#lonewidow

It was unlike her giving gifts, as she rarely got personal or sentimental. However, there was something different about their shared spider bond. She had found a 3D silver pin of a detailed spider in a market place and picked it up because it had seemed wrong to leave it behind. Then, when she'd sat down with her masked "guest" after a long day, her looking at his hidden appearance (still a little comical and surreal that she was housing someone unidentifiable) and him looking back at her, she had been reminded of the pin.

"This is for you." From her pocket to her hand, she leaned forward and gave him the pin unwrapped. "It feels right giving it to you today, I'm not sure why," the latter part a lie.

It was stupid, he knew, spending his days with the other hero and trying to maintain anonymity. He knew the Black Widow, Natasha - they'd even bonded in the past briefly . . . and yet, it felt like a ridiculous cage he'd locked himself in (currently clothed in a ESU hoodie, Spider-Man mask, and jeans). There was no real reason he couldn't trust her, not entirely, and yet he'd spent so long keeping everyone at arm's length that the habit had become something almost instinctive - a wall that he'd built up isolated brick by isolated brick.

He'd told himself time and time again that it was necessary. That being Spider-Man meant keeping Peter Parker separate from the rest of the world, that hiding his identity from Ned, from MJ, from the world, was the only logical thing to do.

And yet, his attention drops to the pin she holds out to him, reaching out to take it into his own hands. It's small, and it looks pretty old, but there was something about the fact that she'd seen it, thought of him, and decided to give it to him that catches somewhere beneath his ribs.

He knows a locked door wouldn't do anything to stop a determined Black Widow from getting inside anywhere she wants to be - but he respects the space she's giving him regardless. His mask lays discarded on the tiled floor at his side, the heel of his palm pressed hard against his forehead.

In retrospect, it would have made more sense to leave entirely; to swing up and out, back to his loft, and ignore the dull ache that had been building behind his eyes for hours. Natasha must have seen him make a quick clumsy exit once the area had been deemed safe, disappearing through the nearest doorway before she could ask any questions. " I . . . uh, I'm okay. This is -- "

A groan, and a stifled huff follow; trying to play it off. Somehow, Natasha Romanoff waiting outside was harder to deal with than Natasha Romanoff barging in. He'd gotten used to being completely alone.

" I'm okay. "