomach twisting into knots. Spider-Man versus Scorpion.
It wasn't the graceful, controlled fighting style New York had grown used to. Every punch looked devastating. Brutal. Unrestrained. Peter wasn't pulling his punches anymore—he couldn't. Even through a shaky video taken from someone's apartment window, you could see it. Every hit carried enough force to send Scorpion crashing through concrete.
E.V., the AI integrated into Peter's suit, had only confirmed your fears after analyzing his vitals a couple days ago.
"Peter's arachnid hormones are continuing to evolve. Increased aggression, heightened physical output, and intermittent loss of emotional regulation are all consistent with accelerated mutation."
His strength had reached levels neither of you had expected.
It all clicked into place.
He was experiencing mutation.
You leaned back in your desk chair, rubbing the stiffness from your neck before letting your eyes scan the sea of papers scattered across your apartment. Research articles, handwritten notes, biology textbooks, diagrams of spider anatomy—it looked like madness.
You gathered every page into one messy stack, stuffed them into your bag, and barely remembered to grab your apartment keys before rushing out the door.
The walk to Peter's apartment felt impossibly long. Your mind refused to slow down, replaying theories and possibilities over and over.
Maybe this explained why his body was changing.
Maybe..It would remind him that he wasn't becoming a monster.
That this pain wasn't forever.
You hurried down the hallway stopping outside his door, your chest rising and falling. Clutching the notebook tightly against your chest, you knocked rapidly.
You knocked again, a little harder this time, the sound echoing through the quiet hallway. You waited for a moment, your eyes fixed on the worn apartment door, but there was still no answer. Letting out a small huff of frustration, you glanced down the hallway before reaching into your pocket.
Pulling out your phone, you scrolled through your contacts until ‘Peter P.🕷️’ appeared on the screen. Your thumb hovered over his name for only a second before pressing the call button.
His voice came through slightly muffled, accompanied by the familiar rush of wind in the background. You immediately recognized the sound. He wasn't home.
"Hey," you sighed, rubbing the back of your neck as you leaned against the wall outside his apartment. "Listen... I'm currently standing outside your apartment right now, and I really think you should see this."
There was a brief pause on the other end.
You couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh.
"So much more research," you replied. "And I think... I think I may have actually found something."
The wind seemed to disappear for a moment, replaced by nothing but silence.
"What kind of something?"
"The kind I don't want to explain over the phone."
Another beat passed before he finally answered.
The line went dead before you could say anything else.
You lowered the phone from your ear and slipped it back into your pocket, your fingers immediately finding the spiral notebook tucked beneath your arm. You'd read through these pages at least a dozen times today, yet somehow your eyes kept returning to the same section as if it would magically reveal something new.
Highlighter covered nearly every page.
Sticky notes stuck out from every direction.
Half-finished thoughts and frantic scribbles filled the margins wherever there had been empty space.
It looked less like organized research and more like someone desperately trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Your gaze settled on the sentence you'd circled so many times the ink had nearly bled through the paper.
‘Spiders have three life cycles…’
You stared at the words, absentmindedly tracing the circle around them with your thumb.Maybe this was something Peter simply had to survive.
Every symptom. Every migraine. Every tremor that left his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold a coffee mug. Every moment he looked like he was trapped inside his own body.
This had to all be from the mutation..right?
Maybe his body was still changing—still adapting to whatever that spider had done to him.
If that was true, then hopefully–eventuallty this would all stop. Right?
You swallowed hard, your grip tightening around the notebook.
Because if it wasn't temporary...
If this wasn't another stage his body had to fight through...
Then what exactly was he becoming?
The thought settled heavily in your chest, making it difficult to breathe.
You quickly shook your head, trying to force the fear away.
You couldn't think like that.
Not while Peter was still Peter.
Not while he still smiled through the pain and insisted he was "fine" whenever another migraine left him pale and barely able to stand.
And if those answers were buried somewhere between scientific journals, biology textbooks, and obscure research papers that no one had read in years...
Then you'd keep looking until you found them.
And you refused to let Peter face whatever this was alone.
Exactly five minutes later—not a minute more, not a minute less—the familiar sound of a lock clicking echoed through the hallway.
The apartment door swung open.
Peter stood in the doorway, still dressed in his Spider-Man suit, the mask nowhere to be seen. His curls were windswept from swinging through the city, a few stubborn strands falling into his eyes. The suit itself was scuffed in places, faint scratches and dirt from whatever—or whoever—he'd run into during patrol.
Still unbelievably handsome.
Your mouth suddenly felt dry.
It was completely unfair.
How was it possible for someone to spend the last several hours fighting criminals, probably getting thrown through at least one wall, and still manage to look like that?
Peter raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging into a small smile.
Your face immediately warmed.
You slipped past him into the apartment, the familiar scent of coffee and old books greeting you as you stepped inside. Kicking the door shut behind you, you turned and held the notebook out toward him.
"I think I found something."
His expression immediately shifted.
The teasing smile disappeared, replaced by quiet curiosity as he took the notebook from your hands without another word.
While he flipped it open, you wandered over to the couch, practically collapsing into your usual spot like you'd done it a hundred times before.
Maybe at this point-you had.
"So," you started, watching him skim over the first page, "how was tonight?"
Peter didn't even glance up.
"The patrol..." he asked. "...Or the headaches?"
He hummed quietly as he continued reading.
"Patrol was... uh... fine."
You could tell he was lying.
There was a fresh tear along one of the blue panels of his suit, and a bruise beginning to darken just beneath his jaw. Whatever "fine" meant in Spider-Man language was clearly very different from everyone else's definition.
"As for the headache..." He paused, flipping to another page. "It hasn't happened yet."
He looked up from the notebook just long enough to meet your eyes.
"It's going to be bad tonight, isn't it?"
The question came out quieter than you'd intended.
Peter didn't answer immediately.
He simply gave a small nod before dropping his gaze back to the pages.
You hated that you already knew what that nod meant.
Every time the headaches waited...
The apartment fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional turn of a page.
You found yourself watching him instead of the notebook.
Watching the way his eyes moved quickly across your handwriting.
The little crease that formed between his brows whenever he concentrated.
The way he absentmindedly chewed the inside of his cheek while he thought.
You searched his face for something.
Anything that suggested you were finally getting somewhere.
If you were being honest with yourself, you were looking at him simply because he was Peter.
Because despite everything that had happened over the two weeks...
You still hadn't gotten used to this.
Not even a month ago, Peter Parker had just been your awkward neighbor.
The quiet guy who apologized too much.
The friend who always offered to carry your groceries upstairs.
The one who disappeared at strange hours and showed up covered in bruises with excuses that somehow became less believable every single time.
The realization still didn't feel real.
It felt absurd, but it had become your normal. Sitting on Spider-Man's couch, watching him comb through pages of research you'd spent countless hours putting together, trying to understand what was happening to his own body. It wasn't a life you ever imagined for yourself, but somehow you'd fallen into it without realizing.
You swallowed hard, forcing your thoughts somewhere safer. Because if you let them wander for even a second longer, they'd end up exactly where you didn't want them to. On him. On the way his curls never seemed to stay where he pushed them. On that crease between his brows when he was focused. On the quiet kindness that never left him, even on the days the pain was so bad he could barely stand. On the way he always managed to ask how you were doing before admitting how badly he was hurting.
You couldn't afford that.
Not when you knew his heart still belonged to someone else.
He'd told you everything one night after one of the worst headaches yet, when he'd finally been too exhausted to keep everything bottled up. He told you about the spell. About everyone forgetting. About standing in that little coffee shop only a few feet away from the people he loved most, knowing he could tell them the truth... and choosing not to because he believed they'd be safer without him. You remembered the look on his face as he spoke—like he was reliving it all over again. It had broken your heart just listening.
The strangest part was that you had been there too. You'd walked the same halls at Midtown High. Sat through the same assemblies, graduated with the same class, lived what should have been the same memories. And yet, when you searched your mind for Peter Parker, there was nothing. Not a single conversation. Not a shared class. Not even a passing glance in the hallway. Just an empty space where years of knowing someone should have been.
Peter remained silent as he continued reading, his eyes carefully scanning each highlighted sentence and scribbled notes. Without seeming to notice, he wandered over and sat beside you on the couch, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. Another quiet minute passed before he finally closed the notebook with a soft sigh, setting it gently on the coffee table. He dragged a tired hand through his unruly curls, pushing them back from his forehead as his shoulders slumped.
For the first time since he'd walked through the door, the weight of the night seemed to catch up with him. The mask was off, the notebook was closed, and for just a moment... he looked less like Spider-Man and more like a twenty-two-year-old who was simply exhausted.
"So..." you started quietly, your voice barely filling the apartment.
Peter let out a humorless laugh, one that sounded more exhausted than amused. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, his hands hanging limply between his knees.
He finished the sentence for you so matter-of-factly that it made your stomach drop.
There was no panic in his voice anymore. No denial. Just complete, overwhelming exhaustion, like he'd already accepted whatever fate was waiting for him before either of you had the chance to understand it.
You stared at him for a moment, your heart aching.
"I think you'll be okay, Peter." You spoke carefully, choosing every word as if one wrong sentence might make him shatter. "You just have to... I don't know... go through it. Whatever this is. Then when it's over you'll be..."
His head snapped toward you so quickly that you almost flinched.
The question came out sharper than you expected.
"A monster?" His jaw clenched as he stood abruptly from the couch, pacing a few restless steps before dragging both hands through his curls. "What if I hurt someone?" His breathing had already begun to speed up. "What if I'm not myself anymore?"
Slowly, his eyes found yours.
"What if I hurt you again?"
The words hit harder than you expected.
Not because of what he said—but because of how terrified he looked saying them.
He wasn't afraid for himself.
He was afraid of becoming someone who could hurt you.
You stood from the couch without thinking, closing the distance between you two step by a step.
"Peter, you're not going to hu—"
"I already did, for Christ's sake!"
His voice echoed through the apartment before he turned away, rubbing both hands over his face in frustration.
"This..." He motioned helplessly toward himself. "This is exactly why I wanted everyone to forget me. It's exactly why I stayed away."
His shoulders rose and fell with every uneven breath.
"It's just not worth it." His voice cracked into something quieter. "It's... it's not..."
Your words cut through the room before you even realized you'd spoken.
There was something almost startled in his expression, like he genuinely hadn't expected you to interrupt him.
"You think I don't know the risks of being your friend right now?" you asked, taking another step toward him. "My God, Peter, you're basically a walking time bomb."
You watched guilt immediately settle across his face, but you weren't finished.
"At any second you could get another migraine. You could pass out. You could lose control and come after me again."
You paused, holding his gaze.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Your voice was quieter now, but somehow even firmer.
You could feel your chest tightening, your throat beginning to burn as every emotion you'd been trying to keep under control finally surfaced.
"You spend every single day saving people." Your eyes never left his. "You throw yourself into danger without thinking twice if it means someone else gets to make it home."
"You gave up everyone you loved."
The words hung heavily between you.
"You made your best friends... everyone... forget you because you thought it was the only way to keep them safe."
You took another step until barely any space remained between you.
"You've spent four years carrying all of this by yourself."
Your head tilted slightly as you searched his face.
"So let somebody do something for you for once."
"Let someone worry about you."
His breathing slowed just enough for you to notice.
"I don't care what happens to me."
His answer came instantly, almost desperately.
"I know you do," you whispered. "But you need someone, Peter."
Your voice cracked around his name.
"And I told you I would be that person."
You offered him the smallest smile.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Peter simply stared at you.
There was something in his expression you couldn't quite place. Shock, maybe–Disbelief.
Like no one had ever chosen to stay when things became difficult.
Like he couldn't understand why you were.
He shook his head, a tiny laugh escaping him despite everything.
Before you could ask what he meant, he wrapped his arms tightly around you.
The force of it made you stumble slightly before your own arms instinctively found their way around him.
He held you like he was afraid you'd disappear if he loosened his grip.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
You simply rested your cheek against his chest, listening as his breathing slowly began to steady.
"So what?" you asked quietly, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips.
You couldn't help but laugh too, squeezing him just a little tighter.
"So unbelievably stubborn."
For the first time in days, the apartment didn't feel so heavy.
Neither of you had solved anything.
The future was still terrifyingly uncertain.
But for just a little while...
He wasn't carrying it alone anymore.
A couple of days had passed since you had given Peter the notebook.
After everything that had happened, the two of you had agreed there wasn't much either of you could do besides wait out whatever the mutation had in store for him. Neither of you liked that answer, but it was the only one you had.
Every day became a routine of constant check-ins.
You brought dinner to his apartment more often than not, refusing to let him live off whatever stale cereal happened to be left in his cabinets. Some mornings, before your first class, Peter would quietly leave a coffee outside your apartment door with a sticky note scribbled across the cup—Good luck today or Don't fail your exam, please. I'd feel guilty.
Throughout the day there were texts.
Migraine's at a three today.
Phone calls became part of the routine too. No matter how exhausted either of you were, Peter always called after patrol to tell you how he was feeling.
And when the nights were bad...
Sometimes that meant sitting on the floor beside his bed while another migraine tore through him. Sometimes it meant reminding him to breathe when the pain became unbearable. Other nights, it simply meant existing in the same room, making sure he didn't have to go through it alone.
You couldn't stop whatever was happening to him.
But you could make sure he never faced it by himself.
Tonight was supposed to be no different.
You sat cross-legged on your couch, surrounded by open textbooks, loose notebook paper, and brightly colored highlighters that had long since stopped being organized. An empty coffee mug sat forgotten on the end table beside you, evidence of the caffeine that had carried you through the last few hours.
Finals were creeping closer by the day, and your life had slowly narrowed into two priorities.
You glanced toward the digital clock on your microwave.
Peter should be wrapping up patrol soon. He'd probably call in the next ten or fifteen minutes like he always did, complain about some guy trying to rob a convenience store with the world's worst disguise, tell you how the headaches had been that day, and then remind you to get some sleep even though he was the one surviving on maybe four hours a night.
The thought made you smile as you returned your attention to the notes in front of you.
Your playlist drifted quietly through the apartment, filling the comfortable silence while your highlighter slid across another paragraph.
Time passed without you noticing.
Until you happened to glance at the clock again.
Your eyebrows pulled together.
You reached for your phone, checking for a missed call or text.
A knot tightened in your stomach.
Maybe the patrol had run long.
Maybe he was helping someone.
You shook the thought away before it could settle.
Setting your textbook aside, you pushed yourself off the couch. You'd throw on a pair of leggings and walk the few steps to his apartment. If everything was fine, he'd probably laugh at you for worrying.
The screen lit up with a familiar contact.
Relief rushed through your body so quickly your knees nearly gave out.
You answered before the second ring.
"I was just about to head to your apartment."
Just an unbearable silence that made every nerve in your body stand on end.
"Peter?" you repeated, louder this time.
Your heart began hammering against your ribs.
Without thinking, you hurried toward your bedroom, fumbling through your dresser for something warmer than the oversized T-shirt and shorts you'd been studying in.
"Peter!" Your voice cracked as you shoved your phone between your shoulder and ear, yanking on a pair of leggings as fast as you could. "Please answer me. Peter, come on... say something."
For a moment, you thought the call had dropped.
It sounded like every word cost him what little strength he had left.
"Peter," you said immediately, your own breathing beginning to quicken. "I need you to tell me where you are. Give me landmarks. Street names. Anything."
There was another long pause.
Long enough that you wondered if he'd passed out.
"Okay." You grabbed your keys from the kitchen counter, your hands trembling hard enough that you nearly dropped them. "Okay, what roof? Peter, look around. What can you see?"
You shoved your feet into your Converse, barely bothering to tie them before pulling your sweatshirt over your head and throwing open your apartment door.
On the other end of the phone, his breathing grew heavier.
"What sign?" you urged, already sprinting toward the elevator. "Peter, stay with me."
His voice faded in and out, each word weaker than the last.
You stopped in front of the elevator just long enough to stare at your phone.
Waiting wasn't an option.
You threw open the heavy stairwell door and took the concrete steps two at a time from the fourth floor, your hand barely grazing the railing as you flew down each landing. Your heart hammered against your ribs, your breathing already growing ragged before you even reached the lobby.
By the time you burst through the apartment building doors, the cool night air hit your face like a slap.
The name echoed over and over in your head.
Walking was not an option.
As you sprinted down the sidewalk, you hit Peter's contact again, pressing your phone tightly against your ear while weaving around the few pedestrians still out this late.
"Come on..." you whispered under your breath.
Your legs carried you faster than your thoughts could keep up, your ponytail whipping against your back with every stride. Storefronts blurred together beneath the glow of flickering streetlights as your eyes desperately searched every sign you passed.
Relief lasted less than a second before another wave of panic crashed over you.
"The roof," you muttered.
Without slowing down, you darted into the narrow alley beside the deli. The sounds of the city disappeared almost instantly, replaced by the hollow echo of your footsteps against cracked pavement. You yanked your phone from your hand and switched on the flashlight, the weak beam bouncing across dumpsters, brick walls, and scattered trash as you searched for a way up.
Your pulse was pounding so loudly you could hear it.
You almost pitied anyone stupid enough to try and mug you right now.
Between the adrenaline flooding your system and the sheer panic coursing through your veins, you were pretty sure you could take on a grown man without thinking twice.
The thought barely registered before your light landed on a rusted metal staircase bolted to the side of the building.
You hurried toward it, only to realize the first step hung several feet above the ground.
You glanced around the alley, searching for anything—a crate, a dumpster, literally anything you could climb onto.
You let out an exasperated breath before shoving your phone into the pocket of your leggings and stepping beneath the staircase.
You bent your knees and jumped.
Your fingers missed the bottom step by inches.
You landed awkwardly, nearly losing your balance.
This time your fingertips caught the edge of the lowest step.
For one terrifying second, you hung there, your feet kicking uselessly beneath you.
Your free hand found the railing, and with every ounce of strength you had, you hauled yourself upward. Your shoulders screamed in protest as you fought to pull yourself high enough for one foot to hook onto the first step.
The moment your Converse finally connected with the metal, you let out a shaky breath.
"Definitely going to feel that tomorrow," you muttered, rolling one aching shoulder before tightening your grip on the railing.
There wasn't time to complain.
Not when Peter was somewhere above you.
Each step echoed through the quiet alley as your heart pounded harder with every floor you gained.
It was the only thought left in your head–and by the time you pulled yourself onto the rooftop, every muscle in your arms and legs was screaming in protest.
Your shoulders burned from hauling yourself up the fire escape, your lungs struggled to catch a full breath, and your heart pounded so hard it drowned out almost everything around you.
The rooftop stretched out before you, bathed in pale moonlight. A handful of distant neon signs cast faint patches of color across the concrete while the steady hum of rooftop air conditioning units filled the otherwise quiet night.
Your eyes darted across every corner.
Your voice echoed into the darkness.
A fresh wave of panic tightened around your chest.
You quickly pulled your phone from your pocket, switching the flashlight back on as the beam swept across the rooftop. Metal vents. Rusted pipes. More air conditioning units.
"Peter!" you called again, louder this time, your voice beginning to crack.
Your head snapped toward the sound.
Partially hidden behind one of the large air conditioning units, Peter was slumped against the metal casing, one hand clutched tightly against his side as he struggled to pull himself upright. His mask had been discarded somewhere beside him, exposing the cuts scattered across his face.
You were moving before you realized it, practically sprinting across the rooftop until you dropped to your knees beside him.
Your hands hovered inches from him, terrified that touching him might somehow make things worse.
"Hey," you said softly, forcing your voice to stay calm despite the panic threatening to spill over. "Hey... look at me."
Slowly, Peter lifted his head.
His eyes found yours almost immediately.
They were glossy with pain, unfocused around the edges, as though he was having trouble keeping himself present.
You offered him the smallest smile you could manage.
Something in his expression softened.
It barely lasted a second before another wave of pain crossed his face, twisting his features into a grimace.
"...Why?" he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
You couldn't help the breathless laugh that escaped you.
"You called me, dumbass."
Peter frowned weakly, confusion flickering across his face.
"I don't..." His words caught as he suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, his back arching against the metal unit behind him. One hand instinctively pressed harder against his side. "...remember."
"It's okay," you said quietly, shaking your head. "You don't have to remember right now."
Your eyes scanned him more carefully.
Bruises were already beginning to bloom along his cheekbone.
A cut split his lower lip, fresh blood trailing down his chin.
The Spider-Man suit was torn in multiple places, revealing angry scrapes and darkening bruises beneath the fabric.
Then your gaze landed on his side.
"We have to get you home."
Peter gave the smallest nod, though you weren't entirely convinced he'd heard you.
Before helping him move, you looked back at him, unable to stop yourself from asking.
Your voice was barely above a whisper.
"What the hell happened?"
He let out a slow, shaky breath, his eyelids fluttering as though simply staying awake required every ounce of concentration he had left.
"I had..." He swallowed hard. "...one of my episodes.."
The words settled heavily in your chest.
Pieces of your research immediately came flooding back.
When spiders entered certain stages of their molting cycle, they became significantly weaker. Their bodies diverted energy toward the changes taking place internally, leaving them slower, more vulnerable, and far less capable of defending themselves.
Peter hadn't stayed home.
He'd gone on patrol anyway.
He'd probably been in the middle of a fight when another episode hit.
Your chest tightened painfully.
Because even when his own body was turning against him...
Peter Parker had still gone out to save someone else.
"We've gotta get you back to your apartment, Peter."
He gave the slightest nod before bracing one hand against the rooftop. His entire body trembled as he tried to push himself upright, a pained groan escaping through gritted teeth almost immediately. He barely managed to lift himself a few inches before collapsing back against the air conditioning unit with another sharp inhale.
As he shifted, the torn fabric of his suit pulled away from his side.
A deep gash stretched across his abdomen, blood soaking through the dark fabric and running steadily down his hip. The edges of the wound were jagged, like the blade that had caught him hadn't been clean. It wasn't just a cut—it was the kind of injury that should have sent someone straight to the grave.
For a split second, you couldn't move.
The moment Peter lifted his hand from the wound to try and steady himself, fresh blood poured freely from the opening. You immediately pressed both of your hands against his side, applying as much pressure as you could without thinking twice. Warm blood seeped between your fingers almost instantly, and you felt your chest tighten.
Your voice barely came out above a whisper.
He leaned his head back against the metal unit behind him, his eyes squeezing shut as another wave of pain rolled through him. His breathing had become shallow, every inhale sounding like it hurt.
"...It's bad," he admitted quietly, forcing the words out between breaths. "I... I know."
You looked down at your hands. Blood coated your palms, your fingers, even the sleeves of your sweatshirt.
No, this wasn't something you could handle with a first-aid kit.
Your eyes darted around the rooftop, your mind racing through every possible option.
"This time..." Your voice shook despite your best efforts. "This time I think I actually have to call someone, Peter."
His head moved almost imperceptibly.
Your eyebrows pulled together.
"Peter, look at this." You gestured toward the wound without lifting your hands away. "You're losing too much blood."
Another slow shake of his head.
"Let me go get help. I'll be back in five minutes. Just stay here."
The word stopped you cold.
It wasn't louder than before.
If anything, it was quieter.
But something about it...
The tone was deeper. Sharper. More instinct than conversation.
A chill crept up your spine.
Slowly, your attention lifted from the wound to his face.
The familiar warm brown you'd grown so used to over the past few weeks had disappeared completely.
His eyes were completely solid black.
Dark. Endless. Almost unnatural beneath the glow of the moonlight.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
"Peter..." you whispered carefully.
Like he was trying to focus on your face through layers of static.
Your pulse hammered against your ribs.
You kept your voice soft, refusing to look away from him.
His brow slowly furrowed.
You watched something shift in his expression.
It all seemed to fight for control at once.
"I..." His voice faltered. He swallowed hard before trying again. "...I know."
The words had barely left his mouth before his entire body tensed.
His back arched violently against the metal behind him as another wave of pain ripped through him. A strangled gasp escaped his lips, and you instinctively pressed harder against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding.
Something beneath your hands moved.
At first you thought Peter had shifted his body again.
The sensation came from underneath your palms.
the muscles themselves were tightening.
You slowly eased the pressure just enough to look.
Your heart nearly stopped.
The blood wasn't pouring out anymore.
It had slowed to a trickle.
You stared at the wound in complete disbelief as the torn edges gradually drew closer together. It wasn't healing completely—not even close—but it was changing. The gash was noticeably smaller than it had been only moments before, the muscle beneath knitting itself together just enough to keep him from bleeding out.
Your hands hovered uselessly over the injury.
You couldn't make yourself touch it.
The words escaped on nothing more than a breath.
Peter's shoulders, which had been rigid with pain, slowly relaxed. His breathing steadied little by little, and when he blinked a few times before looking back at you, the blackness in his eyes had faded.
He frowned, looking between your stunned expression and the wound at his side.
You were too busy noticing everything else.
The cut on his lip was almost gone.
The bruises across his cheek had already begun fading from angry purple to softer shades of blue.
Even the color had returned to his face.
You swallowed hard, still trying to make sense of what you had just witnessed.
Your voice was barely audible.
"It didn't heal you completely."
You looked down at the wound again, your mind racing.
You shook your head in disbelief.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
The city carried on beneath the rooftop as though nothing had happened. Car horns echoed in the distance, a train rumbled somewhere several blocks away, and a cool breeze swept across the rooftop.
But neither of you noticed.
You were both staring at the same thing.
And the terrifying realization that Peter's body had just rewritten the rules all on its own.
“Can you stand?” you asked softly.
Peter let out a tired breath, his head lolling slightly before he gave a small nod. “I mean…” His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “…I think.”
He planted both palms against the rooftop, every muscle in his body visibly tensing as he forced himself upright. A sharp hiss escaped through gritted teeth, his face contorting for only a second before he managed to straighten.
He still looked like a disaster.
His curls clung to his forehead with sweat, blood stained nearly every inch of the Spider-Man suit, and dark bruises were already beginning to spread across the side of his jaw.
He looked a little less like he was dying.
The second he attempted to take a step, his knees threatened to buckle beneath him.
You were already moving before he could hit the ground, wrapping an arm securely around his waist as you caught him. His arm instinctively draped over your shoulders, his weight leaning into you far more than he probably intended. For a moment, neither of you moved.
He stared down at the concrete.
You let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling your eyes.
“If I hear you apologize one more time tonight,” you muttered, adjusting your grip around him, “I’m actually going to kill you.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
It was barely noticeable.
Your eyes drifted back down to the gash in his side. Even with his mutation healing, fresh blood continued to seep through the gash.
Peter gave a small nod, swallowing hard. “My apartment…”
“Peter,” you interrupted gently. “A hospital.”
He was already shaking his head.
“My apartment.” His breathing hitched. “I—I have... supplies there.”
The realization settled heavily in your chest. A normal person would've gone to the emergency room.
Peter Parker apparently had enough experience patching himself together that he'd built his own emergency kit at home.
The thought hurt more than you wanted to admit.
You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him this wasn't something he should be handling alone, that someone else, a professional, should take care of him for once.
But one look at him was enough.
He could barely stay standing.
There wasn't a chance in hell he was willingly walking into a hospital dressed like Spider-Man.
Between the nursing elective you took in high school, first aid classes, and an embarrassing amount of medical videos you'd watched over the years...
You could probably stitch him up.
You decided not to dwell on that.
“Fine,” you sighed. “Apartment first.”
Relief flickered across his face for the briefest moment before he slowly turned his head, scanning the rooftops around the two of you. He squinted as though trying to piece together a memory that refused to come.
His brows furrowed beneath the mask.
You followed his gaze around the rooftop before letting out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“No clue,” you admitted. “But I do know one thing.”
Your eyes drifted toward the edge of the building, where the city stretched endlessly below.
“Getting back down is going to hurt like hell.”
Peter glanced over the ledge before quietly groaning.
Silence settled between the two of you for a beat.
You tightened your hold around his waist, looking around until your eyes landed on the rusted metal fire escape bolted to the side of the building.
“Well…” you muttered, nodding toward it. “Unless you've got some secret Spider-Man staircase I've never heard about…”
Peter let out the faintest breath of a laugh before immediately wincing.
The walk back to Peter's apartment was miserable.
Every step drew another quiet hiss from him, his weight growing heavier against your side the farther the two of you walked. You were just thankful he'd spotted the fire escape. Your shoulder was still screaming from the ridiculous way you had gotten onto the rooftop in the first place, and you were fairly certain you'd be bruised for the next week.
The two of you stayed tucked between buildings and empty alleyways, avoiding the brighter sidewalks whenever possible. Peter had shoved his mask into the pocket of your leggings, but that hardly solved the problem. Even without it, anyone who looked too closely would recognize the unmistakable red-and-blue suit clinging to his body. Neither of you needed that tonight.
By the time Peter finally fumbled his keys into the apartment door and pushed it open, you barely made it two steps inside before his body gave out. His weight slipped from your grasp, dragging you down with him as he collapsed onto the hardwood floor with a heavy groan.
You dropped into a crouch in front of him, one hand instinctively finding his shoulder. "I know it hurts," you said softly. "Believe me, I know. But I have to get you somewhere better than the floor."
Your eyes drifted toward the couch before landing on the dining chair. Honestly... anywhere was better than the hardwood beneath him.
Peter let out a long, exhausted sigh before forcing himself upright, scooting closer to you than either of you had expected. Suddenly he was inches away, his curls falling messily over his forehead as he struggled to catch his breath.
"I..." His voice cracked from exhaustion. "I know. I just..."
"You need a minute," you finished gently. "To catch your breath."
He nodded once, his shoulders finally relaxing. "...Yeah."
The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Your own lips curved before you could stop them, but your smile faded almost as quickly as it came.
His eyes drifted from yours... down to your lips.
Just long enough for your own breath to catch.
Then they flicked back up again, almost as if he'd caught himself. The silence that settled between you suddenly felt impossibly loud.
A knot twisted in your stomach.
You quickly pushed yourself to your feet, taking a careful step backward.
"I..." You cleared your throat, refusing to meet his eyes. "I'll give you a second."
You barely turned before gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist.
Not enough to stop you by force.
Just enough to ask you to stay.
You looked back as Peter slowly stood, using every ounce of strength he had left. He was close again—close enough that you could feel the warmth of his uneven breathing against your face.
Before you could ask what he was doing, his hand lifted.
His hand cupped your cheek with impossible gentleness before his thumb swept softly across your skin.
Your hand instinctively flew to your face.
Peter looked down at the smear coating his thumb.
You shook your head slowly, your voice barely louder than a whisper.
His hand lingered against your cheek for another second. There was something in the way he looked at you—something soft, something that made your pulse race so hard you were sure he could hear it.
You were suddenly terrified your own expression looked exactly the same.
Taking a slow step backward, you broke whatever had settled between you. His hand slipped away, falling back to his side.
"I..." You tugged lightly at the blood-soaked fabric of your sweater, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at him. "I need to get this off. It's covered in..." You gestured toward him with an awkward laugh. "...You."
Only then did reality hit.
You were standing in Peter Parker's apartment.
Which meant every piece of clothing you owned was currently somewhere else.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a second.
"I'm borrowing one of your shirts."
You hurried into his bedroom, shutting the door behind you before your brain had the chance to replay whatever had just happened. The sweater peeled off with a grimace before landing in the corner of the room. Loose strands of hair clung to your face as you quickly redid your ponytail, trying to steady the shake in your hands.
You weren't sure if it was the adrenaline...
Opening his closet, you grabbed the first clean T-shirt you saw—a faded gray one with some ridiculous math joke stretched across the front.
"...Of course," you muttered, pulling it over your head.
Your reflection caught your eye in the mirror.
Your cheeks were still pink.
"Oh my God, Y/N," you groaned under your breath. "Get over yourself."
Grabbing a pair of sweatpants from one of Peter's drawers for him to change into, you headed back into the living room.
The words died in your throat.
Peter was sitting in one of the dining chairs, his suit already peeled down beneath his hips. Bruises bloomed across his chest and ribs, the angry gash in his side looking even worse under the apartment lights.
Needle and thread rested between trembling fingers.
He was actually trying to stitch himself up.
His head snapped toward you.
"Do you ever relax?" you exclaimed, dropping the clothes onto the floor as you marched toward him. "Give me that."
Without waiting for permission, you reached for the needle.
"You're not stitching yourself up tonight."
Each time you pushed the needle through Peter's skin, your own body flinched right along with him. You wished your hands would stop shaking. You wished you could be gentler. Every stitch felt like you were hurting him all over again.
He knew you were doing your best.
Truthfully, he also knew he would've done a far worse job himself. His head was still pounding relentlessly, every pulse sending another wave of pain behind his eyes. His hands trembled far worse than yours did, and every time he looked down at the needle, his stomach threatened to turn.
You only had a few stitches left.
The apartment had remained mostly silent, save for Peter's occasional sharp inhale whenever the needle caught a particularly tender spot and the soft clink of your supplies against the dining room table.
Finally, unable to ignore the question circling your mind any longer, you broke the silence.
"Do you remember anything?"
You were seated in the dining chair beside him, leaning forward with your face only inches from the wound. Close enough to see every bruise beginning to bloom across his ribs. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
Peter let out a slow breath, his shoulders lifting in a small shrug before he immediately regretted the movement.
"I remember getting there," he said quietly. "They were robbers... I think there were six of them."
You nodded, carefully guiding the needle through one final stitch.
He stared toward the apartment floor, his brow furrowing as he searched for memories that refused to come.
"I remember fighting them..." His voice trailed off as another migraine seemed to ripple through him. "...Then I got one of the headaches."
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second.
Your hands immediately stopped moving.
You looked up at him, concern replacing your concentration.
"The next thing I remember..." he continued after a moment, "...I was swinging. I made it to the rooftop..." He frowned, clearly frustrated with himself. "...Then everything just... blanks."
His eyes slowly found yours.
"You were standing in front of me."
A small laugh escaped you.
"You called me first," you reminded him. "Scared the absolute hell out of me."
You pointed the needle at him without missing a beat.
That earned you the tiniest laugh.
You smiled to yourself before tying off the final stitch, securing the knot carefully. After trimming the excess thread with the small pair of scissors resting on the table, you finally leaned back, letting out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.
Peter looked down at the neat row of stitches before lifting his gaze back to you.
You offered him a tired smile, shrugging one shoulder.
"It's okay to need saving sometimes, Parker."
Something softened in his expression.
A small, strained smile spread across his face as he slowly reached up, gently brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face.
His fingertips barely grazed your skin.
So why did every look he gave you tonight feel... different?
Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, but you refused to move, afraid the smallest motion would shatter whatever had settled between the two of you.
"You should get some rest," you whispered.
His eyes flicked toward the microwave clock across the apartment.
"You should be studying for finals."
You rolled your eyes dramatically, letting out a small laugh.
His answer came almost immediately.
The words settled somewhere deep in your chest.
The silence that followed felt almost too heavy to carry.
Desperate to break it, you cleared your throat.
"So..." You tilted your head toward the hallway. "Need me to carry you to bed?"
Peter let out an honest laugh.
Not the quiet chuckle he'd been giving you all night.
It echoed through the apartment before he immediately clutched his side, groaning.
"Okay..." he winced. "Maybe don't make me laugh."
You couldn't help laughing too.
"I think I can manage," he added once he'd caught his breath.
Slowly, he pushed himself out of the dining chair. Every movement looked like it hurt, one hand instinctively pressing against the fresh stitches as he limped toward his bedroom.
He stopped in the doorway.
Turning back, his eyes found yours once more.
"I'm happy I have you, Y/N."
"You've saved my life in more ways than just a couple stitches."
The words hung in the air between you.
Before you could think of anything to say...
Peter offered one last small smile.
Then quietly disappeared into his room, the bedroom door clicking shut behind him.
You stared at Peter's bedroom door long after it had quietly clicked shut, a small smile lingering on your lips despite yourself.
The smile disappeared just as quickly as it came.
Your eyes slowly swept across the apartment.
Medical supplies scattered across the dining room table.
The reality of the night settled over you all at once.
With a quiet breath, you pushed yourself to your feet and began cleaning.
You carefully gathered the blood-soaked gauze before throwing it away, wiping down the hardwood where droplets of dried blood had stained the floor. The dining table took longer. You scrubbed until there wasn't a trace left, your eyes lingering on the faint scratches in the wood where your scissors had scraped against it while stitching Peter back together.
Once everything else was spotless, you made your way to the sink.
You washed your hands once.
The water grew colder with every passing second as you scrubbed harder, your skin turning pink beneath your fingertips.
No matter how much you washed...
You could still feel the blood.
You finally shut the faucet off, gripping the edge of the sink as you let out a long, shaky breath.
Your eyes drifted toward the microwave.
A tired laugh escaped your lips.
You should've been asleep hours ago.
Instead, your body still buzzed with adrenaline, your ears ringing in the heavy silence that had settled over the apartment. Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Peter lying on that rooftop... pale, barely conscious, blood slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried to hold the wound closed.
You were just thankful you didn't have class tomorrow.
After one final glance around the apartment to make sure everything was clean, you grabbed your sweater from where you'd left it and made your way toward the front door.
Your hand wrapped around the doorknob.
Your eyes drifted toward Peter's bedroom.
He could've died tonight.
The thought struck harder now than it had on the rooftop.
He could wake up in more pain.
He could have another migraine.
What if he started bleeding again?
What if he called out...and no one was there to hear him?
You squeezed your eyes shut.
The thought barely had time to settle before another answered it.
You let out a defeated sigh.
Turning away from the door, you wandered back into the living room and practically collapsed onto the couch. You grabbed one of the throw blankets draped over the armrest, pulling it tightly around yourself as exhaustion finally began to outweigh the adrenaline.
You reached into your pocket for your phone, opening the folder full of lecture slides and photos of your notes you'd promised yourself you'd review before finals.
You managed exactly two pages.
The words blurred together.
Your eyelids grew heavier.
At some point, your phone slipped from your hand onto your chest.
You never even realized you'd fallen asleep.
You shifted beneath the throw blanket, rolling onto your side as the sound of movement drifted through the apartment. Your brain hadn't quite caught up with the fact that you were awake, your body still heavy with exhaustion.
A loud clang echoed from the kitchen.
Your eyes shot open, your body jolting upright as your heart leaped into your throat. For one terrifying second, panic flooded through you before your surroundings slowly came into focus.
"Peter?" you called, your voice thick with sleep as you rubbed your eyes.
There was a beat of silence.
The tightness in your chest eased immediately.
"...I dropped a spoon. Sorry.."
You blinked before letting out a tired laugh, flopping dramatically back against the couch and pulling the blanket over your head.
"Can you drop a spoon somewhere else, please?"
You smiled despite yourself.
A few careful footsteps approached before stopping beside the couch. Slowly lowering the blanket from your face, you found Peter standing over you with two steaming mugs balanced carefully in his hands. One was already extended toward you.
You sat up, accepting the mug with both hands as the warmth seeped into your fingers.
"Apology accepted," you mumbled before taking a cautious sip.
Your eyebrows lifted in surprise.
Just enough creamer. Slightly sweet. Exactly how you liked it.
Peter shrugged, suddenly far more interested in his own coffee than looking at you.
"You've made it enough times”
A smile tugged at your lips as he carefully lowered himself onto the couch beside you, moving slower than usual to protect his side. Morning sunlight spilled through the apartment windows, catching the bruises scattered across his face. Yellow had begun replacing the angry blues from the night before, and the cut across his lip had already started to scab over.
It was almost impossible to believe that less than twelve hours ago, you genuinely thought he was going to die.
"You okay?" Peter asked quietly.
You blinked, realizing you'd been staring.
"Yeah." You smiled sheepishly. "Just making sure you're still alive."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
Without another word, he carefully lifted the hem of his shirt just enough to expose the stitches on his side.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Last night, all you had seen was blood.
Now, with daylight pouring through the apartment, you couldn't help noticing everything else. The defined muscles across his stomach, the bruises scattered along his ribs, the way the fresh stitches stretched neatly across the wound you'd spent nearly an hour closing.
You quickly forced your attention back where it belonged.
It already looked better.
You'd almost forgotten how ridiculously fast his body recovered.
"The stitches look really good," you said quietly, leaning in just enough to inspect them. "You'll probably want me to take them out tonight... maybe tomorrow morning."
Peter glanced down before pulling his shirt back into place.
"I just wanted you to see."
"...It's healing because of you."
You shook your head with a soft laugh, taking another sip of your coffee.
"I think your ridiculously unfair spider powers deserve most of the credit. There's no way my stitching is that good."
He laughed quietly, the sound filling the apartment before another comfortable silence settled between the two of you.
That was what made it dangerous.
You found yourself stealing another glance at him.
Did he remember looking at you like that?
Did he remember touching your face?
Or had it all disappeared somewhere between blood loss and another brutal migraine?
Maybe you'd imagined every bit of it.
Maybe your exhausted brain had mistaken gratitude for something that just wasn’t true.
"You didn't have to stay."
Peter's voice pulled you from your thoughts.
You looked over to find him watching you over the rim of his mug.
Because I couldn't leave you.
Because I thought you might die.
Because somewhere along the way you stopped feeling like just my neighbor or a friend.
None of those words would leave your mouth.
Instead, you shrugged, offering him a small smile.
"I just... stayed. In case something happened again."
Peter studied you for a long moment before the smallest smile crossed his face.
Neither of you said another word.
You simply sat there, coffee warming your hands as the morning sunlight filled the apartment, both of you pretending there wasn't something quietly changing between you.
Part 3 is written–and will be posted asap.
