In some painful ways, you remind him of Gwen. Not in a manner of replication, but in your subtleties. You’re kind, yet determined. You’re divine, yet humane. You’re passionate in every single thing you do, big or small.

You’re too good for Peter. He knows that. He knows you deserve someone who can love you fully, someone who doesn’t carry the weight of blaming themselves for their dead girlfriend and all the other trauma he grips tightly in his palm to the extent of self injury, cradling it right by his beating, remorseful heart.

(It should’ve been Gwen’s heart continuing to pulse.)

Peter can’t help the void that engulfs his whole being from time to time, thinking about how much patience you’ve extended towards him. Despite all your reassurances, he never wants you to feel as if he were abusing your kindness. He doesn’t deserve it, he thinks.

“What’s on your mind, Pete?” You call out softly to his pondering figure from your spot on your sofa.

He’s remains silent for a bit across you, eyebrows still furrowed. A deep breath then a shaky exhale follows.

“I’m sorry.”

He really can’t help but space out sometimes, deep in thought and doubt. If it’s ever bothered you, you never brought it up.

He let you pick his brain apart in the past, but not always out of fear of breaking down in front of you. However—despite his best efforts to dance around the topic—you eventually guessed the correct topic his mind often drifts off to after being in his life for a little past a year. He hasn’t had any protests against you knowing that Gwen still graces his thoughts when he isn’t thinking of anything in particular, but does and he hates himself for it when he’s got you.

You were surely more than friends, but tightroping on the fine line between that and lovers. Neither of you are ready to address it.

“What for?” You know what for, he knows you do as he screws his eyes shut to will his unshed tears back in.

His head is in his hands, elbows digging into the muscle of his thighs. Peter can almost hear you scolding him for his backache prone posture.

“For being a waste of your time, for never being a hundred percent despite giving me your everything.”

He hears you sigh. “Peter, I told you, I never expected this to be simple for you.”

“But, it’s selfish! I’m selfish! I can’t keep being unsure, but I can’t help it because I don’t know how.” He’s desperate to confidently reciprocate your gentleness, anyone with a pulse can tell.

“I don’t blame you for it.”

He can’t help it when he snaps his head up to look at you with his bloodshot and cries out, “But it’d be easier if you did!”

He immediately regrets it when he notices your breathing pattern change out of shock and ache, he deduces. You huff and stand, not out of malice, but stubbornness. Peter follows suit, meeting you in the middle because that’s the least he can do.

(Peter wants to vomit when he makes an unintentional parallel of your tenacity and Gwen’s.)

“Have you ever considered that if I wanted it easy, I would’ve been gone by the time you told me about Gwen? About Spider-Man?” His mouth opens to protest, but you beat him to it.

“Peter, I knew that loving you meant coming second. To Gwen, to your vigilante duties, to New York. It wasn’t ideal to, but here I am. All I ask of you is to let me love you at all.” You laugh in defeat, weakly throwing your hands up.

Frozen in place, he realizes this is the first time you clearly admit to loving him. He tries not to linger on the possibility of you holding the urge back up until this moment.

“You love me.”

Your eyes widen, frantic. He can hear your heartbeat thump aggressively. “Peter, I—”

Despite his brain being aware that he had to tell you no, you never come second, he lets his mouth blab freely.

“Almost every single day, I go out and help everybody in need. Before—” he swallows the pain that blockades his throat. Why was she still a sensitive topic after three years?

“Before Gwen died, seeing people eased was enough for me. Seeing that I made a change was enough. When I forced myself to go back out there after watching her speech, it wasn’t the same. It could never be. Nods and thank you’s no longer meant anything to me. Before I knew it, I was numb. To fear, anger, sadness. I let all of it control me, in a way.” He lets out a wet, humorless chuckle.

“Despite faking my bravery, I was sure I’d never find peace or love at all again.”

“But, you came in and started to make me feel loved like it’s nothing, like it’s simple. Even,” Peter takes a hefty breath to continue, “with… with Gwen, the circumstances were so different, but I could feel my mere presence affect the way her life operated. Despite her still being the girl I fell in love with, I knew I was taking a toll on her.”

“It’s not that she made me feel like I was hard to love, even if I was, but I felt the limits. Even then, I knew I wasn’t deserving of her. I was… it was a lot. Complicated, for many reasons.”

He pauses, finally noticing you watching him unravel in front of you with your usual concerned, yet amorous gaze that he can’t help but melt under every single time. It makes him ill knowing that the look is only reserved for him, despite roping you along like the coward he is.

“You…” it takes everything in him to look away from you to continue. “I was terrified to let you in because it meant the possibility of losing another person because of me. Even if May would tell me it wasn’t my fault, deep down, it’ll always feel like it is.”

You can tell this is deeper than just Gwen, that it went as far as Harry and Uncle Ben. Why was it that the people he loved, he could never save? God, he’s sick at the mere reminder.

Realization rules over his body as he takes a step forward closer towards you.

“I’m so, so, so sorry. For making you wait, for hurting you... for making you come second. You never asked for anything in return except for me to accept your love.”

Before he knows it, his legs grow weak with guilt, abruptly collapsing to his knees. You, despite your panic, try to coax him to get up, unfamiliar with his unfiltered display of vulnerability. Your efforts are in vain, Peter’s build being much more sturdy and stubborn than your own.

All you can see is the top of the brunet’s head, heaving as if he had just swung from a skyscraper to a fire escape, to and fro. Darkened droplets start to decorate your sock-cladded feet slowly, then at full force.

“Peter…”

Out of your second nature, your palm cards through his slightly outgrown hair. He’s a scrap of metal to your precise magnet touch, responding desperately as if this were the last time you’d ever gently lay a hand on him. The scratch of your nails against his scalp alleviates some heaviness from his spirit.

(You had told him how much you liked the hairstyle on him; he’s maintained it ever since.)

The head on his shoulders is weighed down, but he wills himself to look up at you with his teary, tired eyes. The pads of your thumbs dab away the tear paths on his cheeks. The tears he left start seeping into the cotton of your socks.

“I couldn’t even do the one thing you wanted from me and it’s still for my best interest.”

Despite your constant reiterations of reassurance, you’d never told him you did all of this out of the divinity of your heart because, “I love you, Peter.”

He chokes on his sob, forehead collapsing on your stomach as he embraces the backs of your thighs. You start feeling the salty tears extend to your shirt, too.

“I’m a lot.” Peter pathetically negotiates with you, hinting an out for you despite all his blubbering.

You fiercely don’t take it because of course you wouldn’t; you’ve made it this long loving him, once you both find your footing, the rest of your life is nothing.

“So am I. Yet, you’re here.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not a lot.”

The chuckle you let out is fond, but Peter can sense the underlying frustration. He wants to so badly make up for all his shortcomings, but he knew that it’d be a lifelong process to do so. He’s more than willing to change, he’ll make sure of that.

You eventually remove your hand from his hair to pry his limbs away, which he pouts at but is slightly taken aback when you sink to his level, finding your solace right across him.

“Then it’s only fair for me to say that you aren’t a lot either, no? You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle.”

There it is, one of the million reasons why he loves you. You knew how to put him in his place, but never had any malice in your words.

It wasn’t lost on you that he hadn’t said the three words back, but you knew better than to expect it right away, but—

His warm palms gently holding your face pulled you out of your trance. The words that leave his lips were so quiet that if you weren’t right in front of him, you would’ve assumed you were hallucinating.

“I love you, too. I’ve been in love with you for quite some time.”

The kiss presents itself as an invitation to imagine your shared future: quiet afternoons with sun rays and lingering fingers dancing on your skin, Peter characteristically late and out of breath to every other date but properly makes up for it throughout the day that you completely forget about it, sinful whispers and heavy sighs, a ring that shines when the sun hits the crystal.

You pull back, pleased that the look of love is reflective on both your features.

“Good.”

Peter never stopped visiting her grave, except for the week you told him you loved him. It was a necessary distance; he won’t discredit that this time.

He situates in the usual spot in front of her, demeanor drastically lighter than the previous times he had stood here.

“Hey, Gwen. Sorry I haven’t seen you in a bit. I was… dealing with some things. Unresolved things.”

“I—I’ve told you about it before. The day we met, I went to you as soon as my shift ended.”

He provides her a brief refresher: how you entered the school library with the manager, eyes bouncing around to observe the crooks of the aged bookshelves, watching you linger on him longer than expected, then the emergency exits right after; just the right amount of curiosity and on guardedness. He isn’t sure if he’s hallucinating the glow that seems to surround you.

Any room became brighter with you in it.

It was ironic that the job Peter landed was at a library. Where he handled books and pages with so much care and precision and attention, yet could not reflect that in the actions of his alter ego nor towards you. At least, initially.

He didn’t know what to do since Gwen was all he had known up until this point. The slightest sliver of interest towards someone else sent Peter into a spiral because he was so sure they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. It became true for at least one of them.

Of course he went to her out of guilt and frustration. He thought he didn’t get to move on because it wasn’t fair to Gwen, because it was his fault she never got to live the life she wanted, so why does he get to live on with his?

One can no longer assume a dead person’s words nor thoughts, but Peter knew her so well to the extent that Gwen would’ve wanted him to continue despite it all. He internalizes that now; not just for her, but for you now, too. Most especially for you.

“I have a feeling you two would get along. I’ll let you meet her once I get my shit together.” He cracks a sheepish smile, knowing her spirit will soon find a way to smack the back of his head for how long he’s been playing with your heart. God knows he deserves that at the very least.

“I love them. I…” He’s unsure if it’s appropriate to admit, but she deserves to know. She would’ve loved to hear all about you.

“I can see myself getting married to them one day.”

He finally unroots himself from the spot he was standing on to crouch by her grave to offer the bouquet of flowers he was anchoring onto.

“I’ll love you always, Gwen,” he lets his fingers graze her name engraved in stone. A gentle smile tugs on his lips. “But I’m ready to move forward.”

He’s back on his feet when a gust of wind picks his words up, lost to the city. For a second, he thinks he hears her respond.

Take care of them.

“I will.”

Dried, fallen petals aren’t meant to be clutched, for when you open your palm, dust is all you’ll return to. While you watched the breeze blow the debris away, the flora continued to flourish, not a care in the world if you noticed or not; it was a matter of time spring came once more, anyway.

"will you? because today's date was supposed to 'make it up to me', so was last week," you challenge, sick of setting yourself up for disappointment again and again. if he can't show up for a small park date, how can you expect him to show up for the big things? that's just it, you can't.

he can't say anything to that, because he knows it's true, so you continue on, all past grievances bubbling up at once. "what is so much more important than me? because it's beginning to feel like i'm at the bottom of your list and i don't deserve that peter, we both know it. so please, just tell me what's going on."

he starts, the truth on the top of his tongue. you're so close, so so so close to the truth you've been seeking, the truth that'll explain everything and put your relationship back together again, because if he just tells you it'll fix everything, right? but just like that, he sinks back into himself, unable to force the words out. "you wouldn't understand."

it's bullshit — complete bullshit — and part of peter wants you to press, to force the information out so he can be relieved of this impossible burden if not for just a moment. except you don't. you're so goddamn tired feeling like the only one trying in this relationship.

"then maybe you should give me some space?"

"space? yeah, okay, i can give you that," he nods, desperate to cling onto what little you have left of each other. realistically, he knows it's not going to work, but that's not going to stop him from hopelessly trying.

you stare at him expectantly.

"oh, like now?" he realises.

"yes, like now, peter."

in any other situation, it would've brought a small smile to your lips, yet you can't bring yourself to do so.

he nods, standing up and heading to the door with one last look back at you. "right, yeah, i'll go then..."

as soon as he leaves — without the bag, you notice — you burst out into tears.

FOUR MONTHS LATER

you asked for space and peter gave exactly that. space and space and space and space till it became less 'space' and more 'an expanse of universe so vast we'll never make it back to each other.' you wish you could say you're doing better, that you don't regret continuously pushing him away like he did to you, but you can't. you miss his smile and his humour and the way he always let you borrow his hoodies. you even miss fighting with him, because at least then you were with each other.

your fingers are drafting a message you know you won't send to peter when you hear it — a knock on your window. curiosity piqued, you slide open your curtains to find — holy shit — spider-man, covered in blood. deep gashes litter his chest, suit torn by what looks like claws, and his breathing sounds severely laboured. you don't need to be a med student to know , but it's a good thing you are.

without hesitation, you pry open the window. if the city's hero shows up at your window with gaping wounds, you're not gonna tell him to try somewhere else, even if you're extremely confused about the situation. "are you...okay?"

"it's just a scratch," he responds, but the groan he lets out as he crawls through the tight space tells you otherwise. "i'm sorry, i didn't know where else to go."

didn't know where else to go? it's a weird thing for a total stranger to say, but you don't dwell on it, assuming your window was just the closest. you're too concerned about his blood now coating your bedsheets to ask logical questions, adrenaline racing through you "i think you need to go to the hospital."

"no...no hospital," spider-man grits out. "just think of it as practice for med school."

that makes you freeze, hand pausing on a practically deep wound. "how do you know i'm in med school?"

"you still haven't figured it out yet?" he teases, head tilting to the side. from the tone of his voice, you'd wager he's delirious, most likely from the blood loss. "you were always smarter than me."

part of you already knows the answer and hopes to god it isn't true, but you ask the question anyways,"who are you?"

spider-man brings his shaky hands to his mask, the slowness of the action reminding you he's rapidly loosing blood, pulling it off to reveal —

you were right.

it's peter.

your peter.

he grins, "miss me?"

a/n: part two or nah 😔💔

You’ve worked in the Avengers’ records room for a while now, largely left alone, unbothered by and uninvolved with the chaotic day to day that takes place outside of your small bubble. It’s quiet there, with just your filing system to keep you company.

And you like it that way.

You’re not an agent, not a superhero, not a fighter. You’re not built to withstand bullets or knives or pain… and it seems that you’re not built to withstand Natasha Romanoff either.

Records requests are online now—everything’s digitalized in this day and age, and especially so in the Avengers Tower—so when the Black Widow walks into your records office one morning to get a file in person rather than submitting a formal request, you’re already confused.

At first, you don’t realize anyone is there, too preoccupied with reorganizing your already organized archive, always trying to further optimize the system, and Natasha’s footsteps are almost completely silent on the polished concrete floor anyway.

But she makes herself known, an echoing “Hello?” called out into the seemingly empty room.

You frown from your position between the large shelves and filing cabinets when you hear someone’s voice. Who could possibly be here? No one’s ever here but you.

You make your way to the front counter, emerging from the labyrinth that is the records room, your eyes widening in surprise when you see Natasha standing there patiently waiting. One of her eyebrows is raised when you finally appear out of the depths.

“Can…” you trail off for a moment, brows furrowed as you just stare at her—a physical, tangible person—in front of you. “Can I help you?” you try again, this time finishing your sentence.

“I need subfile AVN-2208-B,” Natasha says, straight to the point.

“Okay,” you answer her, mentally running through all the possible locations that record could be in given the Avengers’ extensive archives. You easily track it down in your mind, but for some reason, you make no move to go retrieve it, your feet remaining firmly planted as if you can’t walk anymore, still just looking at her with open confusion.

“Are you… going to go get it for me?” Natasha asks, smirking.

The small pull of her lips only makes you want to freeze up more.

“Oh- oh! Be right back,” you reply, and then you’re quickly running off to the designated shelf, partially to grab the file, partially to flee. You return not long after rushing away, having tracked it down easily, and you jerkily offer the manila folder over to her.

“Here you are.” Your fingers brush on the pass off, and you practically recoil back away from her, the action heavily exaggerated in your panic.

Natasha’s smirk widens. “That was quick,” she remarks, and her eyes jump up from the dossier now in her hands to meet your own.

You can only hold eye contact with her for a few seconds, her intense gaze causing you to glance back at the floor, at the wall, at the file she’s now got in her grasp… anywhere but her. You begin straightening up some papers on the counter, attempting to give yourself something to do, something to distract yourself with instead of the redhead who you can feel still staring at you.

The way your fingers touched when you handed her the folder was purposeful on her part. What can she say? You’re cute, and she’s enjoying the nervous way you’re reacting to her. She hasn’t even said anything that brazen to you yet but look at you.

“Are you always like this when someone comes in?”

“Like what?”

“Jumpy,” she throws back simply.

You mouth opens and closes; you can’t answer. The small counter between you two right now doesn’t feel like enough.

If Natasha notices you short-circuiting, which she obviously does, she takes it in stride, not minding or commenting on your inability to speak when you remain silent. “Well, this was fun. See you soon,” she tosses over her shoulder as she heads toward the exit of the room.

‘Soon’? She’s coming back? Again? In person? How soon is ‘soon’? You’re fucked.

Apparently, ‘soon’ meant soon.

Natasha strolls back into your records room seven days later, seeking another classified report. You fumble through helping her yet again.

“I need AVN-0033 today.”

Your lips purse as you think. That’s an older number, not a file that you have readily available. For once, you’re not quite sure where to find something off the top of your head. So, you type the reference number into the computer database, fingers clacking wildly on the keyboard as you miss the correct keys and hit the incorrect ones, backspacing and typing over and over again. You enter the wrong case number twice.

“That’s… going to require some digging,” you tell her after you finally manage to successfully look up the documents’ whereabouts.

“No rush,” Natasha replies, smirking, “I like watching you work.”

You stand up abruptly from your desk chair when she says that, somehow managing to knock both it over and the cup of pens and pencils on the counter at the same time.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.”

She returns once every week, sometimes more.

And the requests start getting more elaborate. Older mission files, cross-referenced documents, long-term archived reports that haven’t seen the light of day in years. Honestly, you’re beginning to suspect that some of the records don’t even exist, and when they do, they absolutely could’ve been requested online.

But still, there she is, standing in your office, all the time.

Despite her constant visits, you never get accustomed to her presence. You’re still a mess, bumping your head into open file cabinet drawers when you’re bent down looking for something, hitting your hip on the corner of the desk because you weren’t watching where you were going, walking in the completely wrong direction at first to collect a file that you should know is on the other side of the room.

Natasha never helps.

“That was almost a full sentence. Progress.”

“You’ve almost dropped that three times. Am I that distracting?”

“I’ve gotten faster responses in interrogations.”

And the worst one of all: “Relax. I already like you.”

One day, after multiple occasions filled with Natasha’s teasing and playful flirting, she comes in and, this time, doesn’t ask you for anything.

“Did you need another file?” you question when you see her leaning against the counter.

“Nope,” Natasha responds casually, “Just returning this.” She hands you the folder that she checked out last week.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking it from her. You may not be surprised when your hands graze again, but that certainly doesn’t make the contact any easier to cope with.

“No problem,” she replies, and then she’s walking out of the room with no other words spoken to you.

Which is… weird. Usually Natasha always hangs around, always stalls, always delays her departure, wanting to draw out her time with you for as long as she can. It seems like it’s a fun little game to her: seeing how many times she can get you to stutter or fluster or make a fool of yourself in one visit, and she’s always trying to beat her high score.

This prompt exit is a bewildering break in the pattern you’ve come to know.

When you look down at the folder though, you see something scrawled on the top right corner.