#mcu x reader

A reason.

A flaw.

Some tiny, irritating characteristic that would justify the dislike they'd both somehow managed to develop before they'd even met.

They were more than ready to find some reason not to like each other. 

Neither had particularly appreciated the fact that the other man had become important to you.

That was the real problem. 

Something neither of them were particularly proud of. 

You had talked about Peter enough that Dennis already knew him in fragments.

Peter.

Your Peter.

The friend from New York.

The one who had apparently been there for you through everything.

The one whose name appeared on your phone more frequently than almost anyone else's.

The one you sometimes called after a particularly bad shift, even if you didn't have anything specific to say.

And Peter knew all about Dennis.

The farm.

The apartment.

The hospital.

The stories you told about him.

The meals he'd left in the fridge for you before shifts.

The way he'd apparently become your designated person for grocery shopping because you had once forgotten half your list and somehow come home with three different types of cheese.

Peter had listened.

He'd filed it away.

And neither man had particularly enjoyed the knowledge that there was someone else who knew you.

Someone else who got pieces of you that belonged to them.

So they'd arrived at dinner ready.

Ready to find something wrong.

Anything.

Peter waited for him to interrupt you.

He didn't.

Dennis waited for Peter to make some arrogant remark.

He didn't.

They waited for one another to say something irritating.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

It was infuriating.

Neither of them could pinpoint a single reason to dislike the other. 

Because Dennis couldn't seem to fault Peter.

He was funny.

Genuinely funny.

Not in the way Dennis had expected. He was also ridiculously intelligent, although Peter seemed to merely ramble on, before laughing awkwardly after realising he had gotten lost underneath a steady stream of jokes and terrible puns.

He listened.

He asked questions.

He remembered things.

He even helped Trinity clear the plates without being asked.

And Dennis could see it.

Could see immediately why you and Peter were so close.

Peter had this way of looking at you whenever you spoke.

Not staring.

Not even necessarily consciously.

Just–

Looking.

Like he was already listening before you'd finished the sentence. Like he was giving you his complete attention. His complete focus, just as you deserved.

And you did it too.

You turned toward him instinctively. You anticipated his reactions.

Sometimes he didn't even need to explain something before you understood.

A glance.

A raised eyebrow.

A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

And you knew.

Dennis noticed.

Of course he noticed. He couldn’t help but notice…

But he couldn't exactly fault Peter for it.

Because Peter was–

Good.

And Peter had to admit that Dennis was, unfortunately, also good.

Calm.

Considerate.

Funny in a much quieter way. In a way that was far more incidental. 

The sort of person who noticed when your glass was empty and filled it without interrupting the conversation.

The sort of person who remembered that you hated mushrooms and quietly picked them out of your portion before you noticed.

Peter appreciated that.

He appreciated it far more than he wanted to.

By the time dinner was finished, the four of you were laughing.

Actually laughing.

You sat back in your chair, looking between the two men who had spent the better part of the last few weeks mentally preparing themselves for this encounter.

And you narrowed your eyes, "Why are you both being weird?"

Peter blinked, "We're not."

"I'm not being weird,” Dennis frowned. 

"You are."

"How?"

"I don't know. You're both being suspiciously polite,” you shrug, before glancing at Trinity to determine whether it was just you that was picking up on this strange vibe. 

Peter glanced at Dennis.

Dennis glanced at Peter.

And there it was.

A silent exchange.

You stared, "See! You're doing it!"

Peter immediately looked innocent.

Dennis picked up his glass.

You groaned. Whilst Trinity laughed from across the table, more than fully aware of the way Dennis felt about you–the way he had worried about Peter’s arrival. 

And somehow, against all odds–

The evening worked.

Just maybe the Summer would go smoothly, you smiled at the idea. Glad to see some of your closest friends get along. 

…

The adjustment was surprisingly easy. 

Easier than either of you had expected. 

Peter simply seemed to fit right into the rhythm of it all almost seamlessly. As though he had always been a part of it all. 

Chipping in, helping, whether it be picking up things from the store–washing the dishes or vacuuming. 

Movie nights became part of the routine. With picks ranging from Sci-Fi, to Action, and even a few feel good Rom-Coms. 

Meals shared amongst each other, swapping stories from the day. 

Dennis was able to get to know Peter, and Peter was able to learn more about Dennis. 

While neither might recognise each other as friends, just yet, they were certainly friendly. 

There were simply brief moments–small flickers of unease. 

Moments when Dennis would catch the comfortable relationship you and Peter had. The familiarity that brewed between you both. 

Something that Dennis couldn’t help but be envious of.  

He occasionally came home with some random little thing he'd found that he thought you'd like.

Dennis watched you light up over a particular pastry Peter had brought home one afternoon.

"How did you know I liked these?" You said with a bright smile, already taking a bite of the decadent cinnamon scroll, sighing in delight. 

"You mentioned it once,” he waved off the gesture as though it were nothing. 

You murmured out between bites, "That was like two months ago."

Peter shrugged, "Yeah?"

You stared at him before your eyes softened, warmed by his thoughtfulness. 

And Dennis.

Well he looked away.

Because–

Well.

That was nice.

Annoyingly nice. 

His chest clenching, squeezing uncomfortably from the way you looked at Peter. From the way Peter’s eyes met yours with that comfortable familiarity. With a tenderness. 

But there was another thing that Dennis had picked up on. Over the course of a few weeks Peter had been living with you both…

Dennis had noticed that Peter kept strange hours. Very strange hours.

There were nights when Dennis would wake up at two in the morning and hear the front door opening.

Peter would slip inside.

Quiet.

Careful.

Sometimes he'd walk a little strangely, as though trying to alleviate pressure off of his leg. 

Sometimes there'd be a bruise. Quickly dismissed as him being clumsy–walking into a door. 

Sometimes there’d be a cut on his cheek–only to be waved off as an accident whilst shaving.

And sometimes–

He'd just appear in the kitchen at three in the morning looking completely exhausted and proceed to eat half a loaf of bread like he hadn't seen food in a week.

Dennis had questions.

So many questions.

But Peter was private. 

Frantic, sometimes. A look of panic on his features before fading into one of sheepish awkwardness before he’d scurry back into his room, acting as though nothing had happened. 

There were phone calls he took outside.

Messages that made him suddenly leave.

Things he would refuse to explain. Or if he ever did explain it–it would be a little haphazard, a semblance of a hurried lie. 

And then there was the way you reacted.

Because you knew.

Dennis knew you knew.

He just didn't know what you knew.

Dennis notices the way you and Peter share glances–like some unknown secret tethered you both together. Like there was this strange understanding between you both. 

He would come into the living room and find you and Peter whispering over something.

He'd enter the kitchen and hear Peter say something like–"Do you think there’s a better way to improve the, you know?" 

And you'd immediately respond–your hands gesturing vaguely, "The thing with the–"

"The thing," Peter had nodded. 

"Well you could always add a little panel around there," you tried to explain, before cutting yourself short once you noticed Dennis enter the room.  

Dennis would stand there, brows knitting together in confusion,"...What thing?"

You'd look at Peter.

Peter would look at you.

And then you'd both say, "Nothing,” with a nervous smile. 

Dennis hated that word.

Nothing.

There was an entire universe of nothing happening between you both. An entire language.

Dennis felt out of the loop. 

Extremely so. 

Made even more clear whenever you and Peter would share or laugh over some inside joke, random references that were scarily specific.  

Stories that began halfway through because apparently Dennis was expected to understand the context through osmosis.

And then there were the moments where in the evening you’d simply throw your legs over Peter's lap while you were sitting on the couch.

Times when you’d rest your head against his shoulder.

Steal food from his plate.

Push his face away when he annoyed you. Or the way you’d snort whilst laughing at something Peter said. So free. Loud. 

And a completely unfiltered version of you.

Completely natural.

Completely effortless.

Like you'd been doing it forever.

And Dennis supposed you must have. And because of the growing discomfort in the pit of his stomach, the racing thoughts that couldn’t help but delve beyond what each action meant. 

Made Dennis turn away, because he didn't want to stare.

Didn't want to make it weird.

Didn’t want to make his jealousy obvious. 

He saw the closeness.

And, if he was being honest with himself, it scared him a little. Not because he thought you were secretly dating.

But because there was a history there that he couldn't compete with. Peter knew the version of you that existed before Pittsburgh.

Before Dennis.

Before the Pitt.

Peter knew New York.

He knew the people you'd left behind.

He knew the memories.

He knew the grief.

He knew you.

And Dennis–

Dennis was still learning.

Still figuring out which foods you liked. Still learning that when you said "I'm fine," in that particular tone, you absolutely weren't.

Still discovering the little things.

Still building something.

Piece by piece.

And unbeknownst to Dennis. 

Peter was doing the exact same thing.

Watching.

Learning.

Noticing.

Because Peter had his own realisation.

You and Dennis had become–

Fluid.

That was the word he'd use.

You moved around one another like you'd been doing it for years.

You knew which cereal he'd finished without looking.

He knew exactly which yoghurt you liked.

You'd go grocery shopping and come home with something he'd mentioned liking once.

Dennis would come home with your favourite chocolate because he'd noticed you'd had a bad shift.

Little things.

Small things.

The sort of things that didn't mean anything.

Except they did.

Peter saw it.

He'd be sitting on the couch watching you and Dennis argue about dinner, and he'd get this strange little feeling in his chest.

Because you'd found someone.

Someone here.

Someone who knew how to take care of you.

And Peter wanted to be happy about it.

He was happy about it.

Mostly.

Except sometimes–

Sometimes you would laugh at something Dennis said and Peter would feel that tiny, unpleasant tug somewhere beneath his ribs.

And he hated himself for it.

Because Dennis was good.

Dennis was really good.

Peter could see it.

And he could see the way Dennis looked at you.

Even if Dennis thought he was subtle.

He wasn't.

Not to Peter.

Peter knew what it looked like when someone was falling.

Because, unfortunately–

He knew exactly what it felt like.

Knew exactly what that feeling was that morphed each time Dennis looked at you. 

Because it was the very same thing that made Peter’s heart race each time your hands brushed his. 

Each time you laughed or smiled at something Peter did. 

Whenever your eyes crinkled. 

Or the way you’d ramble with a brightness in your eyes. 

He was simply reminded of all the ways his heart beat for you–so he was unsurprised to find that you had enthralled Dennis Whitaker the very same way. 

With all your endearing traits that simply made you, you.

He couldn’t fault Dennis for falling for you. 

Because Peter had done the very same thing. 

…

Things could only remain normal for so long. With the infrequent sightings of Spiderman across the local news outlets. 

It would only be a matter of time before Pittsburgh became the hyperfixation of certain villains. 

Of people wanting to take on Spiderman. 

And in the midst of an attack. 

From the moment you saw Spiderman swinging across the tv. You had grabbed your keys and headed straight to the ER far earlier than you were meant to, reports of injured civilians tallying up as the minutes passed. 

The details were still coming through when you arrived.

Something about flooding.

Structural damage.

Multiple injuries.

The ER was already filling.

You slipped into work mode almost immediately. Shoving your bag into your locker before delving straight into work. 

That was what you did. You compartmentalised to the extreme. 

It was simply how you handled working in such a high pressure environment. Work first–feelings later. 

Calm.

Collected.

Focused.

Even when everything around you was chaos.

Robby had barely finished assigning you a patient before you were moving. 

Vitals. History. Labs. Imaging.

You didn't stop.

You felt you couldn’t stop. 

But whilst working Dennis notices you're not quite yourself. 

Notices how you don’t compose yourself in the usual way. The slightest shift in your composure. 

Your eyes constantly flicking over to the nearby tv–hyperfixated on the news reports, as images of Spiderman amidst Pittsburgh floods the network. 

You’re normally so calm and collected amongst the chaotic ER. But now it feels as though you're distracted. 

Not enough to impede your work or judgement, but enough to be noticed by your colleagues, your friends…

Your eyes drift back towards the tv. 

The one mounted in the corner of the department.

News coverage.

Live footage.

Pittsburgh flooding.

Emergency crews.

People being evacuated.

And–

Spiderman.

Dennis’ eyes followed to land on your figure.

You were standing beside a patient's bed, listening to their lungs. But your eyes weren't entirely there. They kept flicking toward the screen.

Again.

And again.

And again.

At first Dennis assumed it was the attack.

Everyone was watching.

Everyone was concerned.

But then the footage changed.

Spiderman appeared on screen.

He was fighting. Fast. A blur of red and blue against the skyline. Moving with extreme agility, swinging between buildings. Strings of webs shooting out. 

As he scoops down to save civilians. To stop the cars being thrown through the sky. 

Dennis watched your face. And something changed.

Your entire body went still. 

Your breath hitched. Eyes widening from the sight. 

Spiderman was thrown.

Hard.

Into the side of a building. Straight through the walls. Disappearing in a cloud of debris. Vanished from view.

Your hand immediately went to your chest. 

Just for a second.

Fingers curling against your scrubs. Clutching as your heart raced. Your lip caught between your teeth. 

Dennis frowned.

You weren't listening to the patient anymore.

Not properly.

Your eyes were glued to the screen.

"Hey."

Jack elbows your side softly with a small furrow of his brow, concern laces his tone as he notes your distracted sight, “Get your head in the game, or go home,” he says with a firmness. 

Not to scold. 

But simply to check in. 

It was unusual for you to be so out of it. 

He watches you for a moment longer. Watches as you break your line of sight from the tv, before nodding, lips pulled thin, “I’m fine,” you breathed out a sigh of relief as Spiderman reappears on screen, before murmuring out, “Sorry”

He nods, a small pat on your back, “Good–c’mon,” he tilts his head. 

And you threw yourself back into the work.

But Dennis had seen it. Had seen the way your shoulders tensed. Had seen the way your fingers trembled slightly, the way they fidgeted with the edge of your shirt. 

And then–

The news anchor spoke. Words appearing at the bottom of the screen. 

Spideman was okay.

Apparently injured, but alive.

Safe.

The immediate danger had passed. Dennis watched your shoulders drop.

Actually drop.

The breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding escaped you.

And your hand slowly lowered from your chest.

Dennis’s brows dipped, furrowing in question as he watched you. 

You were worried.

Obviously.

Anyone would be worried.

Spiderman was a person. A hero. And you'd grown up in New York. You'd probably seen him before.

Maybe he'd saved someone you knew.

Maybe you'd watched him swing between buildings.

Maybe it was simply the strange sentimentality of seeing something familiar from home.

Dennis tried to explain it away.

Because that was easy.

That made sense.

You'd moved hours away from everything you knew.

You were watching your old city's hero on television.

Of course you'd feel something. Dennis tried to rationalise. Tried to find some semblance of reasoning. 

But Dennis couldn’t help but wonder whether it went a little further than that…

A little deeper than just concern. 

It felt like it hit a little closer to home…

Dennis had lived with you long enough now.

He knew what you looked like when you were worried.

He knew what you looked like when you were scared.

And that. 

That wasn't ordinary concern. 

It had been too visceral.

Too immediate.

Too personal.

He'd seen the way your entire body had reacted before your mind had caught up.

The way you'd clutched your chest. The way you'd stopped breathing. The way relief had visibly moved through you when Spiderman was declared safe.

Dennis' eyes narrowed slightly.

He didn't say anything.

Not then.

He wouldn't.

But later–

Later, when he was home hours after his shift had ended, just as yours was beginning. 

With Peter nowhere to be seen…

He could only assume he was safe-a message sent to the roommate group chat just a few hours ago saying he was staying back at the lab…

But something about that didn’t sit right with Dennis. 

Didn’t exactly settle with him as he found himself standing in the kitchen staring at nothing.

Thinking.

Spiderman.

Your reaction.

Peter's strange hours.

The bruises.

The frantic disappearing acts.

The secrecy.

The way Peter sometimes came home looking like he'd been hit by a truck.

Dennis' brow furrowed. His mind racing. Grasping at fragments of a puzzle he had no idea how to make. 

No. Absolutely not. That was ridiculous.

Peter was–

Peter.

Your friend.

Your roommate.

A nerd who once burnt a toaster.

A guy who couldn't be trusted within six feet of a kitchen appliance. 

Who Dennis had watched practically stumble into a doorframe and stub his toe…

Peter Parker was not–

Dennis’ thoughts came to a halt. As other realisations bleed into the forefront of his mind. 

Peter was weird.

He was absurdly strong sometimes. 

He had reflexes that were eerily accurate at times. Once catching a falling glass from across the kitchen without even looking.

Dennis had laughed about it.

Peter had laughed too, with a small sheepish smile, "Good reflexes."

Right.

Sure.

Dennis slowly rubbed his jaw, "No,” He said it aloud to the empty kitchen, "Absolutely not."

But the thought had already taken root.

And once it was there–

It was difficult to ignore.

Just as Dennis was about to turn in for the night, go to sleep. His eyes shoot over to your door. 

A clattering sound echoing out. A heavy thud reached his ears. 

“Hello?” Dennis calls out cautiously. Inching closer and closer to the door. 

He knew you weren’t there–knew you were currently in the ER working the night shift. Knew that there was no way that sound was you.

But if it wasn’t you…

Then who was it?

Grasping at the baseball bat you had insisted on keeping–Just in case! You had reasoned. Dennis approached the door, 

And in a fluid moment just as he grips the handle, he swings open the door. 

Arms poised and ready to swing. 

Until–

“Don’t swing!!” A panicked voice cries out. Arms outstretched, waving frantically. 

Dennis’ eyes widening at the sight–a suit of blue and bright red fills his vision. Bright white eyes staring back at him. 

Dennis’ fingers readjust on the bat. 

Brows creasing in concern. 

Tentative of the man before him. 

Why the fuck was Spiderman in his apartment?

Better yet–Why was he in your room?

The man clutches at his mask, before ripping it off. Tufts of brown hair unruly and messy, matted down from sweat. 

And then the eyes. 

“It’s me–I swear I’m not some random intruder!” he exclaims further. 

Dennis’ mouth falls open. The bat falling from his hands to land roughly on the floor. 

A loud thud coming from below followed by a shout–”Keep it down!”

Dennis and Peter instinctively call back apologetically, “Sorry Mrs Brown!” 

Before their eyes meet each other once more. 

Dennis’ mind, frantic from the information. Racing with thoughts. Piecing together every little interaction, every little detail. 

Peter’s hand slaps against his own forehead, rubbing at his temples, muttering to himself, “I forgot N/N had work tonight.”

Sighing, as his hand drops to his side. 

“Uh–” Peter offers a weak smile, “So–”

“You’re–” Dennis starts. 

Whilst Peter nods, “I’m–”

“Spiderman,” they say in unison. 

Peter rubs the side of his arm nervously, “Sorry–it’s not really the best ice breaker or easiest thing to mention” 

Dennis can’t help but be struck by the news. 

His mind trying to catch up with the influx of what this all meant. 

Caught up in the way you had reacted to the news. 

If Peter Parker really was Spiderman. 

Then the person who had reacted to that footage wasn't just his roommate.

Wasn't just his friend.

Wasn't just some girl who had moved hours away from New York and happened to be worried about a familiar hero.

You had reacted like someone watching someone they loved nearly die.

And Dennis didn't know what frightened him more.

The possibility that Peter Parker, his roommate, his romantic rival, was Spiderman. 

Or the possibility that you might love the web slinging hero.

Fucking shit. 

He knew there was something strange about him. 

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this part! The exploration into them being roommates, and how Peter and Dennis perceive each other-all while you're completely oblivious to their simmering contention over who you love. Also! Dennis now is in the know about Peter!!! 😳 can only imagine how he's feeling know that he knows Peter is that super strong and apparently one of your favourite heroes... He's got some stiff competition when it comes to winning your heart over. Let me know what you thought or if you'd like to be added to the taglist✨

Ok! the next part is going to explore a little more of Dennis and Peter talking-possibly airing out what's been unsaid for the last few weeks...And maybe you're pushed to make a few realisations too...

Read the Part 5: Something More here!

Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 If you enjoyed, consider checking out my Dennis Whitaker x Former Army Medic!ReaderTread Lightly Series Or check out my Dennis Whitaker Masterlist here

Everyone, for the most part, thinks it’s funny. There’s some hideous double standard in there—that if it were Rogue, or Ororo, or even Kurt—there might be some offense, some outrage veiled within the sentiment.

But the thing is: you chose the exact subject to inspire nothing less of raucous interest. Raucous, dedicated interest that will not stop conversation from happening.

“Think you were a little generous with a few things, darlin’,” Logan says as he claps you on the shoulder. This only makes you want to simmer into a gelatinous, amoebic sludge.

“I don’t know if he’d be quite so, ah,” Hank pirouettes his hand through the air, searching for adequate vocabulary, “Bold in his posing.”

“Just didn’t know that you saw him like that,” Rogue confides to you behind the heel of her palm, desperately trying to smother her laughter. This is extremely unhelpful as well, considering how she fell off the counter in hysterics when it traded enough hands to her.

“Think you should retire from the team, amie,” Remy informs to you in sidelong confidence, a roguish smirk on his face, “You held back stayin’ with us.”

“Ew,” Jubilee tells you. It is quite clear in the mien of her face that she has lost whatever respect she once had for you.

You’re certain that plenty of that is going around. Most of all from the person who was the rather detailed (and apparently, over-endowed)—subject of your most recent sketch. A sketch that was meant to be a private endeavor, except for the fact that you had been disturbed by the mission alert.

You had, actually, possessed enough foresight to close it on the tablecorner. But you were, unfortunately, not the first to arrive back to the dining room. And, in the midst of this interloper’s curiosity, they chose to open the book to peruse through it.

No one will confess, though a few furtive glances have made direction towards Remy and Kurt.

That would have been indignity enough. But what made it worse was that before it made it to the final person in your harried search across the estate, somewhere in the trading of goods: Scott had seen it.

“You never seen fearless leader like that, minou,” Remy informed you across the marble table as you clutched your fingers into the flesh of your face.

It would have hurt less, you assumed, to have sloughed the meat from your bones. Remy continued to verbally assail you. “He never turn so red before.”

“What—”—You manually heaved a breath through your body before continuing—“—What did he say?”

Ororo had been more helpful in answering as it was clear Remy was too busy herniating a lung to really answer. At least she still seemed to have the wherewithal to stare you in the eyes.

“He did not say anything.” Ororo said. “He merely gave the book back, and walked away.”

This, perhaps, seemed worst of all, and the plummet of your stomach into the ground only supplemented this.

And so, in your infinite wisdom, you had taken the coward’s way out. And you had chosen instead, rather than pursue restorative measure, opted for avoidant instead.

To your relief, there had been no earth-shattering emergency, no necessity of danger room practices. Someone had decided to grant you a modicum of peacetime that boiled you from the inside-out.

Although this forced the necessity of you needing to look over your shoulder every time that you walked into a new room, darted down another hall.

But you know that the dam will break. Eventually, you will be forced back into proximity with him, and he will either stomach the task of working with you. Or he will not acknowledge you at all.

And you don’t know which will be worse. To pretend as though nothing has happened when you have careened a missle through your above-average-functional relationship, or to ruin it all in one fell swoop.

By the third day of watching your back, you finally crack, having allowed the guilt and the terror to subsume you. And you know that to force you both into the same space, or to require him to come to you is untenable.

So you put on your big boy pants, and assert yourself to make a decision. It’s time to find your fearless leader and explain why you drew him naked and sprawled out on the campus lawn.

You open the door, steeling yourself for the inevitable—and find yourself staring at the plateau of a chest clothed in civvie clothes that you so rarely see him in. Look up with dawning comprehension, crescendoing terror, you see the unyielding diameter of a familiar pair of lenses.

“Scott,” Is all that you can muster out past the soft palate of your tongue, which feels heavy and suffocating. Stifling all breath from you. You stare at him.

Fearless leader looks back down at you, clears his throat with a balled fist pressed to the purse of his lips. Lets it lower down to the waistband of the jeans that he wears—did he just get back from riding one of his motorcycles?

“Think it’s about time we,” He pauses, his head angling to search the ground for proper conclusion of sentence, “Had a talk.”

“Oh—”—You feel as though the breath is expelled from you as you say this.

This is indeed the task you were searching him out for. But you had felt that the journey from your room to his would help summon the courage, steel the nerves, hone the wit essential for this interaction.

“—I—”—You pause, looking up at him with unmoored manner—“—I was coming over to find you.”

His face remains implacable in deciphering, motionless—you continue to dig your own grave. “I think that we should talk. You’re right. I was—”

You are blithering like an idiot. It seems fortuitous to shut up, so you decide to do so, audibly clamping your mouth shut so that your teeth click painfully.

Scott’s jaw works; you curse his ability for marring you of skill to decipher his eyes.

When he speaks, his voice is a more subdued note. “Can I come in?”

“Ah—”—You sidestep the doorframe so that Scott can walk in with that confident stride that he always bears—“—Do you—”

Scott turns from the inspection of your room’s interior, plastered with the testament to your artistic skills. Portraits documented in careful charcoal strokes, figure studies in rough-hewn pencils, occasional dollop of color with painted canvas that you have devoted additional time to.

“Yes?” He asks, and there is something stilted, almost awkward in the way that he asks—as though you’ve caught him out on something.

“Do you want me to close the door?” You ask, your hand resting over the doorknob. The question seems to take second for him to comprehend, before he nods at you curtly.

“Yes, I think you should.” He says, face directed to you. “That would be best.”

You obey, trying to hide the thick swallow that you make as your stomach takes nauseating flip. And the door shuts with such oiled, sleek ease as you become accomplice to your own doom.

It feels a small eternity as you release your hand from the doorknob and then turn with demeanor appropriate for walking the gallows.

“So—”—Scott begins. It is begun with such terrible assertion, that you find the dam breaking with greater imposition than you had expected it to.

Even though it may be unwise in the long run, you interrupt him. What devolves from the wordvomit you produce is borne of addle-minded panic.

“Scott,” You take a step forward, holding your hands up and palm-out to indicate your good will, “I should never have drawn that of you. I am so, so sorry—”

“Um,” Scott says, clearly not expecting the cavalcade of emotion to be unleashed so quickly. He falters for a second as he watches you; this allows you to continue the attack.

“—And it was such a violation for me to do that.” You gesticulate wildly as though this will help make your apology any more tangible, make your actions any more forgivable. “It embarrassed you terribly, when I have nothing but respect for you.”

You take a wide breath to allow you to eject the rest of your preamble before he can get a word in. “When I have nothing but, uh, affection for you. I mean, I like you—”

He says your name, taking a step towards you. You continue to blather, unable to stop the train that is careening down the tracks.

“—And I should have said that over objectifying you.” You let your hands fall to your sides as he allows another consumptive stride that eats up distance between he and you. Another nail that is hammered into the depths of your coffin. “I can’t tell you how sick I am and how sorry I am for what I did to you—”

Your name is repeated with an undertone incomprehensible to you, his hands extending in manner you assume to throttle the life out of you. You continue to dig deeper.

“—And if you never want to have anything to do with me ever again—”—Your voice is clabbered by emotion that restricts your ability to breathe, that threatens the familiar prickling sting at the corners of your eyes—“—I understand—

When he says your name for a third time, it is calm, affirmative, and coupled with the gentle yet unyielding grasp of his hand over your wrist.

The effect in halting the stream of consciousness issuing from traitorous lips is instantaneous: your mouth snaps shut once more.

“—I only came here to say one thing.” He says, and then searches the linoleum of your bedroom once more to search for steadfast ability. “Two things, technically.”

“What.” You offer flatly before you remember the lilt that a question carries with it. “What’s that?”

Scott clears his throat into the ball of a fist, his other hand still remaining shoal of heat upon your own. You glance down to it, the divots of knuckles spread in perfect fit over your own. The only thing that distracts you from the sight is his own voice, continuing to hurtle you through this terrible roller-coaster.

“I wasn’t expecting you to draw that picture of me—”—There is a blush that prospers healthily over his face, reaching the tips of his ears as he speaks—“—And I’ll admit, it took me for a loop.”

You remember the hangman’s noose that settles over the hollow of your neck, the sickening terror enveloping you once more.

“I—I mean of course it would—” You feel that same claustrophobic terror suffocate you, but his free hand rises to stall you. The other one squeezes in such comforting, tender manner that it slows you in your tracks.

“—And—”—He purses his lips, shoring up the words—“—If you wanted to draw something more accurate, all you had to do was ask.”

Perhaps in your journey to see Mr. Summers, you tumbled down the stairs head-first. Perhaps what is happening right now is a dying dream that your fading consciousness has conjured up for you. A mere facade to help you shuffle to the afterlife on somewhat agreeable terms.

“What?” You offer, ever the orator. Scott seems to be growing steadily redder by the second, in a way only the non-melanated can.

“Maybe,” He provides, trying to maintain composure when both of you are in a situation that calls for a lack of it, “We both had a failure to communicate.”

His other hand takes support on your elbow, you feel the drag of your eyes move in instant draw to it, flit back to him. Try to awaken yourself from the dream.

He continues, making a self-deprecating tsk through his teeth before he continues again. “But I’m not a person to ignore an opportunity when I see one—”

You think it wise to confront the bull head-first. “Opportunity? Opportunity for what?”

“Opportunity to, ah, tell you, that I’m not offended by the drawing—”—Scott’s hands are the only thing that seem to buoy you in this uncertain moment, the ruffled diction of his voice the true litmus test—“—Flattered, honestly.”

Now you are on proverbial edge of your seat. He settles a hollow, brittle exhale, as though mustering the fortitude to say this next part.

“And, um, that I like you too.” Scott articulates this part most stiffly, most woodenly of all. As though this causes the most chagrin for him of all.

When he concludes, it is with a regretful airs. “For a long while now.”

You make shaky circulation of air. His hands, which are so damnably of perfect accommodation of you, have begun self-soothing circle by the work of his thumbs. This is what helps motivate you to ask your question; to ask anything, really.

“Is. Is this a test?” You plead for clemency, for truth, for transparency. Scott continues to look down at you with that unreadable, implacable gaze.

“I—”—You duck your head with the shame that seems to have wreathed itself round the crown of your head for a near week now. “—I really don’t think I could handle that right now.

“No test. No tricks, I promise.” His voice is of a consoling, authoritative tone one would use to speak to cornered, frightened animals. Then—he huffs out a quiet, self-critical chuckle that summons the slant of your eyes up to him.

His shoulders seem to droop in a defeat that he is ready to accept.

“It—”—He considers the wisdom of what he will say, and then decides against it—“—I wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

His hands begin to depart from the harbor they have made on the slope of your arms, making honorable retreat. Another awkward, uncomfortable chuff escapes him, an effort to ensure no hard feelings.

“It, uh, wasn’t easy coming here.” He admits, the cadence of his sincerity so raw that it is opened like exposed nerve before you both. “But if you don’t want to do anything after this, I understand—”

You pull Scott down to you with such force that your teeth click together. But from the way that he groans against your mouth, the way his hands are searching to clutch you against him, let his fingers roam acreage of your body for more: it’s obvious he doesn’t care.

He’s a messy, flustered kisser; his tongue laps at the seam of your lips so that he can inch it in slow, staggered rasp up your own, his hands searching under your shirt for your body. Seeking out the heat that your curves offer and produce such unmoored, breathless noises that keep him searching for more.

Your hands seize around the collar of his shirt and tug tighter, the seams ripping with the force that you apply—even if this is panic-induced hallucination, you want to commemorate it as best as you can.

But this only makes a deep-seated, broken noise press into you, mark Scott Summers as a different flavor of lover altogether.

And from the way that he gives in to the physical request you have made, the tenting of his starched jeans that you feel pressing against your thigh. How clearly he enjoys the display of force.

You catch your bottom lip between the sink of your teeth, producing another delectable noise from him. Only then do you release him so that you can both enjoy the task of supplying oxygen to the brain.

He stares down at you, his shoulders jumping as his hands seek lower and lower, protective and perverse in their discovery. You welcome both.

“So, uh,” He says with rather boyish charm, “Does that mean I get to be your next model?”

You’re so surprised at the joke, by the way that his smile turns pleased at it, you can’t help but let a little laugh escape you. But you choose to answer by tugging that pressed shirt from where it’s tucked beneath the waistband, under the trim diameter of that belt buckle.

He sucks a taut, steady inhale through his nose as you expose the shelf of muscle that you expected him to possess, run the pads of your fingers down the ridge of his stomach.

“Only if you prefer the hands-on approach,” You inform him with a smirk, urging the shirt further up so that you may see more of your next subject.

From the suffused chuckle he gives through beaming grin: it’s clear that he does.

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Once upon a time- back when you were a part of Peter’s everyday norm- you would constantly complain about how technology was always out to get you. About how it never cooperated with you and you were convinced it was because every piece of machinery you came across had a mind of its own and decided that it didn’t like you and would therefore make your life as difficult as possible.

Every time, he would roll his eyes in that teasing, yet adoring way of his and he would mutter back some quip about your dramatics before allowing you to fall into his arms and pepper kisses all over your face.

But, that was then. That was back when everything was as it should have been, when his own friends could remember his name. When you would never go a day without placing at least three kisses to his lips.

Now, you glanced up from the screen, gaze locking onto his, and not even a hint of recognition flashed through those beautiful eyes of yours. The ones that Peter still saw whenever he closed his eyes, the ones that he would attempt to draw anytime he could, but could never get quite right.

It had been four years since you last looked at him the way you always used to- with utter love and devotion practically pouring from your eyes. It had been four years since the spell Peter had Strange cast in order to save the world.

In order to protect you.

“Hi, there.” Your kind, customer service tone snapped him out of whatever trance he had been sent into the moment you simply looked at him, “What can I get for you today?”

Peter’s palms instantly began to sweat the moment your voice graced his ears. This was the first time in four years that he had dared to approach you.

And that wasn’t for lack of opportunity- lord knows there were more than enough of those- but it was out of pure fear. Fear of allowing his selfish desires to come true.

In all of this time, Parker had been so scared that one glance in his direction from you and he would spill his guts about everything and just like that, you would be sucked right back into his life. His dangerous life. The one he had fought so hard to keep you protected from.

“Uh…” He could smack himself as he stuttered. Or, better yet, put his head through the nearest brick wall.

This had been such a spur of the moment decision, to approach you at work. He had fully intended on simply getting a drink from you- it was a hot night, after all, and he was thirsty. That was the logic he had tried to convince himself of anyway as he all but shook when he stood in line for the coffee shop that you worked the register at.

All these years, and the most he had done was watch you from afar every once and a while. Just to ensure that you were alright.

“Do you need another moment with the menu?” You asked, almost sympathetically, smiling at him in that gentle way of yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “It’s okay, that always happens to me too.” You laughed a little as you made small talk, “I get up to the register and immediately forget whatever it was that I was going to order.”

Despite the nerves, despite the fact that his heart was damn near trying to beat its way mercilessly out of his chest, Peter found a smile tugging at his lips. The first smile, he realized, had made its way onto his features in months.

“Yeah, exactly,” He spoke back, absolutely floored that his voice didn’t shake as the words tumbled out without thought, “Always makin’ a fool of myself.”

Even though he had just showered a mere hour ago, his mind kept circling back to the fact that he could totally smell right now and he might not know, but you could. Was this his mind's way of trying to cope with the jumble of emotions of being this close to you again? Because if so, he did not appreciate it in the slightest.

Your smile widened just a fraction when he actually engaged back, almost as if you were used to rude customers that would not humor you. The thought made him nearly sick to his stomach.

“That’s alright,” You reassured him with a quick glance behind him, and the moment your eyes left his form he felt as though he were hollowed out from the inside and left sun rays and empty after receiving the first hint of sunlight in a long time, “Nobodies behind you so you can take your time.”

His eyes quickly shot to the menu, just as pained from looking away from you as having you do the same, and quickly rattled off the first order his eyes landed on, not bothering to pay attention to what it actually was.

You nodded along, pressing buttons on the tablet in front of you that seemed to be miraculously working once more, “Alright, and can I have a name for the order?”

Peter’s throat immediately went dry as you looked at him expectantly with softened eyes, wholly unaware of just how badly your question shook him to his core.

After swallowing thickly and attempting to shove his nerves somewhere down deep that he could worry about later, he spoke in a voice that did shake slightly this time, “P-Peter.”

A warm smile made its way onto your face, one that might as well have been made with the heat of a thousand suns with the way melted his insides at once, “We’ll have that right out for you, Peter.”

The way his name rolled off your tongue, still effortless after all this time, all but vacuumed the air from his lungs and left him without any source to breathe.

But he wouldn’t have it any other way. He knew that he would obsess over this moment for the rest of his life if he could, he would replay the way you said his name and grinned slightly at him simultaneously over and over again. Never getting sick or growing tired of it.

He muttered a small ‘thank you’, unwilling to part with you so soon, but another customer had taken place behind him, and he knew there was only so long he could stand right in front of you and stare directly into your eyes until you began to grow uncomfortable, so he stepped aside.

Still keeping his eyes on you, he watched as you interacted with the woman behind him in the exact way you had with him. Warm, welcoming, and kind. The three words he would use to describe you perfectly.

And despite that- despite the way he knew this was just how you were- he couldn’t help but deflate. To feel his heart sink like lead in his chest.

He wasn’t anything special. Nobody that you would think twice about. He was just another customer and you served with a smile and then moved on with your day- with your life.

“Peter?”

He hadn’t even seen your coworker hand his drink off to you, nor the other customer take a seat at a table nearby and leave you standing there, breathtaking smile still in place and holding out his to-go cup.

Without hesitation, he strode across the cafe to stand before you once more almost as if your voice were luring him in and captivating him. Not that he would have it any other way.

“Thank you,” His voice was smaller than it was before, almost shy, and unknown to you, it was because he was grappling with the devastation of having to depart from you.

He had gotten his drink and the building was closing in a few minutes time, he had no reason to linger. No reason to allow himself the luxury of being in your presence for just a little bit longer.

Without even meaning to, his fingers brushed yours as he accepted the outstretched cup from your hand, and tingles immediately shot all up his arm. It was the same electricity he felt whenever the two of you used to casually hold hands- even after months of dating.

The self restraint Peter was displaying should be commemorated, he decided as he forced himself to pull back and take a tiny step backwards.

“My pleasure,” You spoke with a level of sincerity he would’ve thought to be fake or forced had he not known you so well, “Have a great night.”

Peter allowed himself to give you one last lingering smile, “You too,” Before stepping out into the night, listening to the bell above the door chime at his departure.

Once he was across the street, he turned and watched through the brightly lit window as you moved to hand off the other order from the lady that had been behind him, before turning and beginning to clean the counters to get ready to close up for the night.

Just like that, you had moved on from your interaction with Peter. Because, to you, he was just another customer. Nobody that stood out. Nobody that needed to be thought about twice.

But, to Peter? That small interaction meant everything while also breaking down every minuscule mend he had made in his otherwise fractured life that had overtaken him with the lack of your presence over the years.

You were screwed with how big your crush was on him, and him returning your gazes brought you hope you wanted to believe was real. But you hadn’t gathered enough confidence of proof to confront him.

But tonight… the thing you had hoped to be true for so long finally happened.

“I really like you,” he suddenly muttered while you were annotating your study book.

You frowned, feeling like you weren’t fully processing it at first, but at the same time knowing exactly what he said as your heart started jumping against your ribcage. “What?”

His cheeks immediately started turning pink. “Uh… I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that.”

You stared at him for a moment, seeing the way his face quickly gained more color, until his face was redder than his Spider-Man suit. So you couldn’t help smirking. “Is that a blush I see?”

Peter’s eyes widened, before he ducked his face down, scratching his neck. “Uh, no… is it really this hot in here or am I imagining it?”

You couldn’t help but laugh now, as you laid a hand on his bicep. “Peter.”

He looked up, swallowing, and opened his mouth before you could say anything. “I… I’m sorry, I just, I’m stressed, this whole semester has been, I haven’t slept much, and my other job, you know—”

You moved your hand up a little, to his shoulder, before you finally said the words you had wanted to say for so long: “I really like you too.”

He froze the moment, his mouth stopping mid-sentence. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, before he choked out, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” he mumbled. “Well, uh. Would you like to go to a date? With me, I mean. Not this week, but soon?”

You bit your lower lip, scooting a bit closer to him. “I’d love that.”

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