#mcu peter

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't this.

He's hunched over a black suitcase right in the centre of the living room, throwing items astray, looking for something. She can tell just by a peek over his shoulder that he didn't pack with anything but survival in mind: his toothbrush is nestled between two crumpled t-shirts. She's standing in the doorway, brows knitted, eyes inching away from him every now and then to check the number on the door. This can't be right.

She'd gotten lucky when she discovered that her college had set up a program to organise struggling new students into (barely) furnished apartments together. But while she'd love to take a moment to appreciate the space, the sofa set in the centre of the cramped but homey flat, the wall boarding the living room from the little kitchen and its counters with coffee rings burnt into the laminate, even the painting left askew on the wall by the inhabitants before her; the boy right in the middle of it is proving a distraction.

Even with the door flung wide open like the few others down the hall, she opts to rap her knuckles against it. His grip tightens on a half-empty shampoo bottle, turning in surprise. After a moment, he goes to speak, but then holds his breath; tilts his head.

"I don't think..."

"Have you got the right room?"

"As I previously mentioned, there's really nothing we can do for you here at MIT. Unfortunately, there was a mix-up with Mr. Parker's name," Peter's roommate stifles a smile by pressing her fingers into her lips, "And we've already assigned you two to the same room: legally, contractually, however you'd like to call it. Every other student in this program is already in a pair or, for respective reasons, on their own. You two are just going to have to grin and bear it, I'm afraid."

She inhales, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, and Peter shuffles in his seat. The vice-principal leans forward, elbows pressing into the polished wood; he looks like he's been pulled straight out of a magazine, every short coil of his hair finger-spun, hands folded and pleading just a few inches above his desk.

"Look, you two," They glance at each other, "I know this isn't how you expected the move-in to go, but as far as I'm concerned, you have the most spacious apartment out of any of the other students, as well as two separate bedrooms, decent rent... God, the last people who stayed there even left you that little TV set. You got lucky," Peter couldn't be more tired of that word if he tried.

"Even if this isn't the gender-sorted accommodation you'd hoped for, I am certain that you can learn to live with each other." He smiles in that way that lets them know the conversation is over, and a tense beat of silence permeates the room before the new students lift reluctantly from their seats.

"Thank you, Sir," Her new roommate flattens his lips together with a weak attempt at a smile. She chews at her tongue. The man grins like a politician, a great-white, teeth bright and gleaming.

So, they've pushed back the furniture (spare as it is) and are sat cross-legged in the middle of the carpet, beige fibres scratching at their skin. It's far too hot for the start of September. Yet as the evening sets in on them, the windows, littered with fingerprints, begin to let in a gentle flow of air. She rolls back her shoulders, feeling the joints click, and twiddles a pen between her fingers.

"Okay. If we're doing this, we're gonna need some ground rules."

Peter nods fervently, voice cracking with uncertainty, "Yeah, of course."

"Alright! One. I get to pick my room first..."

His arms uncross from over his chest, "Wait, how is that fair?"

"I thought it was ladies first," She lifts her eyes.

"Yeah, on airplanes."

She frowns, "No, that's not... okay, whatever. Apparently chivalry is dead," He frowns back, and she scribbles out Rule One in her notepad, "So we'll toss a quarter."

She's back at half past 8, shoulders heavy. Without replying, she lets the door swing shut behind her, drops her bag right in the middle of the walkway and slumps down onto the side of the couch. She buries her head into her hands to muffle a scream.

Peter straightens anxiously from his place at the kitchen counter, "Uh, hey... are you okay?"

"Customer service is going to kill me. I am going to die, and it's gonna be at the hands of customer service," She drops her head back into the cushions, "And no one even cares."

"Oh, God, I thought something was wrong," His shoulders relax briefly.

She drops her hands to the couch, head tilting back lazily to her roommate of 6 days, lamenting, "This is my swan song, roomie. This is serious."

His brows raise, and he rolls his lips into his mouth, voice pitching, "Yeah, no, I know that, I understand," He anticipates a flare of anger, but she hasn't got it in her after an 8 hour shift. Instead, she moves to lean her head against the armrest, staring at the TV with an almost childish level of desperation.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?" He wavers cautiously, eyeing the back of her head. Such an uptick of emotion isn't his forte, and certainly not with the roommate he's only just getting used to.

Her lips blow out, eyes closing. She speaks quietly. "Do you know how to put on Hell's Kitchen?"

His eyelids flutter, "We don't..." He clears his throat, "We can't do Hell's Kitchen on there. It's like three thousand years old."

"Just find a way."

They've gone 3 weeks without any real problem. Minus the toothbrush, and the chore sheet, and the recycling. I mean, something was destined to happen half a month into their roommateship, some earth-shattering discovery bound to be made: Peter can't be trusted in the kitchen.

"How did you... Peter, how did you even manage that?"

They both stare dumbstruck at the charred remains of two chicken breasts, sat right in the middle of their brand new frying pan. By some miracle, the fire alarm has finally stopped blaring. She carefully leans over to click the stovetop off.

"I feel like I gave you one job."

"You did, yeah." His voice is breathy, tongue pushing against his cheek.

"Just to cook the chicken. Like, just keep an eye on it. Flip it."

"Yeah."

"And... how..."

"I don't know."

"I don't think this is gonna work," She sighs, hand flat on her forehead, the other at her hip. He stills, "We need to redo the chore sheet."

His expression grows desperate. They engage in a staring match, and Peter's always had a knack for knowing when he's lost a fight (apart from that one time, and the other few).

After a few moments, her eyes catch the stove again, "Oh, the pan is screwed."

"I know," He sounds like a kid.

"I just bought that," She breathes out, voice small.

"I'm sorry."

"I feel like I'm on The Bear right now, and you're the guy doing meth in the back alley."

He pauses, "When did that happen?"

"Oh my God," She turns, "You haven't even watched season two. Who are you?"

"Was I supposed to?"

"Put the pan in the sink," She taps on her phone, engrossed, "Hey, we have apple cider vinegar, right?" He blinks, and she breathes out with a huff. She begins to inch around the corner, but turns back, "And you're buying takeout. You know how much chicken costs these days? You owe me."

6 weeks, and she's bursting through the front door, "Petra!"

"I told you to stop calling me that," He calls from his room, the wall of privacy soon shattered when she pushes open the door, jumping up and down.

She's breathing hard, like she ran up here, and for a moment he really thinks she's about to collapse, which would be an awful affliction for him considering it's her night to do the dishes, and he's grown rather fond of her. She's invading every inch of his space, cramped with furniture and cluttered with papers, and he finds he doesn't mind it much. Her energy is boundless. As is her use of the name MIT gave him; the one that got them stuck here in the first place.

"I'm doing my paper."

"I got it," She bounces right into his spinning desk chair, facing him where he's horizontal on his bed (laptop burning into his thighs) with her legs kicking and her fingers tapping the armrests.

"What is it? If you found someone to crack The Sims 3 for you, I'm not gonna celebrate. You know it's against my values."

"That's an unfortunate no," She pauses, "Do you think I could find someone to do that for me, though?"

"Dude."

"Whatever: I got that barista's number. You know, the hot one, at Hayden's? It was kind of an accident, but I asked them out, and now I don't know what to wear. Should I look smart? Or casual? Do you think this is like, a date thing?"

"Oh." He nods, confused. "Uh, maybe?"

"They texted me like, 5 minutes ago." She sticks her phone into his face. It reads, 'Next Fri prolly, see u at 8, get the Red I think.' Then, 'South Street.' "What does that mean?"

"Uh..."

"Forget it. You're no help." She stares into her phone intensely, before her eyes lift, "Do you think they like me?" She tilts her head, gaze probing.

"I think... that romance is alive. And well," He gives her his best attempt at a smile.

She hops up, still buzzing with energy and nearing the door, one hand on the frame of it. "But not chivalry. I can't believe you made me take the bad room."

"What do you mean? Your room is the biggest one," She rolls her eyes, "And we tossed a coin."

"But do I have any of this beautiful, natural light? I don't think so!"

A day later, she's stuffing toast into her mouth at the counter, hair messy and eyes heavy with sleep. Her arms ache from pushing furniture against the floorboards. The weather's been getting colder lately, and the floor chills through her socks. He sits across from her, elbows against the laminate as he shovels down cereal.

"God, Peter, that sun is blinding in the morning. Holy shit."

"Fucking... piece of crap."

Peter creaks open the door, eyes tired and a touch bloodshot. He'd been working late on another Biochem paper when he heard her swearing to herself, trying to get the keys in.

"Jesus, are you okay?"

She looks up at him from where she's crouched, stumbling slightly with her key in her hand. She stands, "Oh, shit, did I wake you up?"

"No, I..." He watches as she moves past him and into their apartment, throwing her keys onto the sofa and sniffing, "Did you... how was your date?"

When she turns to look at him, he can finally see how drunk she is, hair pinned up, only a few tendrils cascading down the neckline of her nicest dress. As she shrugs off her jacket, he finds that her eyes are bloodshot, too. "Oh, good." She smiles bitterly, but it's weak.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, Peter. Thanks for the... for opening the door. Just go back to sleep."

He frowns, shaking his head, "I wasn't sleeping. What's wrong?"

She laughs thickly, tilting her head up: this was the very last thing she wanted. She swallows and eyes the ceiling, "They stood me up. So I had a nice few drinks for one," For emphasis, she sticks out her index finger.

His lips turn down, eyebrows rising. "A few?"

She licks at her lips and finally looks back at him, "A couple, yeah."

She sucks at her teeth as he stands, unsure what to do, "Maybe... just stay there, I'll get you some... water."

Her nostrils flare and she flops down onto the sofa. She just wanted to go to her room and pray that her mattress swallowed her whole, but instead she hears the tap, and the footsteps of her roommate of 7 weeks plodding towards her in fuzzy slippers she would make fun of if she could gather the energy. She takes the cold glass and he watches carefully as she downs half of it, moving to set it onto the coffee table but nearly missing the mark by a couple inches. He catches it in one sharp and careful movement with his palm, quietly lowering it onto the table.

"I'm, uh... I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Wasn't your fault, Parker."

His mind is frantic, searching for something to stop her face from crumpling; she wakes the next morning, blanket-covered on the sofa with a pounding head, her phone out of charge and his propped up against an empty glass, still playing an episode of Hell's Kitchen. From here, she can see him through a crack in the door, curled up in his desk chair. He's drafting an email to his professor pleading for an extended deadline on the paper. They never talk about it, but she stops using his conditioner; starts making every dinner for two.

"Get your ass out here, Parker! Halloween is slipping through our fingers!"

"I feel stupid."

"You are stupid. There's a charm to that." He emerges from his room in a half-assed, Craigslist Batman costume. It's baggy in all the wrong places, and she claps a hand over her mouth.

"Stop laughing! I'm only gonna wear the mask."

"No, no, I'm not laughing," She laughs, "You look like a real superhero."

He blanches, "No, I don't."

She grins, teeth clamping down on her bottom lip, "No, you don't."

They're tipsy at the MIT Halloween bash, surrounded by classmates and for whatever reason, sticking to each other. Two months into the school year they've found their stride, making a few friends here and there and finally having something to talk about over their occasional shared dinners; a new rival or group project. But in the heat of the crowd, they just seem to pull back. Moving and hoping as if underwater.

They blink away the blur of the strobe lights, "Petra?"

"What?"

"I feel like it's either get drunker or go home."

"Should we flip a coin or something?"

"Oh, fool me once, Parker."

"You got the room you wanted in the end, didn't you?"

She hums, avoiding his eyes.

'You have to be kidding me."

Soon, they're drunk out of their minds and pushing furniture from one room to the other. It's 3 am, and their neighbours want them dead. She groans, giving up on his chest of drawers and rolling onto the floor.

"You are not pulling your weight here," He whines.

"Eat shit."

He slumps down, legs splayed out on the carpet of the cluttered living room.

"Where's my bed?"

"Your room. No. My room." Her head lolls to look at him.

"Our room?" He opts.

"We should get bunk beds."

He leans back against his bedside table, thinking, "Don't laugh."

"What? Why?" She grins lazily, pulling herself up with her hands behind her. He grins back.

"I have a bunk bed back home."

"Now it makes sense." She leans forward.

"What makes sense?" His brows furrow, still smiling.

"Why you're a virgin loser."

"Mauritz is coming in 5. I could cancel right now."

"No, Petra, please." But he's slowly lifting the phone over his head. She watches frantically as the little illustration of Mauritz gets closer.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" He doesn't cede, "You get girls, you're a playboy!"

"Playboy?" Here, she cries out, and begins to wrestle for it.

"You have... you have notches on your bedpost, please! I'll do the dishes forever!"

He yelps and they're a tangle of limbs, bitch-slapping eachother and giggling like idiots, both losers within their own tug of war and rolling away in order to surrender.

For a moment, they take a breath, snickers growing few and far between. He eyes her with another laugh, tilting his head in an attempt to capture her in the blur of his vision, "You really think so?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Just don't be weird."

"Why would I be weird? Do you think I'm weird?"

"Ned, just..."

"Hi, guys!" She comes beaming around the corner, speaking with her mouth full until Peter gives her a look. She swallows, "Hello."

Ned smiles wide, mouth open and looking from Peter to her for a moment too long. Peter's head drops. "This is Ned."

"I've heard great things. And I made cookies! They're really dry, too much flour, but if you sandwich them with frosting it works, I swear."

Ned's grin grows impossibly larger, "You're a genius."

A couple hours later, and, "See, this is why I didn't want you guys to meet."

"We're just playing Mario Kart!"

"Yeah, on your phones, without me."

"You always cheat!" Her and Ned exclaim at the same time. Peter appreciates his roommate of 2 and a half months, but cannot wait for her to leave for her shift. Plus, Bullet Bill is not cheating.

"I can't believe you'd gatekeep the second most wonderful person in your life from me like this." She says, proceeded by a string of hushed curses when she falls back into fourth place.

Ned turns with wide eyes, controlling his car from his peripheral, "Second?"

She doesn't look up, "Always have to look out for number 1, babe."

He pauses, looks up, nods. "You're so right."

"Don't make this Craigslist Batman Costume all over again. I'm not waiting another twenty minutes."

"I'm not! I can't get my tie right," His voice cracks.

"Let me in."

"Just... wait."

"Open the door, you big dummy." She's found the courtesy not to barge in after multiple embarrassing incidents that she's still struggling to shake out of her head. Seeing your roommate in only his boxers isn't weird. Thinking about it isn't weird. You're weird.

He groans in exasperation and finally just swings it open, clad in a rented suit, his blazer strewn across the bed.

"Very fancy."

"Stop making fun of me."

"I'm not!" She grins, "You look fancy! All for your smart people dinner."

"It's not a smart people dinner."

"Oh, yeah? Enlighten me."

"It's a..." She puffs out an exhale, "Dinner for excelling students."

"So..."

"It's a smart people dinner."

In the midst of all this, she's already snatched his black tie and wrestled it out of a knot.

"Come here, Petra."

"Peter."

"Or should I say, Mr. Parker? Sir Lord Parker?"

"Actually, you can stick with Petra."

"May I please do your tie, Sir, because you can't do it to save your life, Sir?"

He's fighting a smile at her attempt at a British accent, and simply turns around and towards the mirror. She's standing behind him, and wraps it underneath his collar, efficiently tying and tightening it to her liking as she glances back and forth from the mirror to over his shoulder. She pauses with a frown until she identifies the problem, going to unbutton the very top of his shirt, wholly unprepared for how her knuckles brushing against his collarbone would make each hair on the back of her neck rise.

"You looked uptight. That's better," She inhales shakily, unsure of where this feeling started or where it ends; she'd rather not find out. She clears her throat and they lock gazes in the mirror. His shoulders unwind. They both take a breath, and smile.

"Oh... thanks. Thank you."

"No problem, Batman." He smiles despite himself, turning to face her. She pats his tie. "You're gonna kill it. Make 'em wanna go home, quit their degree and move back to their mom's house. Or aunt's. My bad."

"Shut up."

She's humming along to Camera Obscura the same night when she hears an airy laugh that isn't Peter's, and the clink of his keys in the door. She holds her breath to hear better, listens to hushed whispers and finally his bedroom door clicking shut. The next morning she's skipping her first class and reading one of Peter's books, avoiding him until his new friend leaves, and until he's out the door too.

It has been three days, closing in on the start of December, and she's cursing herself out when she hears the front door creak open. She's successfully stayed out of his way this far, for a reason she can't quite place: maybe it's that she didn't want to look him in the eye, wanted to leave the discomfort and the misplaced anger be, to stale at the bottom of the pit she'd dug for herself the second she thought she could play pretend. And she could've sworn she'd had his schedule down pat, but he's home far too early and she can't leave his leftovers for dinner in the fridge anymore.

He's just as surprised to see her. He doesn't understand why it feels like something has shifted.

"Oh, hi." He's standing in the entryway of the kitchen, bag slung over his shoulder and she's chewing at her lip.

"Hey, Parker!" She smiles, but it's more of a grimace, and she clears her throat, looking into the pan of broccoli she's steaming. "I'm making dinner."

"Yeah, uh, thank you." He swallows, putting his bag on the counter, staring at her like the moment he doesn't she's going to disappear. That's how it's been, these past few days. He takes a bottle of water from the fridge. For once, she isn't speaking, just silently cooking, and he can't help himself, "Are you okay?"

She stills for a beat, then continues stirring the food, back turned to him. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"No, it's just... I don't know. I haven't seen you in a while."

Guilt gnaws at her. She glances at him briefly over her shoulder, "Sorry, Peter. Been busy."

"No, it's... it's okay." He chews at his cheek, taking another sip of water, "Did you, uh, wanna watch The Bear tonight?"

She whips around to face him. "What?"

He rolls his lips into his mouth, "Did you..." he starts.

"Yes." She grins, looking straight at him for the first time in what feels like forever as she hastily stirs, and the knot in his stomach eases away.

They don't talk about it, but that night, watching him sing along with Ritchie to Taylor Swift with only the light of the TV shadowing his features, she knows. Knows there's something inescapable about this; she couldn't hold a grudge against him if she tried.

"I can't believe you got laid, Pete."

He chokes on his ice cream. Composes himself, ears beet red. "What are you... what are you talking about?" His voice is breaking.

She looks at him, knowingly. "Come on. You even broke the no being loud after 11 pm rule. I can't believe you, you dog."

He's burying his face in his hands. She snickers as he folds deeper into the sofa, his apology muffled against his skin.

"Oh don't be," She grins, eyeing him and ready to strike, "I'm just so proud of you for finally losing your V-card."

"Shut up!"

"It's a really important time in a woman's life."

He squeezes his eyes shut, hands going to his forehead, voice turning quiet, "I'm not a virgin."

"Not anymore you're not."

"I hate you so much."

"A little to the left. Wait, no, up. Right there. Beautiful."

"Why are you making me decorate the tree?" When he successfully places the golden bauble, he steps back to look at their pathetic, last-minute version of a Christmas tree. It's lopsided, plastic, and discounted due to a lot of missing faux-pine needles.

"You deserve to do all the hard work, considering you're the one abandoning me to go spend Christmas in New York with your hot aunt."

"Stop calling her hot. And I'm not abandoning you. You have me the morning of Christmas Eve!"

"How is Santa gonna find you if you keep leaving all the time?"

He gives her a look and she cedes, with a small smile playing at her lips. He hangs a red ornament this time, and she hums in appreciation. He stretches his arms overhead, and she ignores the strip of skin that exposes itself, instead lifting his mug of hot cocoa from the coffee table and taking a sip. He'd been expecting her to steal it, though he thought making them one each would sate her at least a little bit.

"Hey."

"Yeah, Petra?"

"Are you... Gonna be okay, you know, on your own?"

Her eyes rise to meet his, and she clears her throat, "Yeah, off course. I mean, you know they pay twice as much just to work on Christmas, so... it'll be worth it."

He frowns, covers it up, "Yeah."

"And plus, I get to play Christmas music at full blast no matter what time it is when you're gone. I'm living the dream life." She smiles teasingly, tilts her head, tries and fails to reassure him.

"I'll be back the day after Boxing Day, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah, Parker. Bring back a nice little polaroid of Aunt May for me, won't you?"

"Absolutely not."

When Peter leaves for the airport on Christmas Eve, she gets lonelier than she'd like to admit. She glares at the space under the tree, stands in the doorway of Peter's room, moves all of his furniture an inch away from the wall so he gets freaked out when he comes home, moves it back again because she feels bad, watches a vine compilation, wallows on the couch. If she can't survive 16 minutes, she has no idea how she'll survive the next two days. She nearly has a heart attack when she hears the keys in the door. Peter rushes through, entirely out of breath, suitcase rolling to a stop beside him.

"Do you wanna come with me?"

She looks back at him, wide eyes to wild ones, "What?"

"Do you wanna come with me?"

A moment passes. Then, "I'll call work."

At the bus station, they put savings together to buy the cheapest and sketchiest last-minute seats they can find. She calls work, and they give her her second strike. She thinks she'll live. Peter spends an hour and a half on the phone trying to get a refund for his plane ticket, and they spend most of the ride getting their seats pummelled in by two 5 year olds. When things begin to quiet down, she falls asleep, head dropping onto his shoulder and hair tickling the nape of his neck. He doesn't say it, but he's glad he asked.

Looking back, he probably should've told May. In the rush of it all, getting the taxi to turn back, he wasn't really thinking straight. But, although at first she's mildly irritated and overwhelmed, his roommate seems to charm it out of her. When she's off, having insisted to wash the few dishes in the sink, May leans into him.

"I like her, Petey."

He rolls his eyes, "Yeah, I know, May."

"You didn't tell me she was so pretty."

His ears are turning red, voice rasping, "I didn't think of it, I guess."

"You're telling me you haven't thought about it? At all?" She grins like the Cheshire cat; but she only wants what's best for him. Always has.

"No, May, God!" He's lying. This only rubs it in, brings every smothered feeling back to the surface. It wasn't his intention: he just didn't want her to be alone.

She re-enters, wiping her hands against a dish towel, hair mussed and slightly static from resting her head on the fibres of his sweater on the ride over. May jumps up.

"Thank you so much," May places both hands on her shoulders, and proceeds to pull her into a hug. Her eyes widen, but after a second she lets out an airy laugh, wrapping her arms around May's frame. "You're an angel."

Peter locks eyes with her, heart pulsing in his chest, and they smile softly at each other like a well-kept secret.

"Aw, is this you and Ned?" She's grabbing everything she can, trying to get a real sense of Peter, Peter as a preteen, Peter as he was then, Peter as he is now; she finds it in his packaged figurines, the clutter on his old desk, the pictures tacked to the wall. It's all exactly as he left it.

"Yes, yes it is." His brows curve upwards in exasperation; she nearly took his most prized action figure out of its box. He's fighting for his life, here. When she sees how nervous he looks, she sighs, finishes up her snooping for the evening and opts to clumsily make her way up the ladder. She flops on her back on the top bunk and stretches her legs out like a satisfied cat, the mulled wine sitting warm in her stomach.

"Your aunt's really nice."

He tilts his head up as if he can see her from where he's lying, head propped up on the frame of the bottom bunk, and quits fiddling with his old Gameboy, "Yeah. She is."

"And she likes me more than you. That's a plus," She's staring at the ceiling, hands laced across her stomach.

"I don't blame her," His eyes crease in the corners, thinking of Ned's visit over a month ago now, but he regrets the words as soon as they leave him. If she's taken aback she doesn't show it, but she turns her head and begins to trail her eyes over the movie posters taped haphazardly to the wall. A silence passes between them, amplified in the late evening.

"Why did you invite me here?" She says, softly.

He blinks, lips pursing slightly, "I don't know. I think... I think, I just didn't want you to be alone. And it's nice to have you here."

"I would've been okay, you know." There's something desperate in the way she says this, like she can make the both of them believe it.

"I know."

Her gaze drops down to their suitcases, leaning against each other on the rug. "But... I'm happy I'm here." This is the most that she'll admit, tonight.

He hesitates. Then, "I'm happy you're here too."

She chews her lip at the quiet rasp in his voice, smooths her hands over his Star Wars covers, twitches her nose.

"Enough of this sappy stuff. You're destroying my reputation."

"Your reputation?" He smiles, shuffling down to rest his head on the pillow, forearms supporting his head.

"You know: playboy, notches on my bedpost." In the quiet, a feeling settles between them like the snow outside. "Now, tell me how you managed to bag the smartest girl at your high school with these sheets."

He shrugs. "Well... we went to her house."

She abruptly swings her head over the side of the bed, looking down at him, "Peter Parker, you animal!"

"To do homework!" He exclaims, eyes widening as he sits up, "Not..."

"Not any rule-two-breaking, single bed shenanigans?"

"Please don't bring that up again."

"Did they find it hot that you both enjoy Physics?"

"Stop," He lies down again, clasping his hands over his ears.

"I mean, they must have: you two were going at it so hard I couldn't even send in my assignment." This was an exaggeration. She could only hear them if she pressed her ear against the wall. Which she only did once.

He frowns, red, "Didn't you have, like, three weeks to do it?"

"Mind your business," She lies back down too, "I don't wanna talk about this anymore."

They smile to themselves. They whisper goodnight, but he can't fall asleep.

"Dude, Santa came so hard."

"Please don't say it like that."

They're on the bus back and she's fiddling through her bag, fingers sifting over the boxes of chocolates and pastries May packaged up for her, just so she'd have something to open on the day.

"I love your aunt. I wish she would adopt me too."

"Hate to break it to you, but you're gonna have to go through some really messed up stuff before you unlock that option."

She turns her head to him against the seat, giddy and grinning, "Well, teach me your ways, Obi-Wan."

"You know that's not the quote."

They're getting through the door the night after Boxing Day, feeling heavy from grabbing fast food before getting home, and an afternoon of travelling. When she's slipping off her shoes and rolling her shabby suitcase through the door to her bedroom, Peter stops her.

"Hey, uh..." She turns, one palm wrapped around the handle of it, the other pressed against her doorframe, "I actually did get you something."

Her lips curve upwards at the edges, brows furrowing, "For Christmas?"

"Yeah." He looks like he's about to take something out of his pocket, when she rushes into her room, slamming the door behind her. He's about to question whether he's being rejected when it's flung open again, and this time, she's holding something poorly wrapped in both hands. She's out of breath.

"Me too. But I forgot to bring it with me. I was just gonna leave it under the tree."

He bites at the inside of his cheek so he doesn't break out into an ear-splitting grin. They fumble awkwardly with their gifts, handing them over.

"You first, Parker." He hesitates before sinking his finger into the gap in the wrapping paper, listening to the clink of light metal as bright-coloured keychains spill out onto his palm, and he catches them before they can fall. "Sorry, it isn't much, it's just... you said you never had many keychains or badges and stuff as a kid because all the brand stuff cost, like, a fortune." He stares in awe at the little Tardis in his hand, the Yoda, the Lego memorabilia, everything he's ever ranted about or forced her to watch. His eyes lift to hers.

"No, I..." He clears his throat, wrought with unexpected emotion, "I love it. Thank you." She shrugs with a bashful smile, caught in the act of caring, and looks down at her own instead of facing the tenderness between them. "Mine is... it's nothing, really."

"Oh, quiet, you." She's never been one to gingerly unwrap gifts. If she could tear them apart with her teeth, she would, but this time, it feels delicate. The space between them is made out of something fragile. So she takes her time, slides her finger under the tape and true to style, lets the wrapping paper fall to the ground when she gets too impatient.

"No, you didn't. No, you did not." Her jaw goes slack, looking from it and back up to Peter, down, up again. He smiles bashfully. "You bought it for me."

"Well, I..."

"What the fuck! You..."

"Yeah, I mean, I know you used to play as a kid, so Ned and I found some cracking sites, and we got all the expansions and... " She jumps, wrapping her arms around him in a bear hug and squealing.

"Hell yeah!" She pulls away with a toothy grin, staring down at the card again. He clears his throat and can't help but smile too.

White dress. Maya wanted all her bridesmaids to move as one, an organism of pinned-back hair and delicate black shoes. It was unorthodox, as much as the institution of marriage could be, but her cousin didn't mind; she was too busy trying not to be late.

Picking up her sneakers by their heels, she jams them into the tiny gap of space left in the boiler closet by the door. "Peter!"

He's hurrying out, slipping on the blazer he found last minute at the thrift store, a little too cuffed at the wrists. "Remind me why I'm coming again?"

"You invited me to your thing. It's only fair." She shrugs on her jacket to brave the cold outside, stuffing the apartment's keys in her pocket and tapping her heel against the floorboards.

"And?" He eases through the flat, voice moving from room to room, hands gripping doorways as he flicks off every light his roommate typically leaves on, halting at her bedroom and disappearing inside to switch off a lamp.

"And I hate weddings, dude! Hurry it up!" She whines, pressing her forehead against the smoothest section of the peeling wallpaper.

He peeks his head out, clicking the last one off and finally moving to meet her, one curl out of place and falling over his forehead in the exertion it took just to be ready on time, "You've never even been to one."

"I thought I'd manage my whole life without it."

"Not even your own?"

"Peter," She eyes him like he's the one barely handing in papers on time, "Now, come on. This thing is gonna be a funeral if I don't get Maya her something borrowed."

"Something borrowed?" They step out and he helps hold the door closed tight so she can twist the key, get the lock to truly slip through. She turns to face him, checks her phone and gives an impartial grunt. They'd be fine. She finally registers his words, and dips back into her pocket, coming out with a rusted hair-pin and holding it up for him to see. It isn't real gold, but it looks well-loved, well-worn.

"It's her mom's. Snuck it back in the day, nearly forgot I had it," She smiles weakly, shrugging.

"It's pretty," He nods, watching as she puts it back, "She'll like it."

"You think so?" It's rare when she looks vulnerable, and it takes him off guard, a small opening where her eyes clear up, her face sincere, unguarded. She hardly notices as she walks ahead of him for the elevator, and he follows behind.

"Yeah."

They manoeuvre through bodies, what should've been a smaller gathering amassing easily to just under a hundred: family, friends, plus-twos. He's greeted with fervour by everyone that loves her. She said her family hadn't been close, a little dysfunctional, but those he meets embrace him like kin. It feels foreign. So does she, watching her cousin, newly-wed and hugging Peter tight, "I've heard so much about you!"

Peter is surprised. His roommate is too, considering they'd had approximately two 6-minute conversations over the phone since she'd made it to Cambridge, none of which included more than his name and age. "You too!" he says, and it's a half-truth: he'd heard distant anecdotes, begged for more on the subway ride over just to save embarassment. His voice pitches higher as Maya shifts away, tipsy and beaming. With a short exchange, she's gliding through the rest of the attendants, grabbing appetizers and receiving kisses on the cheek. He jolts when his roommate leans in, quiet against the music.

"You were right."

His brows lift just slightly, "About what?"

"She loved it. Nearly ruined her makeup," She watches after her cousin, "God, what a relief."

"A relief?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm surprised she didn't throw it in my face. She hated that woman." She sips on a flute of champagne, winces and hands it to Peter without a glance. When she finally meets his eyes, wide and innocent, she gives him a small smile, "What?"

"No, I just... I thought it was sentimental."

"No, you're right, it is," He waits for her to continue, tipping the glass back a little and letting the froth gather on his tongue, "I took it after they'd had this huge blow-up. I guess she found it sweet. Better that, than..."

"A permanent wedding ban?"

"Yeah; from all her next ones," She grins, crossing her arms over her chest and staring into the crowd again, finding Maya dancing with her husband, "No," She softens, "I think this is for good."

A quiet fills the air between them.

"You changed your mind on weddings?"

She eyes Peter suspiciously, then looks to the overcast sky, "A little. Did you expect me to?"

He takes a moment to think, "No. I just thought you were worried."

She echoes him, "About what?"

"I don't know. Maybe that this was gonna be some big event that made you feel alone. Or that things were gonna be weird with your family," She watches him, "Isn't that why you asked me to come? Of course, I'm happy to, just..."

"Yeah..." She nods, brow furrowing, "I don't know. It feels weird to go places without you, these days," She laughs off the gravity of it, although it's sincere. They don't talk about it: the comfort they've eased into, the soft and eager friendship. It flits away when acknowledged, they know that. It's safer to keep it close to the chest.

"We should do a bat-mitzvah next, right?"

She nods fervently, "Please."

They're shuffling through the door and into the dark of the apartment, lit only by the dull street-lights outside the window, casting silver shadows onto the walls. She goes for the light above the stove, already blinded by the elevator ride up. Her feet are blistered and she leans against the counter just to slip off her heels, skin sticking to the tiles. The low noise of the apartment thrums in her ears. Peter is unlacing his nicest shoes, a touch scuffed from being dragged to the dancefloor every time a Wang Chung song came on, and when he makes it to the kitchen the quiet is only amplified by her slow breathing, by the tick of the fridge. Her eyes are closed, head throbbing in the absence of sound and the chaos of the rooftop. Peter swallows and her eyelids flutter open, heavy. The little alcohol in their systems is starting to fizzle out, leaving a buzz just warm enough to make their limbs weak.

He whispers like they have to keep quiet, "That was fun."

"It was," she whispers back. Then, with less conviction, "Thanks for coming. You didn't have to."

He offers a tired smile, "You knew I would." She doesn't argue, there's no need to; just pushes gently off the counter with a stifled yawn, struggles to nod in agreement.

"I knew you would. You're always doing that kind of stuff for people," He waits, hands stuffed in the pockets of his blazer, picking lint, "Taking a weekend to do shit you don't really care about. Nice things. Weddings."

She's softer past her curfew, bathing in the sincerity she can afford with the dim light between them, "I care about them," He objects.

"I know. It just surprises me sometimes, the..." She thinks, eyes flitting over his features, down to the knot of his tie, "The good you're capable of."

His brows dip, and the look is so earnest it bruises her, "I wanted to go with you."

"That too," She nods, head heavy, a weak and lopsided grin finding its way to the corner of her mouth. It's bittersweet, "That's nice."

"You say that like you wouldn't do the same."

She shrugs, tucking her hands behind her back, holding her wrists and rolling her shoulders back, "Maybe."

"You do nice things," He presses, eyes finding the ceiling as he runs it through in his head, "You make people feel comfortable; you make them laugh. You make me feel comfortable." Her nose twitches, confronted, "You do all the stuff I'm shitty at, just because you want to."

When she doesn't speak, he goes on.

"Whatever's good in me, it's... it's in you, too."

Her eyes are glossy with fatigue, and they share the quiet for a moment. She isn't sure that anyone has ever said anything that nice to her before, and she says as much, prompting another wounded glance from her roommate, "Oh, don't look at me like that."

He blinks, caught off guard, "Like what?"

"You know how," Her brows furrow in amusement as she searches his bewildered eyes, "Like a puppy who just got abandoned at a gas station."

"I'm not."

"Could've fooled me. I can almost see it: you pity me, Parker," She teases, but a part of her feels raw.

"I don't pity you."

"Yeah, yeah. Enough out of you," She grins.

"I don't." He frowns, grabbing her gently by her upper arm as she turns for a distraction. Her eyes come down to his hand, then back to him dubiously, "I don't."

When he lets go, palms clammy, she keeps eyeing him and smiles to herself, lips pursing to the side.

"What?" He watches her step back to lean against the counter again, one foot across the other, arms threaded across her chest now as her eyes move around the room.

"You know, a little while back, uh... Morgan, the student advisor, he emailed me. Something about an apartment that had just freed up." Peter stills, "And I almost thought about it for a little bit, you know; I still didn't know you too well. You kept burning the food," She laughs, "I was thinking tonight, when Maya dragged you to the dancefloor, and you were just wading there like a new-born fucking calf, and I thought... I'm glad I never did."

It's then that he kisses her.

"You wish you had a cool suit like me," he said smugly. You simply rolled your eyes.

The truth was, you knew about the masked vigilante even before you met him. But when Tony Stark spoke of Spiderman in such a high way, you expected someone just like the billionaire himself. Cunning, sarcastic, strategic, and maybe even a bit charming. The man beside you didn't fit any of the categories. He was awkward, bubbly, kind-hearted and you half-expected him to be accompanied by a unicorn.

He hadn't taken off his mask whenever he came to see Strange, but you were less than curious about the person underneath. The visits themselves were frequent, but that's another story.

"How's your magic fingers today?" he asked conversationally.

"Excuse me?"

"Uh- I thought you were learning magic with Mr. Strange?"

"You could have phrased it better. Lots better. In fact, you could have just kept your mouth shut."

"I'm trying to be nice here!" Spiderman whined. "I'm not that much of a bad guy you know. In fact, I believe in multiverse and I swear to god, we are best friends on another earth and doing karaoke right now."

You rolled your eyes again. "I highly doubt that."

It's more likely than you think, he thought but kept that to himself.

-

FAST FORWARDS TO 24 HOURS LATER

-

"Y/N!" Peter called, weeding through the students. Your startled expression split into a warm smile when you spotted him.

"You're late!" you scolded, though you were more interested in the way he was limping. "Wait, what happened?"

"Uh, skateboard accident."

"You don't have a skateboard. What are you even wearing?"

"I'm going to be late for class," Peter said, pulling the sweatshirt around him tighter so you couldn't see the red cloth underneath. "See ya!"

"WE HAVE THE SAME CLASS!"

He heard your words, but pretended he didn't. He walked to the nearest closest, fixed the sweater, and slung the bag over his shoulder.

He took a deep breath in, counting his lucky stars that you didn't suspect anything. Sure Peter Parker was your best friend, but you won't hesitate to kill Spiderman. He shuddered at the thought.

Two weeks ago, when Peter first met you as Spiderman, he was wary and nervous. But when he spotted you in the same class as him, he had let out a sound of excitement and volunteered to be your lab partner. He was going to say he was Spiderman, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. You were just so…nice. He didn't want your smile to be replaced by a scowl.

Be that it may, he had now dug his grave and there was nothing much to do except lie in it. Except Mysterio intervened and pushed him inside.

-

"Ned, oh god everyone knows," Peter shut down the blinders of his house, as if there were aliens looking in.

"This is bad, so bad," Ned said through the phone, his voice shriller than ever.

Peter started to properly panic. There were so many questions and exclamations — lots of sounds at the same time that he couldn't figure out who was saying what.

"I think we need to take a deep breath—"

Was that May? Sounds like Happy. Is it Happy?

"How did Mysterio manage to screw you even on his deathbed?"

No, that's Happy. Or Flash. Flash isn't in my apartment though.

"Who knows a lawyer here?"

That was definitely May. Or MJ. Or Ned. Or Happy.

"Peter you have to stop freaking out," MJ said softly, seeing him pace the room.

"I'm not freaking out," he said quickly. "I'm not freaking out. I can fix this. I just need to find Stephen. Maybe if I call Y/N—"

Words died in his throat. Or maybe he didn't have enough strength to get them out. He froze, utterly shocked to the core.

"Y/N knows," he whispered. "She knows. I have to call her."

"Pete—"

"I'll be right back." Cursing under his breath, he locked himself in his bedroom and dialed your number. Fortunately or unfortunately, you picked up at the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Y/N, oh thank god," Peter exhaled in relief. He had half-expected you to send him to voicemail. "I just- I'm dealing with EVERYTHING at once but I called you I- I'm so sorry I didn't tell you before. I'm an idiot and I lied a lot of times, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"Peter, where are you right now?" your voice asked.

"Uhm, home?"

"There's a lot of news reporters outside and the FBI won't be too far away."

"Wait, why would the FBI—"

"Promise me you won't talk to them without a lawyer present."

Rapid knocks on his door made him distracted.

"There are cops here," MJ whispered through the keyhole. Peter cursed again, this time properly loud — because he was, in every sense, truly fucked. He looked at his phone screen again but you had hung up. He could worry about that later.

The only relief he felt amidst the chaos was how you didn't sound mad at him in the slightest. The rest of the world was, but he could deal with that.

-

Peter Parker picked a perilously precarious profession. That part was true. Even fancy words couldn't cover up his untimely messy decisions though.

After some particularly shitty questioning, he went over to Sanctum, which was probably the worst thing he could have done. It started a chain of yet another disastrous events; including but not limited to monsters, variants, murderers, and a collapsing timeline.

He was tired. Wounded.

He was almost relieved when Stephen came back from the grand canyon. You were also with him and the frown on your face said whatever pity you had for him earlier that day had fully evaporated. Peter didn't notice nor care.

"Y/N!" he called, throwing himself to you in a hug. God knows he desperately needed one. You sighed and hugged back, though you still appeared stiff.

"I need to talk to you," you said firmly. "Right now."

"I've been dangling over the grand canyon for 12 hours," Stephen said, anger clear in his voice.

"This won't take a moment," you promised, pulling Peter to walk away from the scene.

"Where are we going?" he asked, looking back every few seconds to see what was happening. Even the sky looked unfamiliar.

You stopped, facing him hesitantly.

"I'm sorry," you said, then snapped your fingers.

The world disappeared from his feet.

-

"What the—?" Peter yelled, taking in the surroundings. He knew it was your spare room, the one where you kept all your magic books. He had been there countless times as Peter Parker.

"Stephen can't help you," you said. "You're not going to him."

"What are you talking about—?"

"You could have told me before, you know. That you were Spiderman. Why didn't you?"

He softened. "I thought you would be angry."

"I am," you sighed. "Well this hurts you more than it hurts me but you're staying here. For now. Until I find a way to fix the multiverse."

"You're- you're locking me up?" Peter blinked. "You're kidding me right?"

"I'm protecting you. Believe me, Stephen can't help you."

"Why do you keep saying that? I thought Stephen was more powerful than you." He saw you moving to the door, so he used his webs instinctively. They bind your hand to the door.

"You're not leaving me here, I want to fight," he said defensively. "I trust you more than I trust myself but I also know you. There's something you're not telling me."

"Let me go."

"Not unless you explain what's going on."

"Fine, you wanna fight?" you asked, eyes gleaming. "I'll give you a fight."

The webs melted right off your hand, and sudden flames danced upon your fingers. Peter gulped.

You took the ornamental sword off the wall. He hardly had time to dodge as you took a swing. It moved through the edge of his red suit, and he yelped at the fresh new cut.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" he yelled, attaching himself to the other wall of the room. You didn't respond, just threw the nearest lamp in his direction. He cleanly avoided it this time, and the lamp broke into a million little pieces.

"You. Should. Have. Told. Me." you gritted your teeth, ditching the sword and levitating the books instead. "Fight back, coward."

"No." He sat down on the floor, defiant. "Throw them at me. Kill me. Heck, maybe it will fix the multiverse. But I'm not sitting here with nothing to do. I gave up everything to fix my mistake. May's gone and-" his voice cracked.

Your hands went slack. Tears threatened to spill out, and even Peter was startled at the sudden vulnerability.

"Stephen's going to make us forget you," you said quietly. "He doesn't know any other way to fix this."

Silence followed.

"Do you?" He looked calm.

"No."

"Then I have to let Stephen do it." He stood up, smiling softly. "This whole mess started with me. This is the price for that I guess."

"You're not the one paying it."

He walked over to you, hesitantly taking your hand in his. It was still warm, traces of magic still visible. He didn't let go.

"Hey, we'll be okay." He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if praying. "We'll be alright."

This close, you recognized yourself in him. Two soldiers tired of fighting.

-

TWO WEEKS LATER

-

"This seat taken?" you asked, sitting down even before the person beside you could answer.

Peter froze.

"You okay?" you called. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No this seat's uh not taken," he said quickly, masking his surprise with a cough.

"I'm Y/N," you added, opening your bag and throwing a bag of cookies at him. He caught it effortlessly.

"Good reflexes," you noted, popping your soda bottle open.

"The class's about to start—"

"And I'm hungry, bite me," you scoffed. "Besides, if we get caught, I have a lot of ways to undo it. Believe me, I'm magic."

I know.

"Okay," he nodded, taking out a cookie himself. "I'm Peter by the way. Peter Parker."

You frowned. Why did that sound familiar?

"Well Peter Parker, do you like horror?"

"Excuse me?"

"A couple of my friends are going to the movies tonight and we're one short. Wanna come?"

"I- I have plans," he said quickly.

"But we're friends!" you fake-pouted.

"We've known each other for five seconds."

"I'm sharing my cookies, that's some best friend shit right there."

He was about to retort, but he froze again when he saw your wrist watch — the same one he had given you on your birthday.

"It looks cool," Peter added, only because you had caught his intense staring.

"It's been with me for as long as I remember," you said, shrugging. "I don't even remember when I bought it."

You smiled, suddenly feeling nostalgic. You looked at Peter again.

A beat passed, then two.

"You really do look familiar, you know," you said slowly.

It was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to have found its mark. Peter's face drained of blood.

Oh, this better be good.

-—————————

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