His blue eyes drop to yours, amusement flashes in them while you throw a tiny fit over all the time you'd apparently wasted.

"I told you I was paying."

"Then why didn't you remind me, Mr. Wayne?"

"I did," he counters, one brow lifting as that polished little playboy smile threatens at the corner of his mouth. "Twice, actually. You were too drunk to notice."

Which is exactly why the manor is off-limits. He doesn't trust himself enough with how pliant you become under the influence. How tempting you'd look sprawled across his bed with half-lidded eyes blinking up at him, letting him rearrange you however he pleased simply because your body feels heavier and softer with alcohol. A pretty lamb for the slaughter placed directly in front of a man who already struggles far too much with wanting to reach for it.

Picking you up is one thing. Having you folded against his side in the passenger seat while he drives you home is another.

You spend most of the ride leaning across the center console, cheek pressed against his arm while you ramble about workplace gossip Bruce only half understands. Someone stole someone else's lunch. Someone else heated tuna in the workroom, of all things. Apparently Deborah is still a "raging bitch and keeps calling you out in front of the team in this really passive-aggressive email chain," which you explain with all the seriousness you could muster while whining, loudly, against his shoulder. Bruce hums along, occasionally glancing down at you before returning his attention to the road. One large hand stays steady on the wheel, and the other rests loosely over the gearshift, mostly because you've decided his wrist makes an excellent anchor whenever the car turns.

Your fingers don't stay there long. They slide across his thigh instead, drawing slow little circles through the fabric of his trousers, then hearts, and Bruce's grip tightens around the gearshift before he can stop it.

Then your hand wanders higher.

Bruce's jaw tightens the second your palm settles over his lap and gives the hard outline beneath his trousers a firm little squeeze, his hips shifting before he can stop them.

It would be disgustingly easy to pull into the truck stop glowing ahead, put the car in park, kiss his way down your neck while you giggle beneath him and move you into the back seat just to show you exactly what all that touching gets you. Have you whining and clinging to those broad shoulders until you forget tonight entirely.

Bruce exhales slowly through his nose, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as his eyes stay stubbornly fixed on the road ahead.

No.

He knows better.

"Behave," he drawls, that low voice coming out a touch rougher than usual.

He's more annoyed with himself for reacting so easily than he is with you. His hand leaves the gearshift and closes gently around your wrist, his palm nearly engulfing it as he lifts your hand away from his lap and returns it to the safer territory of his thigh. You raise your head with a pout that borders dangerously close to a scowl, and Bruce dips his blue eyes toward you for half a second before returning them to the road.

You can be cute.

Occasionally.

"I am behaving," you mumble, immediately letting your hand creep right back.

Bruce feels your fingers brush over him again, only now you've graduated from tracing to slowly stroking him through his pants.

"I just wanna touch it," you whisper, words beginning to drag together as you pet the straining shape through the fabric. "Just for a little..."

He catches your hand before you can get any more ambitious.

"Of course you do."

Bruce raises your knuckles to his mouth and presses a slow kiss there, the faint scrape of evening stubble brushing your skin before he places your hand firmly back into your own lap. This time, he keeps his palm over it for several seconds, thumb sweeping once across your knuckles.

At red lights, though, he allows himself smaller indulgences. His hand slides beneath your chin, warm and rather large, the roughened pad of his thumb brushing slowly over your cheek. You've asked him before why a billionaire has hands like that. He never gives you a real answer. You turn toward him with that soft, unfocused smile you never give him sober.

"Kiss?"

He's teasing, mostly.

That doesn't stop him.

Normally, you'd humor him with a quick kiss on the cheek and leave him wanting more. Bruce has learned not to push his luck. Tonight, though, you lean in before he even finishes asking.

It's messy. Your nose bumps his and you miss his mouth entirely the first time, kissing the corner instead before dissolving into giggles against his cheek. Bruce's eyes close briefly as your laughter warms his skin, and the sound pulls a crooked smile from him before he can hide it

"Come here."

His fingers tighten lightly beneath your jaw and guide you back, your lips finding his properly this time. His thumb settles near your ear while the other four fingers curl along your neck. Even then, Bruce keeps it brief, indulging you for only a few seconds before pulling away when you chase his mouth again. Green light spills through the windshield, washing over the blue of his eyes when they open.

"Greedy."

Mostly to himself, but apparently you take it to heart by the way you pout quietly against his shoulder.

By the time he parks outside your building, you're halfway asleep against his arm. He switches off the engine and sits there for a moment, looking down at the weight of your head against him. Bruce looks at you for a second too long before getting out of the car.

"Come on."

You make a noise suggesting you have absolutely no intention of doing anything of the sort, so Bruce circles the car instead. The moment he opens your door and reaches for you, your body folds bonelessly toward him, and he barely gets one arm around your waist before you sag completely into his chest.

"Bruce."

"Mm?"

Your cheek squishes against the broad expanse of his chest as you blink miserably up at him.

"My legs stopped working."

Your statement is quickly answered in one swift movement. One arm hooks beneath your knees while the other braces around your back, and you make a tiny delighted sound when he lifts you. You're immediately curling into his chest while Bruce shoulders the car door shut, your heels dangling from two fingers of his free hand and clinking softly together beneath you.

Your head drops beneath his chin during the walk inside, his cologne faded enough that you mostly smell Bruce underneath it. By the time he reaches the elevator, you've already started sliding lower in his arms, so he adjusts you higher against his chest with a quiet sigh.

The elevator doors open to reveal a young couple already inside. Bruce steps in, presses your floor with one knuckle, and offers them the same polite nod he would anyone else while you softly sing something into his shirt. One of your heels slips against his knuckles, and he catches it before it falls, long fingers easily gathering both shoes again. The couple glance at him, then at you, then at him again.

"Is that Bruce Wayne?" one of them whispers.

Bruce stares ahead.

Thirty seconds.

He can survive thirty seconds.

You lift your head, blinking blearily at absolutely nothing before your gaze finally settles on the couple. Bruce leans closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear.

"Give them a wave."

You brighten immediately, your hand emerging from beneath his coat to wave far too enthusiastically at them. Bruce has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his expression straight, but there's no hiding the faint crinkle beside his blue eyes.

It isn't fun playing the serious man all the time.

At your apartment, he shifts you higher against one hip and digs through your purse with his other hand.

"No snooping," you mumble. "I keep all my possessions in there."

"I bought you this purse and pay your rent. I'm allowed to snoop."

"Still, it's the principle."

Bruce simply nods, despite the smile gracing his face as he looks away.

"Understood."

The second your feet touch the apartment floor, you make for the fridge. Bruce catches the cheap bottle of wine before you do.

"One glass? Might as well since you're here, you know?" You bait.

"No."

"Half?"

Bruce removes his coat from around your shoulders and hangs it over the back of a chair, giving you one flat look over his shoulder.

"Water."

That shuts you up for approximately three seconds while he saunters off toward the bathroom to turn on the shower, knowing full well it'll take exactly eight minutes for the hot water to actually work.

The shower is cramped enough that Bruce has to turn sideways just to pull the curtain closed, his shoulders nearly brushing either wall as your shampoo bottles knock against his elbow when he reaches for one. He catches it before it tumbles and pours some into his palm.

"Turn."

You obey with surprising seriousness, and Bruce works the shampoo into your hair, thick fingers massaging slowly against your scalp while you continue talking about your friends, your job, a dog you saw earlier, and how unfairly handsome he is. You sway once, and his hand immediately catches your hip.

"Careful."

"I'm standing."

His eyes drop pointedly to your feet before lifting back to your face.

"Barely."

He guides you beneath the spray, one palm cupping the back of your head while the other shields your eyes from the suds. Water flattens his dark hair against his forehead, making the silver strands more obvious now.

You blink water from your lashes and squint up at him.

"You're really pretty."

His hands pause.

"Pretty?"

You reach up and poke the crease between his brows.

"You'd be prettier if you stopped doing that. You'll get wrinkles."

Bruce catches your hand before you can poke him again; he presses his mouth against the inside of your wrist. Once. Twice. Then a third little kiss because you're watching him with such open fondness that it makes his chest pull tight.

"Noted."

Your cheek finds his chest while Bruce rocks the two of you slowly side to side beneath the water, his chin briefly resting against the top of your head. Soap trails down between you until you eventually tilt your face up expectantly.

Bruce looks down.

One chaste kiss.

Then another against your forehead.

Afterward, Bruce wraps you in the largest towel you own. He guides you toward the closed toilet lid with both palms settled around your hips.

"Sit."

"I can stand."

You sway.

Bruce catches you under the arms before gravity can prove otherwise. His expression doesn't change.

"Sit."

You sit.

He crouches in front of you and dries your legs while you attempt to tell him something extremely important about your coworker's divorce. By the time you're in pajamas, you're brushing your teeth with one hand and pointing toward the kitchen with the other.

"I could still have wine."

Bruce watches toothpaste foam gather at the corner of your mouth.

"You could."

You brighten.

"You won't."

Your expression falls immediately.

You rinse your mouth, step out of the bathroom, and nearly walk directly into the doorframe. Bruce catches your elbow and redirects you without breaking stride.

"Convincing argument."

On the couch, he pours you water instead.

At first, you sit beside him. Then your legs creep across his lap. Five minutes later, you've somehow rotated sideways, and another five after that you're crawling completely on top of him, settling your entire weight against his chest like that had been the plan from the beginning. Bruce doesn't comment. He merely adjusts beneath you, one broad shoulder sinking deeper into the couch before his arm circles your waist and draws you securely against him, your cheek finding the hollow beneath his collarbone while your fingers occasionally play with the hairs on his chest.

Some movie you'd been talking about for weeks plays quietly across the room, although you spend most of it interrupting important scenes to explain things Bruce could have understood perfectly well himself. He doesn't stop you. He strokes his thumb slowly along your back instead, kisses your temple whenever you tilt your face toward him, and quietly takes the water glass from your hand when your fingers start going slack around it.

Bruce glances at the clock over your shoulder.

10:03.

Another twenty minutes and you'll be completely out. Plenty of time to get you into bed and still make patrol.

At 10:11, you're still explaining the movie. At 10:17, you stop halfway through a sentence.

Bruce looks down.

Your breathing has evened out, mouth slightly open against his skin, one fist loosely curled into the fabric of the blanket. His hand stills against your back. For a moment, Bruce just looks at you

Then they shift toward the window.

Toward the dark Gotham skyline beyond it. You need him, and so does she.

He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. You stir when he lifts you, forehead bumping softly beneath his jaw.

"Bruce?"

His hold tightens instinctively.

"I'm here."

That seems to satisfy you, your head dropping back against his shoulder.

That's why he brings you here.

Not the manor. Definitely not his bedroom, where the bed is big enough for every bad decision Bruce spent the drive refusing to make.

Your apartment is much safer.

Mostly because he hates your mattress, a full-sized bed you'd somehow managed to cram into your one-bedroom apartment in downtown Gotham, where Bruce has to turn sideways just to maneuver around the bedroom and not end up bruised.

He lowers you carefully onto the patterned sheets, but your hand immediately catches his sleeve, causing him to stop for a beat. His eyes soften as he gently pries your fingers loose one at a time and tucks your hand beneath the blanket, then pulls the covers higher around your shoulders. His phone buzzes quietly in his pocket.

Patrol.

He checks the time, then sets an alarm.

3:00 a.m.

Enough time to finish what needs doing and return before you inevitably wake up needing to pee, throw up, drink half the sink, or start drunkenly wondering where he went.

Bruce bends down, one hand braced against the bed beside your head, and presses one kiss into your hair, then another against your forehead.

By morning, you'll be miserable.

Bruce already knows the routine. Water waiting on the nightstand. Painkillers beside it. Breakfast ordered before you're fully awake.

And when you finally crack one eye open and groan at the sunlight, he'll already be beside you again, hair slightly disheveled from patrol and brushing yours away from your face and kissing your forehead like he hadn't spent half the night questioning whether he should just offer to move you into his place.

It'd be less of a hassle.

But temptation all the same.

Your make up is strewn across the bathroom counter, but this is out of shot. Instead, the skin care products are all neatly lined up on Bruce’s side.

You’re dressed in a fluffy white robe with your initials embroidered, hair clipped away from your face. Your make up from the gala is still on and you’re beautiful diamond studs— a present from Bruce, glitter under the bathroom’s lights. 

“Hello!” You smile at the camera. “And welcome to Vogue Beauty Secrets. Today, I’ll be showing you my skincare routine for after galas. We literally got back from the gala..." 

You glance over at Bruce, who is getting rid of his tie in the main bedroom. Luckily, the camera can’t see him. "What, twenty minutes ago?"

"Twenty-three," he corrects.

You laugh. "Twenty-three minutes ago. I wanted to film this while everything was still on because I feel like that's the only way to really show what works for me."

You carefully unclip the earrings, gently setting them down on a tiny golden plate. The camera picks the small metallic sound of the diamonds clicking against the metal. “These are usually the first thing to go because I'm terrified of dropping one down the sink. Bruce says that's what insurance is for, but I think he'd still judge me."

Somewhere off-camera, “I absolutely would.”

You laugh. “He's lurking somewhere off camera, don’t mind him.”

Slow and sure steps approach, Bruce’s is wearing a matching robe to yours and fluffy slippers the hotel provided. He looks absolutely adorable, but not like the camera sees it– the angle is too far off.

You pick up the cleansing balm, a yellow thing with a metallic lid. “This is the Elemis Cleansing Balm and an absolute jewel.” You rub the balm with circular motions all over your face. “And no, this isn’t sponsored.”

“When people always ask what my biggest beauty secret is.." You slightly turn your body in Bruce's direction. He grabs a cotton cloth, previously soaked in warm water. “It's probably hydration. Which is the most boring answer imaginable, but unfortunately it's true.”

Bruce begins removing the make up, with soft and soothing motions. His eyes are soft and focused on the task. Your heart swells, how is it you have such an amazing husband?

"People always think the gala is the exhausting part." Your eyes are still closed as Bruce keeps wiping a stubborn streak of mascara. "It's actually this. You're tired, your feet hurt, and the last thing you want to do is spend another ten minutes in front of the mirror." You smile. "It helps that Bruce loves to help with my skincare.”

He smiles, small and just for you. “If I didn’t you’d probably forget.”

You laugh. “That's not true!” You turn to the camera again. “Show them the cloth.”

Bruce’s massive hand appears in frame, veins noticeable and his golden wedding band shining. The cloth is now dirtied with varying shades of brown and a speck of maroon. 

“As you can see I was wearing loads of make up, and for that reason– where is i–”

Bruce hands you the next product. 

You barely look at him. “I use a second cleanser.” 

You quickly apply it. “Okay, boom! Makeup is off.” You move your head, showing the different angles. “Now comes the fun part.” A small pause. "When I was younger I used to think skincare was something you only did when your skin looked bad."

Bruce hums. "It showed."

You gasp, pretending to be offended. "You're unbelievable."

“You still married me.”

You hum, smirking at the camera. “It’s never too late to get a divorce.”

“Hydration,” Bruce clears his throat, and hands you the SK-II bottle.

“I was actually terrible with skincare,” you say as you press your product-soaked hands onto your cheeks. “As Bruce here snitched.”

“She used a barsoap.” Bruce dryly says. 

You laugh, glancing at him. “You’re getting kicked out of my video.”

“But then who would hand you everything?”

Just as you’re about to reply your phone rings. You quickly rinse your hands in the sink before picking it up. You click the speakerphone and set it on the counter.

“Dick, baby. What's wrong?”

“Can’t I just call to ask how my wonderful mother is doing?”

You suppress a smile. “So nothing is on fire?”

“Not on fire, no. Hypothetically... are all the cars insured?”

Beside you, Bruce pales. “Is someone hurt?”

Dick groans. “Please don’t tell me Bruce is there.”

“Sorry, baby,” You pause, shooting the camera a look. “And yes, all of the cars are insured. After you and Jason crashed the last one we weren’t taking risks.”

“Oh, okay! Thank you mom, love you. Bye!” He hangs up.

You look back at the camera with a fond smile. "Everyone says parenting gets easier when they're older."

Bruce slowly shakes his head. "It just gets louder."

You nod. "He's right. When they’re older they have their own opinions and personalities, and they have the confidence to argue back.” You scrunch your nose. “Eventually they realize I can out-stubborn every single one of them.”

You sigh affectionately. “This is part of the routine as much as the other steps. There’s always some emergency– so even if my phone is off there are certain calls from certain numbers that come through.”

“That being the kids and me.”

You grab the next product before Bruce can beat you to it. He grumbles something, but it lacks any heat.

You show it to the camera. It’s a tiny dark purple bottle, with a black pipette as lid. You squint your eyes, trying to read the description. “This is the Skin Ceuticals Hya–Hyaluronic… Acid Intensifier... Multi-Glyyycan. Wow, what a mouthful. Who even came up with the name?”

"Scientists."

You shake your head. "It’s all marketing." You slowly apply it. “I forgot to mention the names of the other products– wait, can I mention them? Since I’m not doing publicity or anything. Wait, am I going to get sued?"

Bruce shakes his head. “I’ll ask the lawyers tomorrow.”

"See?" You grin at the camera. "I don't even have to think about things like that anymore."

Bruce shrugs. "Occupational hazard."

You shift the camera slightly, so it doesn’t catch you giving Bruce a sweet peck on the cheek. His shoulders slump and you give him another.

A second after you’re back to the camera. “Sorry guys, I can’t resist my husband.”

Your phone rings yet again, the noise interrupting you mid-speech. You immediately pick it up, setting it on speaker again.

“Mother.” Damian’s voice can be heard. “I understood Richard called you?”

You raise a conspiratorial brow at the camera. “Yes, darling.”

“Richard has made yet another poor decision.”

“Ahuh.”

“I simply wished to clarify that I advised against it.” 

“Thanks sweetheart— please go to sleep now, it’s getting late.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Good night, mother.”

“Good night Damian, I love you.”

He hangs up after a second.

You laugh, bright and amused. “I think we’ve gotten a bit sidetracked. But there’s only two more steps to go!”

Bruce’s hand appears on screen again, showing the eye cream. You offer your face, your side profile is the only visible thing aside from Bruce’s gentle fingers applying the cream on your under eyes.

“You know, you’re really good at this.”

He barely smirks. “I’ve had practice.”

"Bruce always does the eye cream." You whisper to the invisible audience.

"You poke yourself."

You roll your eyes. "Once."

He looks at you, stopping his ministrations for a second. 

You sigh. "Twice."

Then the lipbalm, this time it's you who shows it to the camera. “And now my favourite part. The lip balm!” You apply it on your lips. “This one is honestly so good…” you finish rubbing it, “I keep one in each bag. A bit pricey though.”

“I think everyone expects some elaborate forty step routine. There isn’t one, just make sure your skin is clean and healthy. Oh, and really, really important. Don’t forget to drink water. The key for the whole glowy look is to be hydrated.”

“And marry someone who reminds you.” Bruce chimes in.

You smile. “That one definitely helps.” You unclipp your hair away, your hair gently framing your face. “Be kind to your skin. Don’t pick it, it’ll just get red and you’ll get more pimples.” 

“Don’t compare yourself to people on the internet either— I’m literally standing under a studio light.”

Bruce leans into frame just enough to kiss the top of your head. You look up at him, then at the camera again. “Thanks for watching!”

Comment Section:

@snoopycftheday the fact that she looks BETTER after taking her makeup off ?????????

@vogue Thank you for joining us 🤍

@slutforthestarks Bruce's entire personality is 'yes dear'

@metropolismetrosfan she genuinely has the most insane face card i've ever seen

@parasocialalert she has the personality of a wallpaper

@sukunt its sending me that 80% of the video is her flirting with her husband and talking to her kids and the other 20% is actual skincare

@selinakyle Can your husband fight?

@selinakyle Bruce CANNOT handle all that

@officialgothamgazette "there are certain calls from certain numbers that come through" being a mom never clocks out 

@slutforgreenlantern they're both so hot idk if i want to be them or be with them #pleasepleasepleaseletmethird

@boostergoldslefttoe just added everything to my cart... why is the total $672 😭😭😭

@daschundmom "Bruce is lurking somewhere off camera" Bruce proceeds to become half the video.

@user7696the way she instinctively tilted her face up so bruce could put on her eye cream... they've done this a thousand times IM SICK

@truthhurts she's only famous because she married bruce lmao she's not even that pretty

@mrswayneisamilf everyone talks about his green flags but can we discuss HER ?? she's so patient and kind every time one of the kids called she's my role model

You never quite understood why Jason was upset, even if you tried with all the patience you possessed. Most of your “dates” were not dates in the usual sense at all, but small, tender things done quietly within the four soft walls of home. They were evenings stitched together from the ordinary: the rhythmic sound of Jason’s knife against a cutting board while you perched on the counter, watching him cook and finding new, shameless ways to distract him; the slow comfort of cleaning together, your shared music low in the background as sunlight drifted across the floorboards; laundry dates that ended in laughter, with soap bubbles clinging to Jason’s hair; and movie nights, his favorites—the kind where you both ended up asleep before the film even reached its second act. Or...occupied with something else.

Movie nights without his little brother, that is. Because when Damian was there, movie nights somehow stopped belonging to Jason at all. They became something else entirely—soft, conspiratorial things between you and the boy. The two of you would sit wrapped in the same blanket, heads bent close, whispering about the film’s inaccuracies.

Laundry days became a battlefield when Damian joined in. He would stand beside you, arms crossed and unimpressed, as he scrutinized every item of Jason’s wardrobe like a disapproving tailor. “You wear this?” he’d ask, his voice flat with disbelief.

Cooking nights weren’t much better. You found yourself giving too much of your attention to Damian’s questions, explaining measurements and flavors and medical nutrition while Jason sighed and stirred and watched from a distance, half-amused and half-wounded.

Jason could never quite tell when it happened—when you and Damian stopped being polite strangers and somehow became… something else. Something closer.

All he knew was that one night, both of them were bloodied bone-tired, and he’d broken his own rule: no family in the apartment. But Damian needed help, and he trusted you. You had training, steady hands, and the kind of gentle patience that could coax a frightened little robin to rest.

You patched them both up that night. Bandages and soft voices, soup after that. It was supposed to end there.

It didn’t.

Somehow, after that night, the boy who once hissed at anyone who dared to touch him began to let you close. Damian—the child with the wary eyes and the spine made of quiet pride—let you ruffle his hair without complaint. He let you mend the tear in his sleeve, let you fuss over his meals, let you feed him soup when he was too tired to lift his arm.

Jason watched it all with a strange mix of awe and jealousy.

Damian even began to compliment you—though always hidden in insults aimed at Jason.

“I don’t know how you tolerate Todd,” he’d say airily. “You’d think you’d prefer someone who matches you intellectually.”

Jason would groan and roll his eyes. You’d only laugh.

There were other things, too. The tutoring sessions that had somehow become part of your week—Damian’s new interest in medicine, his newfound fascination with anatomy and physiology. You were his favorite teacher, though he’d never admit it outright.

You were also, much to Jason’s dismay, his doctor.

And Damian liked his “patient room”—your shared bedroom—kept quiet as a cathedral. No chatter, no movement, no sound but the clink of teacups and the rustle of papers.

Damian liked your apartment. Truly liked it. Liked the calm that hung in the air like a soft blanket. Liked that you didn’t speak unless you had something to say. Liked that you covered every window with those translucent suncatchers that painted colors across the floorboards when the light came through. Not the gaudy sort found in tourist shops—yours were delicate, old, a little imperfect, like melted drops of glass. Your home reminded him of a place he once called home.

Damian liked the kittens you fostered. He liked feeding them, brushing them, pretending he didn’t enjoy either. He liked making tea with you because you brewed it properly, just as it was made when he was small with the old servants, with patient hands and quiet dignity.

He did not like your choice in company.

And he told you so, in his usual unflinching way.

“I can find you a more adequate match,” he whispered one afternoon, low and confidential, though Jason heard every word from across the room.

You were kneeling beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, bathing a litter of kittens in a metal bucket from the hardware store. The poor things had fleas and ringworm, and your fingers were red from the warm water and soap. Damian crouched beside you, sleeves just as damp, as if he’d been born to this small ritual of care.

“I think he’s quite adequate,” you whispered back, soft enough not to wound his pride.

That was another thing Damian liked: the way you spoke to him. You matched his tone, measured and deliberate, the way someone might match a heartbeat. He knew it wasn’t how you spoke to everyone—he’d seen you with delivery men, with Jason—but with him, you were precise. Thoughtful. Gentle.

You spoke like he did.

And for a boy who’d spent years surrounded by voices that stumbled over his accent, who had grown used to repeating himself until the words felt wrong in his mouth, that meant more than he’d ever say aloud.

“Yeah, I think he’s adequate too!” Jason called suddenly from the doorway, grinning as he tightened a hinge on the bathroom door. You turned to glance at him, smiling despite yourself.

He was dressed in that white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off—his arms smudged with grease and his hair far too long, hanging just above his eyes. His clothes bore the familiar stains of oil and paint and everything else he’d fixed that week. His sneakers were worn down to their last thread, and yet somehow, standing there with a screwdriver in one hand and a crooked grin on his face, he looked steady.

His skin had color again, no longer the pale gray of sleepless nights. His back wasn’t as stiff as it used to be, his shoulders at ease. And though he grumbled endlessly about Damian’s visits, he looked softer when the boy was around. A little more human. A little more home.

Perfect, as always. Yours as always.

“You look like a turd,” Damian said flatly, scowling in Jason’s direction.

Jason didn’t even flinch. “Bro, you smell like a turd.”

“I wonder why,” Damian muttered, holding up a dripping kitten by the scruff, water trailing from its tiny paws.

Jason dropped the screwdriver and spun, pointing accusingly. “Damian, I swear to God—if you drip that medicine on the rug again, I’ll—”

Before he could finish, you reached forward, gently guiding Damian’s small hands back toward the bucket. “Let’s not test him,” you murmured, the edge of laughter in your tone. Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed, his pride intact.

Half an hour later, the kittens were washed and dry, bundled in towels that smelled faintly of lavender. They lay in the wicker basket you used for your farmer’s market trips—the same one Damian sometimes carried with a reluctant sort of pride. The three of you sat together in the aftermath of the small chaos: Jason kneeling by the repaired door, you perched on the rug with a kitten in your lap, Damian cross-legged beside the basket, his expression unusually serene.

“What do you want for dinner?” Jason asked finally, testing the hinge one last time.

“Biryani,” Damian said immediately, still rubbing a towel over a kitten’s ears.

Jason didn’t look up. “I was asking my girlfriend.”

The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Then both of them turned to look at you—Jason with a weary sort of amusement, Damian with scandalized indignation.

You sighed, stroking a kitten’s damp fur. “I’d like biryani too.”

“Vegetable,” Damian added.

You paused, glanced down at him, then back up at Jason. “…Yes, vegetable.”

Jason blinked. For a long moment, there was silence. Then he muttered, “Lost to a vegan,” and wandered out of the bathroom, the sound of his boots fading down the hall.

When you looked back, Damian was smiling—just a small, quiet smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but softened them all the same. You felt warmth bloom in your chest.

By the time dinner is ready, the kittens are all asleep, little bodies curled into soft commas in their basket. The faint hum of the radiator fills the silence between your breaths, and the apartment smells rich and warm—spices blooming in the air like memory.

The biryani sits steaming in the center of the low coffee table, bowls placed in an uneven triangle around it. Damian is already criticizing between bites.

“There’s too much cardamom,” he says with all the dignity of a food critic, squinting at his plate. “And the star anise—how am I supposed to chew on this?”

Jason looks like he’s aged five years in the span of the meal.

“Don’t eat it then,” he grumbles, though there’s no real bite to it.

Damian ignores him, of course, muttering something about “culinary atrocities” and “unsuitable textures” as he gets up to fetch salt from the kitchen. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving a kind of hush behind him.

Jason exhales hard, running a hand over his face. “Gods, I—” He stops himself, then huffs again and reaches over to scoop a few extra vegetables into your plate. “I love the kid. I mean it, I do. But does he always have to be around?”

His voice drops low, almost conspiratorial. The firelight flickers against his face, softening the hard line of his jaw.

You smile, trying to keep your voice light, teasing. “Are you jealous?”

You hope to draw that familiar flush to his cheeks, to make him sputter and deflect because you don't want the risk of Damian hearing all of this and drawing back into himself.

But Jason doesn’t take the bait—at least not the way you expect.

“No,” he says, too quickly. Then, quieter, “Yes. No—I don’t know. I…” His gaze drops to his food, then to the floor. “I like having you to myself.”

There’s something naked in that confession. Something fragile, almost boyish. Jason, for all his rough edges and sharp words, has never learned how to admit loneliness without looking away.

He doesn’t need to pretend with you—not like he does with his family. Around them, he wears armor made of sarcasm and silence. Even now, years after coming back, Jason doubts he’ll ever fully relax in their company.

Especially not around Damian.

It isn’t the boy’s fault. Jason knows that. But every time he looks at Damian, he remembers.

Remembers standing in the League’s training yard, watching the child run until his small body trembled, his tutors shouting that failure was death. Remembers the look in Damian’s eyes when they handed him a knife and pointed to a chained dog. Remembers him crying—choking on his own breath, spitting his mother’s name like a curse—and then, finally, going still. Blade down.

Jason had watched from a distance, powerless to intervene. That memory lives in his bones.

He can’t relax around that kid. Not really. And yet Damian has learned to relax around you—and Jason knows how rare that is.

So it feels selfish, maybe, to resent it. But he does.

He misses you.

Misses you kissing his neck without warning, standing on tiptoe instead of asking him to lean down. Misses the way you’d curl into his lap whenever he finally sat down, the solid comfort of your weight grounding him in a world that never stops spinning.

He misses you walking around half-dressed and unbothered, so at ease in your skin that he felt human just watching you. Misses you sneaking up behind him while he cooks, arms slipping around his waist, the low hum of your laughter against his back.

Misses the smack you’d give him whenever he teased you about your inability to ever survive as a celibate.

Apparently, you could.

Apparently, you could rival a monk.

And Jason’s pretty sure you’d win, too.

Apparently he's the one who'd die if he was ever made celibate.

“…He needs a space,” you murmur finally, your voice as soft as the fire crackling in the grate. Your hand drifts to his thigh, a gentle anchor.

Jason sighs, leaning into the touch like it’s the first warm thing he’s felt all day. “I need a space,” he grumbles, sounding more like a sulking teenager than a grown man. He pokes at his food. “And I need meat.”

You roll your eyes, amused. “The chicken biryani you made last week tasted wonderful.”

“Yeah, well, apparently chickens are birds,” he mutters.

You blink, looking up at him. “Huh?”

“I always thought they were like… fat fish,” Jason says. “That’s what Dick told me when I was, like, ten.”

You stare for a second before laughter spills out of you, helpless and bright. “And you believed him?”

Jason just shrugs, reaching for another spoonful of biryani. “I believed everything my brother told me at that age.” He scoops some of his food into your mouth, shoveling most of his vegetables your way.

You chew, smiling around the bite. “You know who else believes everything his brother tells him?” you ask, voice sly.

Jason pauses mid-bite, suspicious. “…Damian calls me an idiot daily.”

“Yeah,” you hum. “But he still listens when you talk. He doesn’t do that with Tim.”

“That’s because no one can stand Tim talking.”

You groan, rolling your eyes again. “He does it with Dick, and no one can stand Dick talking either.”

Jason snorts. “He does not like me as much as Dick.”

“Me either,” you admit easily, your tone warm. “But he likes us as much as Dick. You don’t see him going to his apartment.”

“Yeah, because Kori brings out his worst habit,” Jason mutters, though there’s fondness hiding under his words. “All that god-awful rambling.”

You laugh quietly. “I think they’re sweet.”

He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Tim and Kon, too,” you continue, ignoring it. “No matter how much you complain.”

“They need to learn how to get a room,” Jason groans, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “And I love Kori and Dick, I do, they’re just—”

“Loud,” you finish for him, gentle and knowing.

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah. Loud.”

You both sit in the quiet that follows, the kind of quiet that’s easy, lived-in. The kind where every sound feels magnified—the slow ticking of the wall clock, the faint purrs of sleeping kittens, the crackle of birch wood in the fireplace.

Jason stares into the flames for a long time before muttering, “It’s not just them. The manor’s always so damn loud. Steph and—”

“Hm.” You hum softly, eyes thoughtful. “Yeah. So if I were Damian, I’d want to come here, too. To my brother’s quiet home. The one with tea, kittens, a bed for Titus, and a sweet older brother who actually makes ethnic food.”

Jason snorts. “Alfred can make him biryani.”

“Jason,” you say, laughter slipping into your tone, “I know you love him, but…”

You trail off, because you don’t need to finish it.

Jason already knows.

And somewhere in the kitchen, Damian’s voice drifts faintly back:

“You’re both eating without me—uncivilized.”

You and Jason exchange a look, trying not to smile too wide.

The kiddo comes back, and Jason immediately feels the loss of your hand on his thigh. The warmth that had anchored him to the moment is gone, and he notices it before he even thinks. Damian strides in, shoulders stiff, grinding salt onto his onion raita with a small scowl.

“Honey,” you murmur quietly, all knowing, “that’s your third bowl.”

Jason can’t help the small smirk that tugs at his mouth. He folds his arms in faux pride, chest puffed out like a rooster, though his eyes linger on your face and your hand brushing lightly over Damian’s, quietly correcting his angle with the spoon. You glance at him briefly, then pull back to focus on Damian, who has paused mid-grind, frowning at his food as though it’s betrayed him.

“You people will make me fat like Jason,” Damian declares, voice sharp, accusation hanging in the air.

“I am not fat!” Jason huffs immediately, scandal written across his features. He glances at you, eyes wide and pleading. “You’re the doctor! Tell him, babe!”

You pause for a moment, tilting your head thoughtfully. Technically, according to textbooks and clinical standards, someone of Jason’s size could be considered slightly overweight—but he carries it like armor, and your instinct is to reassure rather than lecture.

Damian’s grin grows impossibly wide at your pause. Jason’s jaw drops.

“HA! Told you! Fatson Todd over here is in denial!” Damian exclaims, triumphant, waving the onion raita spoon like a sword.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, handing Damian a stack of empty dishes with a soft, indulgent smile. Begrudgingly, he gets up to collect them, still muttering, still scowling, but your quiet smile seems to soften him just enough.

“God, sometimes I think you play mom,” Jason mutters, leaning back slightly. He watches your expression—the soft, gentle tilt of your lips, the quiet care in your movements as you help Damian balance the plates—and he feels the warmth of it wrap around him. “You really want someone like him as a kid? Hey, if we had a kid like him, I’d toss it right back to Grandpa Bruce.”

Damian’s huff echoes faintly from the kitchen, scowling and stomping as he disappears from view.

You turn to Jason, your voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You’d love a kid like Damian.”

He looks at you, hesitant, unsure, because the concept of children has never been simple for him. And yet… the softness in your eyes, the gentle calm you exude, makes him pause.

“Yeah,” he mumbles finally, uncertain but open. “Sure.”

You lean closer, brushing a fingertip over his hand. “He looks like you,” you murmur, “your eyebrows and cheekbones.”

“Bruce’s eyebrows and cheekbones,” Jason corrects softly, then glances at your face, his eyes lingering. “Your eyes would suit them.”

You hum, leaning forward to kiss the side of his neck briefly, warm and comforting, and then you hear the faint rush of water as Damian starts washing dishes. Jason freezes slightly under the gesture.

“Oh, so now you kiss me?” he huffs, mock-indignant, a childish edge to his voice. “Go kiss his cheeks like I know you want to.”

You pinch the cheek unmarked by his scar gently. “I love him too, because he reminds me of you. Don’t forget that.”

“You also think raccoons remind you of me.” Jason says, smirk creeping in.

“Raccoons are adorable!” you reply, cheerful and soft.

“Well, this raccoon wants attention,” he huffs, mock-sulking.

You glance toward the kitchen, checking Damian’s progress, then lean in, pressing a quick kiss along the bicep you’ve been eyeing since he came back from fixing the door. “…Damian mentioned he has a sleepover with Jon on Friday. I can call off work too and…”

Your voice trails, hypnotic, and Jason lifts his gaze, caught in the light of your lashes and the quiet intensity of your expression. “…we can—”

“Have a sleepover?” Jason murmurs, small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, there won’t be any sleeping,” you whisper back, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He blinks, and a slow smirk spreads across his face, soft and fond, the apartment feeling warmer somehow. The smell of biryani, the faint crackle of the fire, the distant splash of water from Damian’s dishwashing—everything settles into a rhythm that feels like home.

Jason leans back slightly, still mesmerized by the faint glow of your eyes and the way your lips curl at the edges.

please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)

©shisuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved , 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗂/𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗀𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗍. Any oc's are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.

"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.

You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.

The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.

What has he done?

"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.

Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.

"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"

Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?

“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”

Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.

"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."

"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."

Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?

He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.

His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.

“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.

He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.

He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.

There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.

“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.

Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.

“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.

“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.

“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”

His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.

“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”

Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."

A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.

"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.

Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.

Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.

"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.

He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.

He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.

You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?

Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.

You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.

"Don't go." He whispers.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.

"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.

He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."

You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."

His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.

"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."

He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.

"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."

The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.

You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.

Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.

You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.

Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.

"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"

He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.

Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.

Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.

He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.

You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.

"Spidey." You whisper.

He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.

"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.

His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.

"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."

His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."

"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."

His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.

"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."

It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.

You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.

It gets demolished within seconds.

As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.

You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.

Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.

"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.

His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."

You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.

"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."

His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.

"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.

If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.

"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.

Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.

“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”

It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.

"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.

If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.

You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."

Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"

His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”

Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.

He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.

He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.

"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."

His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.

You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.

"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.

He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.

The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.

It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"

"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."

The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.

You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"

"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."

You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."

"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."

He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.

"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.

The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"

"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”

He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.

It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.

“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."

"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."

"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."

His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.

"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."

Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.

It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.

"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.

You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.

"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."

His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."

"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"

He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."

His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."

You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.

He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.

"Spidey." You call out.

He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.

"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."

He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."

Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.

You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.

You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.

You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.

"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."

"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."

Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."

"Why?"

"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.

You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."

His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"

"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.

"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.

"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."

You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?

You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.

Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.

"Peter. Peter Parker."

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