one-shot in which Peter Parker picks you up after being released from rehabilitation… (warning: lots of angst)
Upon getting out of rehab, you were given a bag full of your belongings and a thick packet of discharge instructions. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes, and mustered up whatever confidence you had left inside of you and took a step into the lobby. That’s where he was waiting. Grave face, sad eyes, broken smile. Peter.
Despite how angry you were at him, for a multitude of different reasons, you still beelined towards him for a hug. You buried your face in his chest and wrapped your arms around him tight, dropping your bag of belongings behind him and just feeling him in your embrace. He hugged you back, tight, and you felt his entire body exhale. You stayed like that for a minute or two, just holding each other, until finally his arms fell to his sides and he cleared his throat, his eyes just now meeting yours.
“Ready to go home?” he whispered, his voice wavering and shaky. You could tell he was trying to stay strong for you, to stay composed, but inside he was slowly breaking.
“Yeah,” you nodded, bending down to pick up your bag, then looking back at him. His eyes were bloodshot, he had dark circles underneath, and tears brimmed at his eyelashes. He looked a mess. So did you, but you were the one just getting out of rehab.
The car ride home was silent, neither of you having the courage to muster up any words. You leaned your head against the shotgun seat window, looking at the foliage and the buildings you were passing by. It felt weird to be outside again. To have shoes on your feet. To be in a car. The past three months you were monitored, scolded, and prodded with questions. Now you were free. It felt strange, but good. Especially to be in your own clothes again.
Entering the apartment, you looked around and saw Peter had cleaned. The dishes were expertly organized in the cabinets, your laundry was perfectly folded on top of the washer and dryer, the floor was swept and the carpet was vacuumed, he even took out the trash. “Thank you,” you gave a soft smile, turning around to watch him lock the door behind him. “It looks really nice.”
“Of course,” he nodded, as if it wasn’t really that big of a deal.
Silence filled the space between you two once again, and you debated saying anything at all. One of you had to say something sometime. “You never visited,” you murmured, breaking the silence, visibly hurt. “You didn’t pick up any of my calls.”
“I know,” he sighed defeatedly. “I’m sorry.”
“I was all alone,” you continued, bitterness laced within each word.
“I just didn’t know how… I couldn’t bring myself to… fuck, y/n…” he struggled to form a coherent response. He looked at you and his face paled. “You almost died.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling uncomfortable. You weren’t sure how to respond to that.
“They told me about your bender,” he said quietly. “About the alcohol and the weed and the pills…” He looked down at the floor. “They told me about the Xanax.”
“Oh.” You felt embarrassed and humiliated, your face also falling towards the floor.
“I also know about the window,” he added. “They told me what happened.”
Chills ran down your spine at the thought of the memory. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled.
“Y/n, you didn’t tell me. I was right here the entire time. You never asked me for help. You never told me what was going on. I could’ve done something, I could’ve been there for you,” he insisted. “And then you just fucking left. Just up and gone, disappeared. I was so worried.” He inhaled a shaky breath, laughing nervously and shaking his head. “I thought you died.”
“Peter…” your eyes softened and he continued shaking his head.
“I really thought you died,” he repeated, clearly shaken up. “You were gone for three months. Three months.”
“Yeah, three months and you couldn’t bother to call or visit,” you argued, and this time it was him who felt guilty and embarrassed. “I didn’t hear a word from you the entire time I was there.”
“Y/n-” he began to apologize but you scoffed.
“I didn’t get a single visitor, you know that?” you held onto your bitterness. “The entire time I was there.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes still fixated on the floor. “You didn’t deserve that.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you confessed. “I felt like if I told you what I was going through, you would blame it on yourself. And I didn’t want that. I didn’t want you to feel like my problems were caused by you.”
“I’m your boyfriend y/n, if something is wrong I should be the first person you run to,” he explained, sad eyes meeting yours again. “It’s my job to take care of you. And I failed.”
“No, it’s your job to be Spider-Man,” you corrected. “You’re supposed to be looking out for the people and saving the city. I didn’t want to become a distraction.”
“You come before Spider-Man responsibilities,” Peter persisted. “Every time, y/n. Every time. You’re not a distraction. You’re my priority.”
A moment passed and then you hummed quietly, thinking about what he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” you apologized. “I shouldn’t have handled it on my own.”
“Come here,” he sighed, stepping into the open space and hugging you again. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You’re safe now.”
You held onto him tight, holding him in your arms, feeling sobs crawling up your throat and tears welling in your eyes. “I missed you,” you began to cry into his shoulder. “I missed you so fucking much, Peter.”
“I missed you too, y/n. So fucking much,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I thought I lost you.”
“I’m sorry,” you choked up, breath caught in your throat. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t ever fucking scare me like that again,” he swore softly, still holding onto you tight.
“I won’t,” you quietly promised. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he exhaled, releasing the embrace and looking at you, tears in his eyes. “I love you.”
