#spiderman reader insert

You place a cup on the receptionist's desk. "Morning, Betty—" you call over your shoulder as you drag the heavy door towards you, slipping through before it shuts. You're quick, a hurricane of efficiency as you glide through the open space desks and cubicles of The Daily Bugle to drop off the good coffee. Ever since the coffee machine had oozed its final shitty drop, you — the intern — had been placed on coffee duty.

It's grueling and demeaning — you had been editor in chief for ESU's collegiate newspaper, for fuck's sake! Your pride is shot every time Jameson turns you aside to give some old money hotshot undergrad a chance just to kiss ass to his daddy. But you're resilient and stubborn to a fault; you won't be pushed aside easily.

Like right now, you toss the brown coffee tray with terrifying aim and bring the largest cup to Jameson's desk as your way in. "Good morning, I got your usual."

He puffs on a cigar, the end lighting up amber as a sickly trail of smoke clouds around his head. You fight the urge to wince. "Good. Now get out."

"Wait, Mr. Jameson—"

The man lets out a low huff but he looks away from his computer screen enough to spare you a glance. You don't waste a second.

"I wanted to ask if I could take over for Eddie's workload for the weekend? I know he's away for—"

J.J. Jameson lets out a cackle of a laugh. It isn't malicious, it's genuine amusement and you don't know if that's worse. "Absolutely not, kid. Stick to the coffee runs, see if the actual writers here need help—"

"I landed a Spider-man interview."

Now that gets his attention, a shark sniffing blood in the water as your boss' eyes gleam with potential prey. Meanwhile, you force your spine to stiffen, live with the lie you just spouted.

"Really," Jameson questions anyway. "We're no friend to Spider-man, why would he say yes?"

To you, he must be latching onto the lie but still possessing enough sense to be careful not to piss off the one person who might be telling the truth. A Spidey interview is a rarity in and of itself for any journalist working at the Bugle — even moreso after the hero's closest brush to death just a couple weeks ago. Spider-man hasn't been seen much since his little show at the hospital window, only patrolling for NYPD and calling it in before disappearing.

You force yourself to shrug. "I don't know. He saved me the other day, asked if he could do an interview. The guy said yes and y'know…" you awkwardly mimicked that web-thwipping movement, "… swung away. Didn't ask why."

Your boss' eyes narrow but he nods. "Fine. We'll give you a slot for the next issue. Don't deliver and you're fired."

The smile you give him is effortless. "You got it, boss."

•┈┈┈••✦

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Jameson had let you leave early to work on that interview, to prep questions away from the chaos of the bullpen, a reprieve that any journalist may wholly welcome but a death sentence to you. You jostle your papers and notes as you rush down the streets of New York, barely muttering apologies to everyone you bump into as your impractical kitten heels click against the gummy sidewalks.

Your shoulder shoves the door open to your favorite deli, the bell ringing above your head. Shoving the scraps of paper and notes into your leather bag, you huff and lean against the counter with a pathetic groan. The man behind it gives you a loud, booming laugh.

"Don't fuckin' laugh, I had the worst day," you warn as you jab a finger at Delmar who raises his hands in playful surrender. "Gimme my usual."

"You got it, boss," Delmar chuckles as he watches you drop your head pathetically against the counter with a low thud, your whines muffled by the glass. "Wanna talk about it, sweetheart?"

"Told Jameson I got an interview with New York's finest."

"No shit? You got an interview with Spider-man?"

A rustling could be heard behind you, a man coughing into his coffee cup. You pay it no mind. "Of course I didn't—! That's the problem! I lied 'cause this is the one time Jameson saw me as more than a coffee grunt. God, I'm screwed…"

Another flurry of movement before the bell above the door rings. You finally glance over your shoulder, see a glimpse of a backpack and the back of some curly hair. "Here you go, kid." Delmar hands you a wrapped package, smelling of your favorite. "On the house, yeah? Just for today. Maybe if you're lucky, Spidey'll save your lying ass for an interview."

"I might just walk into traffic for it."

"Har har— you're kiddin' right?"

•┈┈┈••✦

Fortunately for you, you didn't have to walk into the busy streets of the city to get everyone's favorite webhead's attention. No, all it took was a burst fire hydrant, damaged in a three car pile-up. The metal debris had been heading straight towards your head if it hadn't been for Spider-man sweeping you off your feet. Literally.

He had moved so quickly; one minute you hear the sound of burst metal, the hub of the hydrant flying straight to you, and the next, you're tucked into the nylon spandex embrace of Spider-man and swinging between the buildings of New York.

Your stomach drops with gravity while your body catapults forward, ripping out a terrified shriek as your limbs lock around Spider-man. Your face is immediately tucked into his neck with a string of 'ohmygodohmygodohmygod—' each time he releases a web to swing forward.

"Hey, you're fine, I gotcha," he promises and that familiar Queens cadence soothes your raw nerves as you feel the slight jolt of his landing. Your eyes are still shut, legs hook around his waist and arms around his neck like a frozen koala. He gently pats your thigh. "You okay, miss?"

You crack an eye open to find yourself on an abandoned rooftop, safely away from the edge. The view that greets you nearly takes your breath away. It isn't until you realize that you're still wrapped around Spider-man that you quickly let go, nearly toppling onto your ass if it hadn't been for his gloved hands gripping your waist. "Sorry—!" You squeak out.

"Whoa, whoa— hey!" Spider-man reaches out for your waist when you try to step out of his space, keeping you from slipping into the puddle just a few paces behind. "You alright?"

His hands hover for a moment as you find your balance. When you give a nod, he steps away, watches your hands swipe down your coat before attempting to fix your windswept hair.

You're pretty.

The thought nearly runs him down and he hops away from your space to crouch upon the edge of the rooftop, hands resting between his knees. Spider-like, Frank had commented with a slight drawl of disgust. He blinks behind his HUD as he watches you try to take account of your items in your pocket, heart stuttering in his chest when you glance up to meet his eyes.

"Your heartrate is abnormally high," EV's robotic voice (that's been veering towards maternal lately) breaks through the silence and Peter nearly falls over in his rush to turn around.

"EV, shush—!" He mutters as he pats the side of his head, a physical attempt to literally silence the voices in his mask.

Your giggle breaks through his mutterings and he looks over his shoulder to see you, hiding a smile behind your hand. "Funny, is your AI assistant supposed to be heard through the suit?"

"Not really, only when I'm swinging. Wind gets pretty loud," he shrugs as he attempts nonchalance. Thank god you can't see the flush creeping up his cheeks.

He notices your finger twitch towards the small device peeking out of your pocket. Before he can focus on it, discern exactly what it is, you're pulling it out and crossing the distance on the roof to stand in front of him.

"Can I interview you?"

You have a recorder in your hand, a hopeful smile dancing upon your lips. His phone beeps in his pocket and he digs into the hidden, sewn pocket of his suit to pull it out. A robbery just a few blocks away. He sees your gaze drop to his phone, sees the way your face falls.

"How about we set up an appointment?" He says instead, puts his phone away and cherishes the way your smile returns. "Tomorrow night?"

You nod, racing to replace your recorder with your phone to thumb it into your calendar. "Yes—! You're a literal lifesaver, Spidey. Um… where can we meet?"

He opens his arms, gestures to the space around you. "How about this rooftop?"

A blaring siren, a dog barking, two nonas arguing in rapid fire Italian… you grimace. "How about my rooftop?" You suggest instead. "My apartment building is quieter." When he nods, you're digging into your pockets again to pull out a scrap of paper (a napkin from Delmar's) and a sharpie. You bite off the cap as you walk right into his space.

Your shampoo holds a hint of vanilla, maybe a touch of cherry blossoms, and his eyes flutter shut behind the mask.

"Here," you recap the marker, tucking it behind your ear as you hand him the napkin. "My address. We can meet on the rooftop maybe… tomorrow night at 8?"

Peter's nodding, tucks the napkin in the same hidden pocket where his phone lives. "I'll be there." He turns and climbs the ledge of the roof, raising his wrist to expel a sturdy web that attaches itself to a building across the street. Before he grasps with both hands, he turns to you. "What newspaper do you work for again?"

"Daily Bugle."

•┈┈┈••✦

Although he knows he'll be seeing you again in less than twenty four hours, he can't stop thinking about you.

It's odd, to say the least, when he's spent the last four years mourning a life he never had. Letting people in had felt too easy after all that time alone, like waiting for the hammer to drop. (That horrible rooftop with MJ that night still haunts him, although he doesn't blame Jean for it — not completely, at least.)

But maybe that had been his closure, a painful chapter of his life closing to begin a brand new day. He just didn't expect to latch on to a pretty girl so quickly.

His mind continues to wander as he swings through New York, attempting to brace himself for an interview that he has no way of prepping for. The last time he let his mouth run away from him, he ruined Dr. Strange's spell. No, this time — this time he's ready to be as media-trained as he could possibly be.

Peter's worked himself up to something more competent when he finally lands on your roof but all of it flies out the window when he sees you, hair up and gnawing on the end of a pen as the light of your laptop illuminates your pretty face.

"Spider-man, your heartrate is elevated once again—" EV warns and he yelps, smacking the side of his HUD goggles. Fortunately for him, you had only caught the tail end of his undignified shout and had peeked up just in time for him to land right in front of you.

You're sitting upon a lumpy couch, something abandoned by a tenant living below, and your laptop is sitting on a wobbly coffee table that has stains he doesn't want to begin to identify. "Spidey," you smile around the pen before you gesture to the rickety lawn chair across from you. "Welcome to my office. You want something to drink?"

Beside your laptop are two coffee cups, both still steaming. "Yeah, I could use a cup," he nods. Your eyes never leave his when he lifts his mask just enough to uncover his lips.

White male. Soft lips. Slight bruising along the jaw.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard and he tugs the mask down with an uneasy chuckle. "I haven't said anything."

"I know." You slide a hand-recorder over, hit the red button. "This is me, interviewing for the Daily Bugle, with Spider-man. You ready?"

He gives a nod then startles, leaning over to make sure your device catches his voice. Thickens the accent just in case. "Ready."

You giggle and tap something on your laptop. "You don't have to lean in so much, the recorder can hear you just fine. So— let's start from the beginning. What's your name?"

He smirks behind his mask. "Spider-man."

You don't waste a second. "How long have you been a superhero?"

"'Bout a few years now?"

"Oh, so you do consider yourself to be a hero. Not a vigilante."

He sits up at the rapid—fire response. "What's your question?"

"Do you agree with what the critiques of being called a spider menace?"

"You askin' me if I agree with your boss?"

That has you pausing, tilting your head as you regard the hero in front of you. "I'm interviewing you, Spider-man, not the other way around."

He shifts where he sits but he doesn't feign casualness. "No, I don't agree with your boss. I'm just tryin' to do good, that's all."

Your eyes narrow. "You're faking an accent."

Now it's his turn to laugh incredulously. "What— no, lady, I'm a New Yorker, born and raised."

"I know you are," you wave your hand dismissively before you're leaning over to pause the recording. "You're just… exaggerating it. Interesting. Don't worry, Spidey, that'll be just for me. I'm not trying to unmask you."

"You aren't?"

"No, that's not what I'm here for. I want to know you and what you stand for. Your goals. Your code." You press the play button and the recording continues. "So. Spider-man. How did you get your powers?"

"Pass."

"Wha— That's an easy one, isn't it?" The professionalism you wear like a fitted glove nearly disappears at the sudden refusal and Peter is grateful you can't see his grin as his hand darts out to pause the recording.

"It is but that can endanger me. My identity. There's a lot of anti-enhanced and anti-mutants rhetoric going on and—" He shakes his head, reclines back in the lawn chair with a tilt of his head. "I'd rather not get into that, especially with the break-ins at the Damage Control Centers."

You hit the play button again. "Alright, let's focus on you. Why do you do what you do? Fame? Recognition? The New Avengerz are wracking up brand deals like crazy."

"What— no. No, definitely not that. Me getting famous? That defeats the whole purpose of the mask," he chuckles. "No, someone important told me that having great power comes with a great responsibility."

"Sounds like a wise person," you hum. "And is that your code then? Something you live by?"

"I just want to do good, and not just for the big planetary monsters… but for the little people. Keep my nose to the ground, be everyone's favorite neighborhood Spider-man."

"Hm." You gnaw again at the tip of your pen before you're biting the cap, scrawling a few extra notes on a notepad beside you. You hold up the paper: QUEENS?

He chuckles. "Yeah, sure. I'll give that to you."

It doesn't narrow it down, Queens is the largest borough. "Anything you want to say? Something you've always wanted to share with the world?"

"Just… do good. Be good, you know? Look out for your neighbors," he shrugs. "Maybe leave out a churro for your favorite webhead once in awhile."

You laugh quietly to yourself and tuck the pen behind your ear. "I think I got some good stuff, thanks." After turning off the recording, you pocket the device and finish writing up a few notes on your laptop. "Do you think I can bother you for another interview someday?"

"Yeah— Yeah, I think you can. Already looking for a promotion?"

"Absolutely. Would it be too much of an ask if I could go exclusive—"

"Are you asking me out?"

You can't see his face but you'd bet everything in your bank account that he's probably smirking under there. Unfortunately for you, you don't have the luxury of a mask to disguise the blush that creeps up your neck and cheeks. "Exclusive interviews, webhead. Not— Not dating. I don't date."

"That's good. Neither do I," he shrugs before he gets to his feet, stretches to at least make himself feel as cool as he's hoping he's coming off as. "But… sure. Exclusive interviews for my favorite journalist."

"Still an intern. Technically."

"Hopefully that'll change after this interview." He flicks his wrist, a thick web attaching itself to the building beside yours. "See you 'round."

You nod and give an awkward wave that has both of you chuckling. "See you later, Spider-man."

•┈┈┈••✦

The bass has the walls pounding, a playlist that Ned's perfected in his final year at MIT and something that has MJ retreating to another room just to get a break. Regardless, it draws in a crowd larger than the original people they've invited, guests spilling out into the hallways and congregating near the kitchen for refills.

Peter wanders through the crowd, takes the cup from a stranger, and nods his head at MJ who gives him a half-smile. It's almost nice, learning how to be friends with the two most important people in his life. While neither of them have made any allusions to their life before the spell, no one has a rush to bring back those memories.

Ned's surrounded by guests but he manages to break away enough to greet Peter with their handshake. Right as they clap their hands onto each other's back, his friend perks up and waves at someone over his shoulder.

"Hey, you made it!"

"Barely. Jameson tried to get me to skew Spidey's answers but he finally approved my final draft," you huff. Peter freezes and when he looks over his shoulder, it's to see you.

You're dressed in casual office wear, dark circles hanging beneath your eyes but nonetheless pretty. That same damn pen is still sitting behind your ear. "Hi. Who's this?"

"I'm Peter," he manages to say, offering his hand. You give your own name, shake his hand, and pluck a cup from the counter, pour yourself a drink before taking a swig. He realizes he's staring, he knows this, but he can't help but drink you in. "You're… a journalist?"

"Now I am." Your smile is beatific and the cheers from Ned and the few guys that linger are just background noise. "Jameson finally promoted me. No more coffee runs, thank god."

"Congratulations," he smiles and clinks your plastic red cups together.

The music bleeds through the conversation, an easy wave to surf along as you and Peter migrate over to the open window. You lean against it, grateful for the cool breeze that soothes your heating skin. Your cup is long empty now but you don't let go, refusing to break this flow of conversation with this new guy that's completely stolen your attention.

"Careful—" Peter's hand shoots out to grip your waist when you nearly lose your balance, tipping out of the window and onto the fire escape. You hold onto his bicep to steady yourself. "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Shit, I've been talking about myself the whole night," you laugh as you tip your head back against the window. "Tell me about you. What do you do?"

"I'm… a consultant."

You bite back a smirk. "That sounds like a nicer way of saying you're unemployed, Peter."

"Ah, well. I make do. Little jobs here and there," he shrugs. His own cup is empty but he'd rather eat the damn thing than interrupt whatever flow he has going on with you. When was the last time since he had actually engaged in a conversation?

"The Daily Bugle has a photographer position that just opened up." You can feel his eyes snap to you but you keep yours fixed on the view outside, maintaining a nonchalant exterior that's fooling nobody. "If you want, I can put in a good word for you."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Sure. A favorite hero of mine said to look out for your neighbor, so… that's what I'm doing. Don't make me regret this, Parker, I'm sticking my neck out for you." Despite your gruff tone, he catches the shine in your eye and the smile you're fighting to hide behind the rim of your red solo cup.

"No, no, I'll be good," he grins before his phone beeps. Much to your chagrin, Peter starts to rise, picking up some trash in his vicinity. "Didn't know Spider-man was your favorite hero, though. You gave me more of a Daredevil follower."

Your eyes roll, knock back the rest of your shitty beer until your brain rewinds the last of his reply. Your mind is racing as he starts to meander through the waning crowds but before you could stop him, the door shuts.

"Holy shit."

Ned takes up Peter's spot, hands you a water bottle while you dig into his pocket to lift another sharkfire energy. At least he has the good sense to not fight you on it this time around. "What's up?"

You shake your head, your eyes fixed on the door that Peter had just closed behind him. Ned turns his head, wondering what you're staring at.. "I… I think I know who Spider-man is."

•┈┈┈••✦

Visit 1 - 2:13 am

The roar of Godzilla echoed through the social worker ward while you took a sip of your energy drink. Granted, in this lifetime, Godzilla remains a fictional character. Because who would have known how to survive Avengers fighting on one street, and Godzilla terrorizing the city on another street. 

The one perk about being an overnight social worker was there was a lack of clients, which meant finishing your notes from your previous evening rotation was a breeze. The down part? There was barely anything to do on the overnights other than notes and have mindnumbing movies playing in the background.

It was just you and Danielle in the social worker ward tonight. Technically just you now, Danielle is knocked out on the other couch. 

You were curled up on the social worker couch typing out your latest assessment and adding notes to the most recent client’s casefile. The click clack of the keyboard and the occasional roar by Godzilla echoed in the office; until your workline rings.

You glanced at the time, 2:13 am. You worked too many shifts to know which hospital extension is calling. 

"Hello?"

"Hi, anak. Are you busy?" Mary, the elderly Filipina charge nurse says.

You look at the half-finished assessment glowing on your computer. "Depends."

"I have one for you." Mary states.

Of course she does. You've also worked enough overnight shifts with her to know that when she calls instead of sending a message, she's already decided you're going somewhere. "What kind?"

There's noise behind her. Monitors. Someone calling for bloodwork. A stretcher rolling somewhere. "Young man. Mid-twenties. Came alone. Pretty beaten up."

"Assault?" You asked.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Mary sounded puzzled, something that never happens. 

You sit up slightly. "What did he say happened?"

"He's not making sense." She bluntly stated. 

"Medically not making sense or story not making sense?"

"Both." Mary stated.

You close your laptop halfway. "Okay."

"He has a concussion. Ribs. Shoulder. Cuts everywhere. Doctor asked what happened, and he said something about falling."

"Falling where?" You question.

"I don't know. Then he said something about a spider."

You stop and swung your legs over the edge of the couch. "A spider?"

"Yes."

"What does that mean? Mary, do you have Spider-Man in your department right now?"

"I don't know what this kid means by spider. Why do you think I am calling you?" She states.

You wait.

She waits.

"You called the sexual assault-domestic violence social worker because he said spider? Not even the regular social worker?" You said hinting at the snoring Danielle who was across from you, still somewhere in her REM sleep.

"No, listen." You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "He has nobody."

That gets your attention. "What do you mean nobody?"

"No emergency contact. Nobody to call. Nobody is coming. Says he lives alone." She says, still perplexed by the client.

"Family?"

"Says no."

"Partner?"

"No." That response from Mary puzzled you, because your whole thing was isolation and domestic violence.

"Friends?"

"He won't give anybody."

"Does he have somewhere to go?" You asked.

"Yes. Apartment."

"So what's making you think SADV?" You press Mary, because literally right across from you is the regular medical social worker who is trained for situations like this. 

There's a pause. Then, very seriously: "Because something is wrong."

You lean back in your chair. That isn't technically a clinical indication. But unfortunately, you've worked with Mary long enough to know that when she says something is wrong, she's usually noticed something everyone else missed.

"What are the injuries?"

She lists them.

By the third one, you're frowning. "Did anyone ask him directly about intimate partner violence?"

"Yes. He said no."

"Sexual assault?" You asked.

"No."

"Human trafficking?"

"He said ‘No.’ but it could be." Mary honestly said.

"Anyone controlling or threatening him?"

"No."

"So he screened negative."

"Yes."

You wait. "So why are you calling me?"

"Because he's twenty-something years old, he comes here looking like somebody threw him off a building, he has nobody, and every time we ask what happened, he gives a different answer."

You stare at the wall.

"That's not necessarily SADV." You stated.

"I know."

"Then why don't you call the general social worker?" You said again, staring at the sleeping Danielle; hoping that she would be the sacrifice so that you can now get some sleep.

"You are social work." Mary retorted.

"You know exactly what I mean."

She ignores that. "He needs somebody to talk to."

"Did he say that?" You pressed.

"No."

You sigh. "Does he even want to see me?"

Another pause from Mary, "...He doesn't know yet."

You close your eyes. "You can't just assign people to me because you have a feeling."

"I have been a nurse for thirty-eight years. My feelings are very good." Mary said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Despite yourself, you laugh. "That's not how referrals work."

"Come downstairs." Mary stated.

"I'm already downstairs."

"Then come more downstairs."

You glance at the time. "You're impossible."

"Room twelve." Click. Mary hangs up.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

You were standing in the elevator, silently cursing that you even answered Mary’s call. When you reach room twelve, she's standing outside waiting for you.

Tiny woman Filipina woman, silver-streaked hair, reading glasses hanging around her neck, arms crossed. “Took you long enough,” she looks toward the room. "That's him."

You glance through the doorway. There's a young man sitting on the stretcher.

Brown hair sticking up in practically every direction. Bruising developing along one side of his face. Bandage around his forearm. Hospital gown half covering what looks like extensive bruising across his shoulder.

He's talking to a resident. Smiling. Actually smiling. The moment the resident leaves, the smile disappears almost immediately.

You look at Mary, "He seems fine."

"Mm-hm." That particular mm-hm means she thinks you're an idiot.

"What?" You ask.

"Watch." She walks into the room, you know she is about to put your 5 years of social work to shame with her 38 years of nursing experience. "Sweetheart?"

The smile comes back instantly. "Hey."

"Your social worker is here."

His head snaps toward you. "My what?"

She pats his leg. "She is very nice. I called in the favour myself."

"I don't—"

"Talk to her." She encourages him.

Then Mary walks out of the room and straight past you. You catch her arm in the hallway. "Why did you tell him I'm his social worker?" You asked.

She lowers her voice. "Because otherwise he'll say no."

"He is allowed to say no. My whole thing is autonomy, you know." You said.

"Then he can tell you."

You stare at Mary, she smiles sweetly. "Thank you, anak." before she walks away. 

You stand there for a moment. Then turn around and walk into the room.

Peter looks up immediately, when he senses someone walk into the room, “Hi,” he breathes out.

“Hi. I'm one of the social workers in Emergency tonight. Is it okay if I come in?”

His expression changes slightly.

Social worker.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure.”

You walk in and pull a chair closer. “Do you know why they asked me to come see you?”

“No?” He stated honestly. You notice the genuine look of concern flash across his face. “Am I in trouble?”

“No.” You stated honestly, opening up his chart to a clean page. 

“Oh. Okay. Good.” he paused. “Because the doctor asked me a lot of questions already.”

“I know.” You stated.

“And the nurse.”

“I know.”

“And then another nurse.”

“I saw.” You stated, clicking open a pen.

“Okay.”

You smiles slightly. “I'm not here to interrogate you.” You reassured him.

“Great.”

“You look incredibly relieved.” You noticed.

“I've had a long night.” He said, you could tell he genuinely meant it.

“I can see that.”

Peter gives an awkward little laugh.

You start with the easiest questions. “Do you know what's happening medically? Did the doctor explain everything?”

“Yeah. Couple stitches. Nothing major.” Peter downplayed his injuries.

She glances at the chart. “You also have two fractured ribs.”

“Right, forgot about that.” He sheepishly said.

“And a concussion.” You added.

“Very small concussion.” He said, pinching his fingers together.

You chuckled, “I don't think concussions come in sizes.”

“They probably do.” He joked.

You look at him.

“…I'm going to stop talking.” He stated.

“That might be difficult for you.” You joked.

He actually laughs. And that's probably how you got him comfortable enough to start the assessment. “Where are you living right now?”

“Queens.”

“Apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone staying with you?”

“No.”

“Okay. Who would normally help you out if you were sick or injured?”

And there's the first real pause. Peter looks down at his hands. “I can take care of myself.”

“I didn't ask whether you could.” You said. He looks back up. “I asked who helps you.”

“…Nobody, really.” He honestly said, he was bracing for the pity party he was about to receive.

She doesn't react dramatically. “Parents?”

“No.”

“Other family?”

Another pause.

“No.”

“Partner?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

Peter hesitates. There are two people immediately in his mind. He just can't explain why they aren't people he can call. “Not really.”

That answer and slight hesitation made you pay a little bit more attention to the answers he was providing. 

Not because being alone automatically means something is wrong, but because he's a very young adult who's seriously injured, lives alone and apparently cannot identify one person who could help him after discharge.

“Is there anyone you'd like us to call?”

“No. That's okay.”

“Emergency contact?”

“No.”

“Anyone who knows you're here?”

“No.”

Now Peter realizes how this sounds. “But that's normal for me.”

“Okay.” You breathed out. You were trying to wrap your head around how someone could be so socially isolated.

It was almost like he read your mind, “I'm not, like... isolated.”

“I didn't say you were.” 

“I have people.”

“Okay.”

“I just can't call them.” That somehow sounds worse. Peter realizes it immediately. “Not because I'm not allowed to call them.”

You hadn't asked that either. “…Okay.”

“I mean, nobody's controlling who I talk to.” Peter watches the pen and thinks to himself, she's definitely writing something down. “I'm making this worse, aren't I?”

“A little,” you said honestly. 

You eventually moved into the safety questions. “Can you tell me how you got hurt?”

Peter has rehearsed this. “Bike accident.”

“At one in the morning?” You asked, giving him a, ‘really?’ look.

“Night biking.”

“With injuries to your ribs, shoulder, face and hands?” You asked.

“It was a really bad bike accident.” He said in a matter-of-fact tone so that you wouldn’t press anymore. 

“Where's the bike?”

And Peter freezes, he didn’t think that far ahead. “…Stolen.”

“After the accident?”

“Yes.” He nonchalantly stated.

“While you were injured?”

“Yes.”

“Did you make a police report?”

“No.”

You let the silence sit for a second. “Okay.” You aren’t accusing him of lying. That makes it worse. You quietly ask, “Did another person cause these injuries?”

“No.”

“Has anyone been hurting you?”

“No.”

“Threatening you?”

“No.”

“No current or former partner you're afraid of?”

“No.”

“Anyone you owe money to?”

“No.”

“Is anyone pressuring you to do things you don't want to do?”

“No.”

“Do you feel safe where you're living?”

“Yes.”

Those answers come much faster because they're actually true.

You recognize the distinction too. He's evasive about how he got injured, but remarkably clear when asked whether he's experiencing interpersonal violence.

Based off the answers he was giving, you decide to switch tactics. “Okay. What happens when you leave here?”

“I go home.”

“How?”

“Walk.”

“No.” You said hoping he would pivot and have a safer method home.

“Subway?”

“You have a concussion.” You reminded him.

“I take the subway with a concussion?” He sheepishly asked.

“That wasn't permission.”

“Oh.”

Then comes the question that unexpectedly gets him. “Do you have someone who can stay with you tonight?”

“No.”

“Someone who can check on you tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Someone I can call and say, ‘He's okay, but could you make sure he stays that way?’”

Peter smiles a little. But it's different from the nervous smiling earlier. “No.”

That’s when you realize he's genuinely alone. Not I don't want you contacting anyone. Not my friend is busy. There is nobody coming to help him.

Based off his answers, you don’t push him to explain why. That was never in the courses or trainings because it was never the person's fault; as per trauma informed principals or whatever that one professor said during your undergrad. “Okay. Then we'll figure out the safest discharge plan without relying on somebody else.”

Peter immediately looks relieved. “Thank you.”

And that's the moment when the interaction changes. Because Peter came into the conversation expecting the social worker to find a problem. Instead, she's helping him solve one.

She goes through transportation, medications, whether he can afford the prescriptions, whether he has somewhere stable to stay, food, follow-up care and what symptoms mean he needs to return.

“One last thing.” You said.

“Okay.”

“You've told me nobody is hurting you.”

“They aren't.” He cleared up.

“I believe you.” Peter looks slightly surprised at the words that left your mouth. “But I don't believe the bike story.”

Silence. His eyes widened.

You closed the chart. “You don't have to tell me something you don't want to tell me. But if there's something you're not ready to talk about tonight, you can ask for a social worker if you come back.”

Peter nods slowly. “Okay.”

You stand, “Try not to have another bike accident.”

He gives her that awkward little Peter Parker smile. “I'll try.”

She gets halfway out the door. “Wait.” he called out and you turned around.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have one of those…” He gestures vaguely. “Cards?” This concussion is really kicking his ass right now. 

She reaches into her pocket. “Here you go.”

“Goodnight,” you called out.

“Goodnight.”

And after you leave, Peter stared at that card for a few seconds before putting it somewhere safe.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

3 weeks later; Visit 2 - 2:54 am

Three weeks later, and you were still on your overnight rotation. This time Fast and Furious was playing in the background. The sound of engines revving were interrupted by the hospital extension ringing.

You don't look away from your computer when you answer because the only person who terrorizes you this late. "Yes Mary?"

"Anak." Of course she is the only one who sounds this pleased at almost four in the morning. "Come to Emergency."

"Why?" You asked.

"I have somebody for you."

"What kind of referral?" You said, knowing it probably was not SADV related.

There was a pause from Mary, "Your bicycle boy."

Your fingers stopped and hovered over the keyboard. "...My what?"

"The bicycle boy."

"I don't have a bicycle boy." You said, confused.

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"The one with the spider."

You sit back. Oh. Him. "What happened?"

"Another accident." She said, you could hear her flipping through a chart on the other side.

"Another bike accident?" You questioned.

"Apparently." Something in her voice tells you exactly how much she believes that.

"Did he screen positive for anything?"

"No."

"Then why are you calling me?" You asked, knowing this game was futile and you would be downstairs in the next 15 minutes.

"Because you talked to him last time."

"That's not how referrals work."

"Room eight."

"Wait—" Mary hangs up. Again. One of these days you will beat her by hanging up the phone first.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

You finally make it down to the 3rd floor and find Mary at the nurses' station. She sees you coming and immediately points toward room eight.

She smiles. "He asked if social work was here tonight."

You stop. "He asked for social work?"

"Not exactly."

"What does 'not exactly' mean?" You raised an eyebrow at Mary.

"He asked who was working."

"That's not the same thing." You retorted.

"Go."

You glance toward the room. "What happened to him?"

"Shoulder. Laceration. The doctor thinks maybe mild concussion." Mary said.

"And we're going with a bicycle?" You asked.

She gives you a look. "I told him maybe he should take the bus."

You bite back a laugh. "You're terrible."

"I am helpful."

You knock against the open door. "Hi. Can I—"

The patient looks up.

You stop.

He stops.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

Then you look at the sling. Then the dressing near his eyebrow. Then back at him. "...No."

His eyebrows lift. "What?"

"Absolutely not."

"You were here three weeks ago."

But something shifts in his expression. "You remember me?"

The question is so genuine that it catches you slightly off guard. You look at him. "You told me you got into a bike accident and then couldn't tell me where the bike went."

His mouth opens. "It was stolen." Peter reminded you.

"Right."

"It was."

"After you crashed it."

"Yes."

"While you were unconscious."

"I wasn't unconscious." He retorted.

"You had a concussion."

"Those aren't the same thing." He shot back.

You stare at him and glanced at all the visible injuries he had. He gives you an awkward smile. You then pointed at his shoulder. "So what happened this time?"

He glances down.

"Bike accident." Peter nonchalantly states.

God help you with this man, you close your eyes. "Peter."

The room goes quiet. When you look at him again, he's staring at you. Not smiling. Not joking. Just staring. "What?"

You instinctively look behind yourself. "What?"

"You remembered my name."

Now you're confused. "Yes?"

An emotion passes across his face that you can't quite identify. You assume it's embarrassment. It's not. You have absolutely no way of knowing that there was once a world where Peter Parker couldn't walk three blocks without somebody recognizing him.

Teachers knew him. Classmates knew him. His best friend knew the exact expression Peter made before saying something stupid. His girlfriend could recognize him from across a crowded room. His aunt could tell something was wrong from the way he said hello.

And then, suddenly, nobody knew him at all.

Peter has spent months introducing himself. Explaining himself. Being a stranger. So hearing his name come naturally out of someone else's mouth shouldn't mean anything. But it does. More than he'd like it to.

You pull the chair over. "You're kind of memorable."

His eyes drop and he avoids eye contact with you. “Right."

You sit. "Mostly because of the spider."

His head immediately comes back up. "There was no spider."

You smile. "There he is."

And for the first time since he came through the doors tonight, Peter doesn't feel quite so alone.

Despite him being a running client, you still do the assessment properly. "Anyone at home with you?"

"No."

"Still in the same apartment?"

"Yeah."

"Third-floor walk-up?"

Peter looks at you again but you don't notice. You're busy scribbling something against the chart. "Yeah."

"Any problems getting around after the last injury?"

"No."

"Did you follow up with your doctor?" You asked.

"...Mostly."

You look up. "What does mostly mean?" You raised an eyebrow at him.

"I thought about it."

"That is not follow-up." You stated.

"I followed up emotionally."

"That's not a thing." You stared, actually confused as to how this man survived this many years on Earth.

"It could be."

"Peter."

There it is again. His name. Peter looks down so you don't see the smile spread across his face.

Eventually you get to the safety questions.

"Anyone hurting or threatening you?"

"No."

"Anyone you're afraid to go home to?"

"No."

"Current or former partner causing you problems?"

"No."

"Anyone controlling where you go, who you talk to, or your finances?"

"No."

Those answers are still immediate. Whatever he's hiding, your instincts tell you it's probably not that. You put your pen down. "Okay."

He watches you. "Okay?"

"I believe you."

"Oh." 

"But I still don't believe you own a bicycle." You retorted.

Peter laughs. "Why are you so stuck on the bike?"

"Because you've allegedly destroyed two of them in three weeks." You crossed your arms and shifted in the chair.

"New York is dangerous."

"For bicycles specifically?" You asked amused, crossing your arms and leaning back into the chair.

"Very."

By the time you're finished, his discharge plan is straightforward.

Same apartment. Stable housing. Medication covered. No identified SADV concerns. Still no emergency contact. That's the only piece that hasn't changed. The method to these injuries? It sounds like a 5 year old made it up so that they could get out of trouble.

You stand. "Anything else before I go?"

"No."

"Okay."

You reach the doorway. "Hey."

You turn around and you notice there was a bit of hesitation from Peter. "Are you usually here overnight?"

You don't think much of it. "Sometimes. We rotate."

"Oh."

"Why?"

"No reason."

You narrow your eyes. "Are you planning your third bicycle accident around my schedule?" You half-heartedly joked.

"No." The answer comes much too quickly, Peter internally cringed at it.

You laugh. "Goodnight, Peter."

"Goodnight."

You disappear into the hallway. Peter sits there for a moment and looks down at his hands.

His brain went into immediate overdrive and overthinking mode. It's stupid.

She remembered him because he's been here twice. That's normal. That's literally part of her job. It doesn't mean anything. However, you remembered his name.

And for Peter Parker, that means considerably more than you could possibly know.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

2 weeks later; Visit 3 - 1:47 am

The Emergency Department is unusually quiet. Not quiet quiet. Hospitals don't do quiet. And God only knows if you jinxed it, all of the nurses would chase you around the emergency department like a 15th century witch.

But quiet enough that you've managed to eat half your dinner without being interrupted, which feels vaguely suspicious.

You're sitting at the nurses station finishing a yogurt and joking around with the nurses your age when you hear, “Anak!”

You know this could only mean one thing, "What?"

"Don't be mad."

You slowly lower the spoon. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!” She squeaked.

"You only say don't be mad when you've done something."

She presses her lips together. Then her eyes flick toward the hallway. You follow the trail her eyes made.

Room fourteen.

Curtain half closed. Sneakers visible underneath. You look back at her. "No."

She smiles. "Go say hello."

"Absolutely not."

"Your bicycle boy is back!” She announced.

You put the yogurt down on the desk, "You've got to be kidding me."

"Stitches only."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Because you'll see him anyway." She coos.

"I'm working." You retorted.

"So am I." She shot back.

"Then work." You said.

"I am working. I'm telling social work there is a vulnerable young man in my Emergency Department." 

You sighed, you never knew how Mary’s husband won arguments at home, "Did he screen positive?"

"No."

"Did he ask for SADV?"

"No."

"Does he have a social-work need?"

Mary thinks about it. "He makes poor transportation choices."

You stare at her. "That's not a social determinant of health."

"It could be."

“You,” you point your spoon at her, "you need hobbies."

"I have hobbies."

"Sending inappropriate referrals isn't a hobby.” You retorted, scooping up more strawberry yogurt.

"It is overnight." Mary stated in a matter-of-a-fact tone, like it answered her needs for a hobby.

You spun around in the computer chair, puffing like a little kid. "I'm not going."

"Okay."

"Good." You said.

A few seconds passed before Mary said something that made you spin back around, "He asked if you were working."

"He what?" You asked.

"Nothing."

"No. You just said—" Mary immediately cut you off.

"Very busy." Mary continues charting like she didn't say anything making a face.

Mary walks away. You stare after her and then toward room fourteen.

You hate that this works.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

You're technically going to the supply room. Room fourteen just happens to be on the way. That's what you tell yourself.

You're walking past when you glance through the opening. He's sitting on the stretcher. No sling this time, just a nasty cut along his forearm that somebody has temporarily dressed.

He's looking down at his phone.

You take two steps past the room. Against your better judgement, you stopped. Mary would never let you hear the end of this, you thought to yourself; before backtracking.

Peter looks up as he senses a new presence in the room. His entire face changes, it almost lit up like Times Square. "Hi."

You lean against the doorway. "Where's the bike?"

There's half a second of silence. Then he starts laughing. Not polite laughter. Actual laughter. His head drops forward, "Wow, not even a how are you?"

"I'm asking for clinical purposes."

"No, you're not."

"Mechanism of injury is very important to your file.” You said, leaning your head on the door. 

"I didn't say anything about a bike."

"You didn't have to, ‘cause no matter how many times I try to persuade you into using a different mode of transportation, you’re always on a bike.”

He shakes his head. "I actually wasn't on a bike."

You gasp. "Progress."

"See? I'm getting better, my social worker is doing a really good job."

Your eyes drop to the blood slowly seeping through the dressing on his arm. "Debatable."

He looks down. "Oh. This? It's not that bad."

"That's what you said about the concussion."

"That was a small concussion."

You stare at him. "You told me those don't come in sizes."

His words catch you for a second. "You remember that?"

Then you point toward his arm. "So what happened?" Peter visibly prepares himself as you narrow your eyes. "Think carefully."

"I was helping someone move."

You wait. "And?"

"And there was..." He's thinking. "...glass." He practically aha’d.

"Glass?"

"Broken glass." He declared.

"What were you moving?" You asked.

"A table."

"What kind of table?"

His eyebrows pull together. "Why does that matter?"

"It matters tremendously."

"It was just a table."

"Wood?" You said, spoonfeeding him the wrong answer; finally hoping that he would give you an explanation as to why he keeps showing up in the emergency department looking like he got pulled through oncoming traffic.

"...Yes."

"And the glass?" You gave him a ‘caught you’ look.

Peter pauses. You crossed your arms. "It was a glass-wood table?” He said, even he could hear the shakiness in his voice.

"A glass-wood table."

"Very popular." Peter declared.

"Where?"

"Queens." He takes a second before continuing. "You don't believe me."

"I believed you were injured." You said, partially agreeing with him.

"That's not the same thing." Peter puffed before laughing.

"No."

Peter laughs again. And you realize something. The first time you met him, every question made him tense. The second time, he'd relaxed eventually.

Tonight? He's comfortable. Still lying through his teeth. But comfortable.

"Are you assigned to me?" The question comes casually.

You shake your head. "No."

Something in his expression falls. Barely. But you catch it. "Oh."

"I was walking past."

"Oh." That one sounds different.

You glance toward the nurses' station. Technically, you should keep moving. He's not your referral. He's medically stable, Mary didn’t formally request for your services.

You're working. You have documentation waiting. Instead, you stay in the doorway. "Do you need social work?"

Peter looks at you. "No."

"Okay." You don't move. Neither does he. You finally break the silence, "How's the apartment?"

His eyebrows lift. "Still there."

"That's generally what we hope for." You let out a small smile.

"Heater works now."

"You fixed it?" You faked shock.

"Landlord did."

"Miracles happen!"

"And—" He catches himself.

"And?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

He scratches the back of his neck. "I actually went to the follow-up appointment."

You blink. "You did?"

"Yeah."

"Voluntarily?"

"Mostly."

You smile. "I'm impressed."

And there it is again. That strange little look. The one you've caught a few times now when you remember something about him. It disappears quickly. "Thanks."

One of the new nurses, Bayley, walks into the room carrying supplies. She looks between you. "Oh, good. Social work's here."

"I'm not—"

Peter immediately says, "She was just checking on my bicycle." The nurse looks confused and stares at you in bewilderment. "My nonexistent bicycle," he adds.

You stare at him.

He smiles.

Bayley rolls her eyes and clearly decides she doesn't get paid enough to understand either of you. "I need to stitch his arm."

"Right. I'm leaving." You step away from the doorway. "Try not to bleed on anything,” you half heartedly joke.

"I'll do my best."

As you were turning to leave, you took a look back at him, "Oh, and Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time, helmet."

He grins. "I wasn't on a bike!"

"Goodnight Peter."

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

3 weeks later; Visit 4 - 12:51 am

Peter knows he needs stitches.

This isn't one of those situations where he can put some gauze on it, pull his suit back over it, and pretend the problem doesn't exist until morning.

He's tried. Twice.

The cut along his side keeps reopening.

So now he's standing across the street from the hospital with his hood pulled over his head, staring at the Emergency Department entrance.

There are other hospitals. There are objectively several hospitals in New York City. Some are probably closer to his apartment.

He could go to any of them. He should go to any of them.

Peter looks at the illuminated sign above the entrance. Then crosses the street.

The triage nurse asks what happened.

"Construction accident." It's better than the bike. He's learning.

"What kind of construction?"

Peter hadn't anticipated a follow-up question. "Home."

"Home construction?" The triage nurse stated, skeptical.

"Renovation."

"At midnight?" She questioned.

"...I like working late." He said cracking a small smile at the end, even though he sounded unsure.

“You were doing home construction at midnight, and got a gash on your ribs?” The triage nurse clarified.

Peter nodded, “Uh huh.”

The nurse looks at him.

Peter smiles.

She doesn't. The triage nurse tightens the wrist band around his wrist. “Follow the blue line.”

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

It's twenty minutes before he realizes he's doing it.

Every time someone in scrubs walks past the waiting room, Peter looks up.

Nurse. No.

Resident. No.

Environmental services. No.

Another nurse. No.

He looks back at his phone. This is stupid. He isn't waiting for her. He's waiting to be seen. That's why he's looking toward the hallway. Obviously.

The doors open again. Peter looks up. Not her. He looks back down. Definitely stupid.

Eventually he's taken to a treatment room. A nurse cleans the wound. The resident examines it. Local anesthetic. Stitches. Tetanus status.

All the normal things Peter has unfortunately become very familiar with.

Nobody mentions social work. Which makes sense. He doesn't need social work. He knows that.

He has an apartment. He's safe. Nobody's hurting him. He doesn't need resources.

There's absolutely no reason for— "Anything else before I grab your discharge paperwork?" 

Peter looks at the nurse. "No."

She starts toward the door.

Peter’s mouth began to speak before his brain could even yield that this is a bad idea. "Actually—"

She turns. "Yeah?"

Peter immediately regrets opening his mouth. "Is..." He scratches the back of his neck. "...social work here tonight?"

The nurse pauses and blinks at him, "Social work?"

"Yeah."

"Did you need to speak to somebody?"

"No." That comes out much too quickly.

The nurse looks confused, why is this guy asking about social work if he doesn’t need it.

Peter tries again. "I mean, not need. I was just wondering."

"Why?"

Excellent question, which he really should have expected. "I've met one of the social workers here before."

"Okay…?" The nurse looks completely done with his nonsense. 

"A couple times."

"Do you know their name?"

Peter does. Of course he does. He just suddenly feels weird saying it. "Not really."

If looks could kill, the nurse would have had him 6 feet under three sentences ago.

Peter folds his discharge sheet unnecessarily.

"She's usually overnight."

"Oh." The nurse thinks. "There's somebody from SADV tonight."

Peter's head lifts. "Yeah?"

"I don't know who's covering."

"Oh." Peter’s demeanor immediately changes.

"I can check if you need them."

"No, no. That's okay." He said, waving the nurse off.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

The nurse leaves. 

Peter stares at the wall.

What is he doing?

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

You look up at the clock, 1:32 am. You're in another part of the department finishing an assessment when Mary appears in the doorway.

You look up. "What?" She smiles. Immediately suspicious. "No."

"I didn't say anything!” She feigns innocence.

"You have the face."

"What face?" Mary questions, following you around the back of the charge station finishing the chart.

"The face you make when you're about to involve me in nonsense."

She walks into the room. "Your bicycle boy is here."

Your pen stops and you look up at Mary. "Again?"

"Mm-hm."

"What happened?"

"Construction."

You blink. "Construction?" You were immediately confused.

"Apparently he has diversified." Mary said flipping through a different rooms chart.

A laugh escapes before you can stop it. "Is he okay?" The question comes out automatically.

The nurse notices. You notice that she notices. "Stitches. Nothing serious."

"Okay."

You go back to your documentation. She doesn't move. "What?"

"He asked for social work."

You look up again. "He did?"

"Mm-hm." Mary hummed.

"Did he say why?" 

"No."

"Did he ask for SADV specifically?"

"No."

"Then who did he ask for?"

Her smile grows. "You."

You stare at her. "He asked for me?"

"Not by name."

You narrow your eyes. "Then he didn't ask for me."

"He described you."

"What did he say?"

Mary waves her hand vaguely. "Overnight. Talks too much. Very nosy."

Your mouth falls open. "He did not say that."

"No."

She's delighted with herself. "He said the one he's met before."

You stare at her. "That's considerably different."

"Same meaning."

"No, it isn't."

She turns toward the hallway. "Room eleven."

"I'm working." You stated before going back to writing in the chart.

"So is he."

"He's a patient."

"Exactly." She winked.

"That doesn't even make sense."

Peter is putting his hoodie back on when there's a knock.

"You're branching out."

He freezes. He knows the voice immediately. He turns. You're standing in the doorway.

His smile happens before he can stop it. It's huge. Bright. Completely involuntary. You notice. "Hi."

"Hi." Peter responded, voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes move down to his side to take a better look at his bruising and stitches. "Construction?"

Peter looks offended. "Why does everyone say it like that?"

"Because last month it was furniture."

"There was glass." He pointed out.

"Before that, bicycles."

"Allegedly." You cross your arms.

"How's the bike?"

"Retired." He said, shoving his belongings back in his pocket.

"Good. It deserves peace."

He laughs. And there it is. That feeling again. The weird loosening in his chest that happens when you walk into the room.

You remembered. Again.

"I heard you asked for social work."

Peter's smile falters. The charge nurse betrayed him. "Oh."

"Everything okay?" You said, his demeanor immediately shifting.

"Yeah."

"Do you need something?" You asked.

"No."

You wait. You can tell his brain is going into overdrive trying to figure out a way to vocalize one of his needs.

Peter suddenly finds the floor fascinating. "I just..." he started. He could lie. He's very good at lying lately. Apparently not to you, but generally. "I wasn't sure if you were working." The words came out quieter than he intended.

You pause. "Me?"

He shrugs. "Yeah."

"Why?"

There it is. The question he has absolutely no answer prepared for. Peter looks at you. "Because..."

You wait, part of you hoping it was something more. But you knew that immediately put your license at risk.

"...I wanted to make sure you knew the bike wasn't involved." He said, feeling absolutely stupid for coming up with such a lie.

You stare at him. Then start laughing. Peter's shoulders relax. "Very important update."

"Clinically significant." He gave you a toothy grin.

"I'll document it immediately." You said, leaning your head against the door frame.

"Thank you."

You step into the room. "Seriously, though. You're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Safe at home?"

"Yeah."

"Nobody bothering you?"

"No."

"Still no emergency contact?"

His smile fades slightly. "No."

You nod. You don't push. "Apartment?"

"Still there."

"Heater?"

"Still working."

"Follow-up appointments?" Peter grimaces. You point at him. "Peter."

"I went!"

"All of them?"

"Define all."

You sigh.

He grins.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Peter was in the process of signing his discharge paperwork while you’re finishing up his chart.

"Goodnight." He says.

"Goodnight." You smiled back at him.

He turns and begins to walk off. Then, after three steps, "Hey."

You look up.

Peter has stopped. There's something hesitant in his expression now. "Glad you were working."

Before you can answer, he turns and keeps walking.

Mary slowly appears beside you. You don't look at her. "No." You put your finger up, it was too late to have Mary start with you.

"I didn't say anything!” She raised her hands in innocence. 

"Don't."

"Very handsome,” she cooed. 

"Oh my God." You ruffled your own hair, knowing that Mary is going to terrorize you with bicycle boy all night.

"And polite." She cooed. 

"Please go away."

"Goodnight." Mary walks away laughing.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Peter gets halfway down the block before the embarrassment hits him. Glad you were working. Why did he say that? Who says that?

He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets. He's being ridiculous. You're his social worker.

Well. Sometimes. Not even technically tonight.

You're just someone at the hospital who happens to be nice to him. Someone who remembers his name. His apartment. His terrible excuses. Someone who looks genuinely relieved every time she realizes he's okay.

Peter stops at the crosswalk. The light changes. People move around him.

And for the first time, he allows himself to admit something very small. When he'd decided which hospital to go to tonight, he'd hoped you'd be here.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Six Weeks Later; Visit 5 -  2:08 A.M.

Peter doesn't choose the hospital this time. That's important. The ambulance does.

He'd been helping during an apartment fire when part of a ceiling came down, and while Spider-Man had gotten everyone out, Peter Parker had apparently lost an argument with several hundred pounds of drywall.

So now he's in the back of an ambulance wearing borrowed sweatpants, a hoodie someone from the fire department gave him, and absolutely none of his dignity.

"Which hospital?"

The paramedic tells him.

Peter's head lifts. "Oh."

The paramedic glances over. "Problem?"

"No." Peter settles back against the stretcher, practically nestling in.

"No problem."

He looks toward the ambulance doors. And despite the throbbing in his shoulder— he smiles.

2:31 A.M.

Mary sees his name before she sees him. She looks at the tracking board. Looks again. Then turns toward the paramedic bringing the stretcher through. Her face changes immediately. "Oh, anak."

Peter lifts his head. "Hey tita."

She walks over. "What happened to you?"

"Ceiling."

She stops. "Ceiling?"

"Yeah."

"No bicycle?"

Peter smiles despite himself. "No bicycle."

She pats his arm. "Very good."

"I don't think that's the takeaway." He laughs.

"You're learning." Then she looks over his injuries. Her expression becomes more serious when her eyes settle on the bits of drywall in his hair. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Peter nods.

"You always say yes."

"I'm consistent."

"Mm-hm." Mary starts walking alongside the stretcher.

Peter tries to sound casual. "So..." Mary looks at him. He immediately loses confidence. "Busy tonight?"

"Always."

"Right."

They continue down the hallway. Peter waits. She says nothing. He tries again. "Everybody working?"

Now she looks at him. Not suspiciously. Knowingly. Peter instantly regrets the wording. "Everybody?" Mary wiggles her eyebrows at him.

"You know. Staff."

"Yes. We have staff." She said waiting for him to admit who he was looking for.

"Right."

The corner of her mouth twitches. Peter looks toward the ceiling. He could just ask. He's an adult. He fights aliens. He's been to space. He can ask one elderly woman whether another person is working. "Is—"

"No."

Peter looks at her. He hasn't even finished. "No?"

"She's not here."

Something in his chest drops. "Oh."

Mary notices. Of course she notices. Peter looks away. "Okay."

"She's off tonight." Mary said putting the blood pressure monitor on him.

"Right." He nods. "That's good."

She raises an eyebrow. "Good?"

"People should have days off. Healthy work-life balance." Peter said cringing, knowing he sounds absolutely stupid right now.

"Very."

Peter nods again. The stretcher reaches his room. Mary pats his shoulder. "Don't worry. We still take good care of you."

Peter smiles. "I know."

But it's smaller than before.

3:16 A.M.

The doctor says nothing is broken. Peter has a badly bruised shoulder, several cuts and a mild concussion. Again. Apparently his brain has decided concussions are a hobby. He's sitting on the stretcher when someone knocks. "Peter?"

He looks up immediately. For one stupid fraction of a second, his heart jumps. Then a man he doesn't recognize walks into the room. "Hi. I'm with social work."

"Oh." Peter hopes his disappointment isn't visible. It absolutely is. Peter glanced at the badge on his lanyard, Ethan.

"I understand you've met with our department before."

"Yeah." He nodded.

"Your nurse asked me to check in because you came in alone and there were some questions about discharge." Ethan stated, flipping to a blank page. 

Peter nods. "Sure."

Ethan sits. And he's nice. That's almost worse.

Professional. Warm. Patient. 

He asks the same kinds of questions.

"Still living alone?"

"Yeah."

"Any concerns with your housing?"

"No."

"Anyone at home you're afraid of?"

"No."

"Anyone hurting or threatening you?"

"No."

"Any current or former partner you're concerned about?"

"No."

"Do you have someone who could stay with you tonight because of the concussion?"

"No."

"Anyone we could call?"

"No."

Peter knows this routine. He knows where the questions are going.

He answers easily.

Nobody is hurting him. He's safe at home. He has food. His rent is paid. He has somewhere to sleep. He can access his medication. No substance-use concerns. No suicidal thoughts. No trafficking concerns. No violence at home.

Same answers. Same circumstances. Same kind of assessment.

And yet— it doesn't feel the same.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

Peter shakes his head. "No."

"Anything else you need before I go?"

"No. I'm good."

"Okay." The social worker stands.

Peter hesitates. Then, "Actually."

He turns. "Yeah?"

Peter knows he shouldn't ask. He asks anyway. "The person who's usually here..." The social worker waits, giving him an encouraging look to keep going. Peter rubs his thumb against the edge of the hospital bracelet. "Is she..."

He stops. What exactly is he asking? Is she okay? When is she working? Does she remember me? That last one sits somewhere uncomfortable in his chest.

"Is she still working here?"

"Who?"

Peter describes you. The social worker recognizes who he means. "Oh. Yeah."

Peter's shoulders loosen before he can stop them. "Okay."

"She's just not on tonight."

"Right." Peter nods. "Cool."

The social worker gives him a small smile. "I can leave her a message that you were asking for her, if you'd like."

Peter's eyes widened. "No no." The answer is immediate, realizing how it sounded, “It’s okay.”

"Okay."

"I was just wondering."

"No problem." Ethan reassured Peter.

"Like, professionally."

Ethan pauses. Peter hears himself. Why did he add that?

"Okay…” Ethan said absolutely confused as to what Peter is on.

"Because I've met her before."

"Got it." Your coworker smiled awkwardly.

"Several times." He said, internally cringing.

"Peter."

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to explain."

Peter closes his mouth. "Right."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

The door closes.

Peter drops his head into his hands.

Fantastic.

3:52 A.M.

He can't sleep. That's normal in hospitals.

There's always something happening. Machines. Footsteps. Overhead announcements. Someone coughing two rooms away. Peter lies there staring at the ceiling. Usually, by this point, you'd have appeared. Sometimes annoyed. Sometimes carrying coffee.

You'd lean against the doorway and look at whatever new part of him was bandaged.

Bike?

And he'd say No.

And you'd pretend to be disappointed.

It's stupid. It's such a stupid little thing. But the room feels different without it.

Without you.

Peter turns onto his side. Immediately regrets it because of his shoulder. "Ow."

He rolls back. Maybe he likes having the same social worker. That's normal. Continuity of care. That's a thing. He likes that you know his history. He doesn't have to explain everything again and retraumatizes himself is how he frames it.

Except—the social worker tonight had clearly read his previous documentation.

He already knew Peter lived alone. Already knew there was no emergency contact. Already knew about the previous SADV screenings.

Peter hadn't needed to explain much of anything. And he'd still spent the entire assessment wishing it were you sitting in that chair.

Oh.

Peter stares at the ceiling. That's inconvenient.

4:27 A.M.

Mary comes in with his discharge paperwork.

"Good news."

Peter sits up. "I'm being evicted?"

"Yes."

"Finally."

She hands him the paperwork. "Doctor says rest."

"I will."

"No swinging from buildings."

Peter freezes. She looks at him. He looks at her. There's a beat. Then she points toward his paperwork. "I mean no climbing. With your shoulder."

Peter slowly exhales. "Right."

"Why? What did you think I meant?" Mary squinted at him.

"Nothing."

"Mm-hm." She said.

Peter could tell that Mary knows at this point. That is the only logical reason she is harassing him with swinging instructions. 

She starts reviewing the instructions.

Peter only half listens. Then, while she's checking something on the computer, he asks, "When is she back?" He could absolutely smack himself right now if he could. His mouth opened before his brain could even cooperate. 

Mary stops typing. Peter realizes what he said. He tries to recover. "I mean—"

She turns her head. "Who?"

He knows she knows.

She knows he knows she knows.

Peter sighs. "You know who."

Her face softens, not teasing this time. "Tomorrow night."

Peter nods. "Okay."

She studies him. "You want me to tell her you were here?"

"No." Again, immediate.

"Why not?" Mary raised an eyebrow at him

"Because."

"Because what?"

Peter folds the corner of his discharge paperwork. "I don't know."

The nurse watches him for a moment. Then she understands something Peter hasn't quite managed to articulate. "You wanted to see her."

He looks up. It's not phrased like a joke.That somehow makes it harder. Peter gives a small shrug. "I guess."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer. Mary waits. Peter looks toward the hallway. Then down at his hands. "She's..." He searches for the word. Nice? Plenty of people are nice. Helpful? So was the social worker tonight. Funny? Yes, but that's not quite it. "She remembers me."

Mary's expression changes. Peter immediately feels stupid. "I know that's literally her job."

"No." Mary started. He looks at her. She pulls the chair closer and sits. "No, anak. That's not what you mean."

Peter doesn't say anything. Because she's right.

He remembers the first time you said his name without checking the chart. Peter.

Like it belonged somewhere in your memory. He remembers you asking about his heater. Remembering the third-floor walk-up. Remembering his follow-up appointment. Remembering the stupid bike. He remembers walking into the hospital and looking for you.He remembers Kind of memorable.

And somewhere along the way, the hospital had become one of the only places where someone recognized him before he introduced himself.

But tonight had taught him something else. Because someone else knew his chart. Someone else knew his circumstances. Someone else offered the exact same resources. It hadn't mattered.

Peter hadn't wanted a social worker.

He'd wanted you.

Mary stood. "Go home."

Peter looks up. "That's your advice?"

"Yes." She nodded.

"Very clinical."

"I have been a nurse thirty-eight years."

"So I've heard." He responded.

"And Peter?"

"Yeah?"

Her eyes narrow. "Don't come back tomorrow just because she's working."

His mouth drops open. "I wasn't going to!"

"Good." Mary fluffed the top of his head.

"I don't intentionally come here!" Peter defended himself.

"Mm-hm." 

"I don't!" He felt like he was losing.

She pats his shoulder. "Goodnight, Bicycle Boy."

"There wasn't even a bicycle this time!"

"Progress." 

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Outside — 4:51 A.M.

Peter steps into the cold air. His shoulder hurts. His head hurts. He's exhausted. He should go home. Instead, he stands outside the hospital for a moment and looks back through the glass doors.

Tomorrow night. The thought arrives automatically. And immediately after it, No. Absolutely not.

He's not coming back tomorrow. Obviously. That would be insane. He hopes very strongly that nothing happens tomorrow requiring medical attention.

He starts walking. Then catches himself thinking, maybe next time. Peter stops.

Next time? He's anticipating a next time now? He rubs a hand over his face. "This is bad."

A man walking past gives him a strange look.

Peter ignores him.

Because for months he's been telling himself that he likes seeing you because you're familiar. Because you already know the situation. Because explaining his life to strangers is exhausting. Because you're his social worker. Except tonight another social worker had known everything necessary. And Peter had spent the entire conversation waiting for him to leave.

He hadn't missed social work.

He'd missed your laugh. Your sarcasm. The way you said his name. The stupid bicycle joke.

The way you always asked whether he'd eaten after you finished the questions you were actually required to ask.

The little look of relief you tried to hide whenever you realized his newest injury wasn't serious.

Peter starts walking again. Slower this time.

And somewhere between the hospital and home, the thought finally settles into place.

Not dramatic. Not terrifying. Just undeniable. He likes you.

Peter shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and groans. "Oh, come on."

Because apparently losing everyone he'd ever loved, becoming anonymous to the entire world, and rebuilding his life from nothing wasn't complicated enough.

Now Peter Parker has a crush on his social worker.

It was by seconds, you see. Mere seconds.

If Peter hadn’t taken on so much, or insisted on fighting every bad guy in New York all at once, he might’ve been able to turn around long enough. To jump after you, to catch you, to save you. You’d slipped through his fingers in a matter of seconds. Gone, just like that. Who knew that life could be so fucking fragile?

Peter never forgave himself, but he knew that you would have.

He had never done much to make you mad, but you always forgave him. You stood your ground and it was a fine line between forgiving him for his shortcomings, but never forgetting. Your heart was too big and held too much love for him to ever stay mad for long. He thanked whatever god there was everyday that he’d been the one to find you before anyone with ill intent had. He was far from a saint but, fuck. He always tried everything in his worldly power to protect that heart of yours. It broke him to know that he hadn’t done a good enough job.

The years that followed your death were hard. Spiderman’s mission was no longer fuelled by a need to do good. It wasn’t even to avenge - revenge, more than anything. Every person who was linked to the night you passed saw justice served in some way or another.

It still didn’t help. No matter how Peter punched and hit and cried bloody murder at Manhattan’s thugs, nothing stopped the pain. Every time he unlocked his phone and saw your bright, smiling face staring back at him, he felt his heart break all over again. It was why he never got rid of that phone; even when he upgraded to an iPhone, he still carried that shitty flip one around like it was sacred to his well-being. It was a relic of better times.

Five years passed and he still hadn’t moved on. He was almost twenty-six now - working as a freelance photographer and still going to May’s four times a week for dinner. Aside from a few one-night-stands and short lived flings, Peter hadn’t known love since you’d died. There were millions of people out there who would have done it in a second but to him, you were the only person capable of it in the way he needed.

To him, your love was the finest wine in the fucking world. Everything else was bullshit in comparison.

And so, Peter carried on. Plodding along with half-a-heart and wearing that goddamn denim jacket every day. It reminded him of you and of his Uncle Ben.

It was a regular Wednesday afternoon when Peter managed to trip and fall…into another universe.

To be honest, he hadn’t even realised it was happening - not until two high school kids had started calling his name. They were looking for a Peter Parker; just not him, apparently. It wasn’t the Short One With The Ring (he hadn’t known Ned’s name at the time) began to talk about a multiverse that things started to make sense. Actually, that was a lie. They became a lot more confusing. And then they got even worse when another Peter Parker turned up. This one was older and a little blonder and yet still somehow quintessentially…Peter.

With a semi-decent amount of convincing and the promise of an explanation, Peter followed Ned, M.J and Other Peter to a basement. It looked like something out of Harry Potter. Ned’s explanation of a multiverse began to make sense at that point. Peter Parker - but not himself, or The Other Peter Parker - had tried to fuck with the fabric of the universe and now…here he was. And they were too.

Now, Peter had had a lot of flashpoint moments in his life. Most of them involved you; meeting you, kissing you for the first time, losing you, etc. They were ingrained into his brain, right into the very foundations of it. They were part of him now.

But there was nothing - nothing - in the plains of human existence that could describe the moment he saw you again.

Stood in the corner of Stephen Strange’s lab with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, scrawling down notes. It was only then that he’d realised he’d begun to forget so many little details; the beginnings of laughter lines by your eyes; the slight specks of different tones in your irises; the way your brows were almost always furrowed with intense confusion at the universe. All products of your curiosity and intelligence at the idea of a greater understanding. Ending up in a magic wizard’s basement was a very you thing.

“Hey,” Peter put a hand out, grabbing your shoulder. “Hey. It’s me.”

You jumped, thinning your eyes at him. “Do I know you?”

“It’s…” he trailed off. “It’s me. C’mon.”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” you pulled your hands away from him.

“That’s not funny,” he said. “Don’t mess around. Not right now, not when-”

“ - I’m not messing around,” you cut him off. “I’m sorry. I genuinely don’t know who you are.”

He did look a little familiar; warm auburn eyes and tousled, brown hair; pale skin that was littered with years worth of battle scars. He wore an intensely confused impression, remnant of someone who had seen a ghost from the past.

Little did you know, that was exactly what you were.

He wanted to reach out and touch - to hold you. To take you in his arms for the first time in years and give you the hug he’d been needing ever since you’d died. He wanted to breathe you in - it was always the smell of the Chanel you stole from your mum and the occasional cigarette you tried so hard to hide - and just remember. To remember you; remember how it felt to be completely tied up in your universe; for to be the axis of his, spinning and spinning, so wildly out of control that he was free falling and completely lost in his feelings.

Peter Parker had lost his mind grieving for you. He was about to lose it all over again if you didn’t give up this act.

“You really wanna pretend, huh?” he tried to force a smile. “Because I can go along with the act, if you want. If you really want to be the funny one-”

“- stop it!” you snapped. “I don’t know the fuck you are, okay?”

“Guys, c’mon,” The Other Peter stepped in between the two of you. “We’ve discovered today that there are many, many universes. It’s more than likely that she exists in more than one of them.”

Your eyes flickered between them. “God forbid more than one of me exist. That sounds exhausting.”

Peter shook his head, refusing to believe it was even a possibility. How could the universe be so cruel? To make another version of the person he’d loved most in the world and lost and then make them…not know him. How could there even be a version of you that didn’t love him? After all, your love for Peter Parker was made up of so much of you. It was part of your core; practically part of your nervous system. If this you didn’t love him, then it wasn’t really you. It was just someone that looked like you, and sounded like you, and had the same, stupid face as you.

“That’s not possible,” he murmured.

Peter couldn’t beg you to remember because you hadn’t forgotten. You just hadn’t known him in the first place. All those memories - awkward high school dates and long late nights of talking, promising forever to one another without truly knowing what it meant, losing all your firsts to each other - existed only in his memory. They hadn’t taken place in this world. Just your little bubble; the universe that existed between just you and him.

“It’s entirely possible,” you countered. “There are millions and millions of timelines out there. There’s probably hundreds of me - I mean, there’s three of you right here.”

“These are other versions of me,” Peter said. “But you’re…you. You look the same, and you sound the same, and you’re, you’re-”

“- you got recast, I guess,” you cut him off.

That was such a you thing to say. He hated it.

M.J and Ned were staring at you with wide eyes. Multiverses were one thing on their own but multiverse drama? Now, that was the kind of thing they couldn’t get on T.V. The amount of possibilities and realities that they’d come to discover in the last ten minutes was blowing both their minds. Almost enough to completely take it off of Peter. Not either of the Peters in front of them, but their Peter, the one from this universe.

They really needed to come up with a naming system.

“Were you two friends in your universe?” Ned asked.

Your Peter looked at him with sad eyes. “We were close, yeah.”

“That’s so cool,” you grinned. “Did I have a birth-mark on my ass in your universe as well?”

“...you did.”

“On the left or right?”

“The right.”

“That’s insane! It’s on the left here,” you exclaimed.

Peter was trying his best to fight back a smile, despite everything. He hadn’t had a conversation like that with you in five years and for a split second, it was like you were never gone. Then the realisation that this wasn’t you - not really, not truly - hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Other Peter waved his hands between the two of you. “We have more pressing issues. We have villains from each of our universes out there right now.”

You looked at Other Peter, but your eyes flickered back to your one very quickly. “Fine - but I have so many more questions about Alternate Universe me that I want to ask later.”

“Of course,” he gave you a breathy smile. “I’m Peter Parker, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter Parker. I’m (name),” you said, stuck out your hand for him to shake.

series tag/peter tags: @disastersim @elinedjarin @whatawonderfulusername @edencherries @jedi-valkyrie @makkarrii @plutoneu @chaoticevilbakugo

A knock on your driver’s side window made you jump violently in your seat, you looked over through your tear filled eyes, the figure obscured and blurry but you still knew who it was. Your window slowly rolled down as you wiped the tears from your eyes and the sight of Peter Parker was finally clear. 

“You okay?” Is all he asks, concern evident with how his brows furrowed and lips are twisted into a frown. 

“Oh… You know, just family being family.” You chuckle as if you hadn’t just been caught bawling your eyes out. “Are you guys still having that Christmas party? I know I said I probably wasn’t gonna come but…” 

“Hey don’t even worry about it, you’re always more than welcome. It actually just started not too long ago.” He reassures you, opening the door for you once you unbuckled yourself. “MJ was just asking about you actually.” He held his hand out for you to take, helping you out of your car even though you didn’t really need it, Peter was just doing what Peter did best. 

“That’s so sweet.” You say with a watery smile, the tears welling up again in your fragile emotional state. 

---

You were awestruck when you walked through the door, one of the break rooms in Oscorp having been decorated so perfectly, not a single inch of the room had been left untouched by streamers, tinsel, or shiny red and gold decoration. The tree was beautiful too, perfectly decorated and standing tall in the corner. Norman very clearly took advantage of the opportunity to go all out when Peter had brought the idea of a party up at the beginning of the month. 

“Oh you came!” MJ came up to you with a beaming smile, a cup of apple cider in her hand. She gave you a warm hug, rubbing your back with her free hand, “It’s so good to see you.” She said with a softer smile, one that told you that she was here for you. 

“We’ve got food, music that Norman insisted on being played, non alcoholic drinks because it’s twelve pm, and your best friends to help you feel better.” Peter placed a hand on your shoulder “Oh and Octavius is here too.” Peter wiggled his eyebrows at you with a smirk plastered on his face, making your face heat up. 

“Shut the hell up, Parker.” You laugh, hitting him in the chest with the back of your hand. 

“Oh, don’t tease them Peter.” MJ half heartedly scolded with a smile on her face, “He is here though, right over there.” 

She pointed at Otto, who was standing in front of Norman laughing at something he had said. The tentacles on his back moved around occasionally, thankfully no longer a nuisance on him like they had been. He was wearing a deep red turtleneck and the long black coat that he always wore. 

“You guys are evil.” You muttered to yourself as you quickly averted your eyes and looked back at MJ. You risked a glance back at Otto, finding that he was already looking over in your direction. He gave you a small smile, waving at you. 

“Oh god.” You whisper under your breath, waving back at Otto with a smile.  “Do I look okay?” You ask them anxiously

“You look great.” MJ says, placing a comforting hand on your bicep. 

You spent the remainder of the party talking with Peter and MJ. Eventually Norman made his way over to you followed by Otto, who still had the ever present smile on his face slowly nursing his own cup of apple cider. The hours went by filled with laughter, pleasant conversations, and scientific discussions you didn’t understand. 

But things came to a halt when Peter stopped abruptly mid sentence and glanced towards the window just in time for a loud explosion to be heard in the distance. 

“What the hell was that?” You asked, your arm brushing against Otto’s when you turned to look at everyone else. 

“I don’t know…” Peter said slowly, quickly making his way to the window and pushing some of the streamers out of the way so he could see outside “Shit, I have to go. I’m so sorry guys, I promise I’ll be back just in time to help clean up.” He was rushing out of the room, giving one final wave to you all and letting the door close behind him.  

“Well, I feel like it would be a good time to call it a night before a car gets thrown through my building with all of us in here.” Norman jokes, already making his way to the food table and taking a snowman sugar cookie from the plate they were placed on, “I’m going to get more trash bags, I’ll be right back.” 

“Yeah, I’m gonna go help him find those, be right back!” MJ said following after Norman. 

A nervous heat began to rise in your body at that realization that you were standing in the room alone alone with Otto next to you, hoping you didn’t seem too awkward as you turned to the side only to see Otto already looking at you from over the rim of his cup.

“I guess it’s up to us to start cleaning then.” He said with a soft chuckle. 

“I guess so.” You agree. 

Both Otto and you went to opposite sides of the break room, filling the trash bags with the streamers and tensile that were hanging all over the room. 

You were really glad you came to the party, even if it had ended as abruptly as it did, it helped you forget how horrible your morning was. You couldn’t have been more thankful to have Peter and MJ in your life. 

You’ve been best friends with Peter and Harry since high school they’ve seen many of your highs and lows throughout your life, especially when it came to your family, and in the end Peter and MJ were always by your side. 

Once the trash bag you were holding was almost entirely full you wanted to place it by the door, you looked down at your sweater, adjusting the sleeves around your wrists as you walked to the door, looking up just in time for you to almost collide with Otto who had also not been paying attention to where he was going. 

“Oh shit, sorry!” You rush out as you lightly bump into each other. Otto’s hand instinctively caught your forearm to steady you just in case you fell, “Should’ve been watching where I was going.” 

“It’s no problem.” Otto smiles, his gaze soft. “Did you get everything over there?” He asks, looking up at the ceiling where the streamers had been skillfully hung by Peter’s webs. 

His eyes lingered on a certain spot above the both of you though, you followed his gaze to the little green decoration hanging above both of your heads. The mistletoe was tied at the end with a red bow with gold edges, hanging just high enough above the door to not be shut into it.

“Oh…” You whisper with a slightly awkward chuckle, “I didn’t even know that was there.” 

“Me neither.” Otto muttered, his cheeks becoming a soft red, “We don’t… If you don’t want…” He trails off awkwardly.

“Well I mean if you don’t…” You add, “I mean…” Your face became hotter as you carefully pushed out your next words quietly, “It is tradition… It’s actually kinda interesting because in Norse mythology Loki actually used it to kill Baldur. But in some stories he’s resurrected and Frigg was so happy that it became, well… What it is...” You trailed off awkwardly, your rambling coming out slightly strained as you tried to alleviate the anxiety you felt while standing beneath the taunting green plant with the man you’ve had feelings for. 

Finally you were able to tear your eyes away from the mistletoe to see Otto already staring at you for the third time that night, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want just because it may be tradition.”

“Who said I didn’t want to?” You say before even thinking, your brows furrowing when you look into his deep brown eyes, happy that they weren’t being obscured by the sunglasses he sometimes wore. 

Otto seemed taken aback by your quick response. Your eyes fall to his lips when they part only slightly, “I…” He starts but doesn’t finish as he throws caution to the wind and leans in, your lips touching in a soft kiss. 

Your hand comes up to rest on his bicep, drawing yourself a little closer as you kiss him back hoping to diminish any doubts he may have. His own hand makes its way to your jaw, his thumb softly stroking against the apple of your cheek before you slowly pull away from each other. 

You found it hard to open your eyes, still feeling as if you were floating on a cloud, but when they fluttered open you looked into his beautiful brown eyes which looked back, swimming with emotion and a small smile plastered on his face. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while.” He whispers. 

“Me too…” You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. 

“Sorry I took so long! There was this huge- oh!” Peter stopped in tracks after swinging into the window you had left open for him “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” He held his hands up, you could practically hear the smug smile he had behind his mask as you and Otto quickly separated from each other “Glad you guys found the mistletoe through! Great party, I’m gonna go ahead and find MJ, bye!” And just as fast as he came he was gone again through the same window. 

You fluttered your eyes closed when you felt him blow light air right above your clit. “Please!” You groaned out, pushing your head behind his head to pull him in closer to stop his teasing. He shook his head, getting your hand off as he glanced up to you with a smirk. “That’s what whores do. Are you a whore, baby?” He whispered, making you widen your eyes, and shake your head vigorously.

“No! I’m good, please!” You begged back, as one of his fingers circled closer down your thigh. “Don’t fucking touch me then.” Peter bit back, making you sigh and nod to him, just desperate for one touch. He grinned at your compliance and pushed himself closer, moving his nose right up against your clit. You gasped in surprise and let out a swear loudly.

He breathed in deeply, and sighed against you, making you shudder again. “Peter, please!” You moan out, pronouncing his name more. He frowned up to you, slightly moving away. “Call me sir.” He spoke up, digging into your thighs again with his fingers. You held your breath and nodded as he rested back down to his position.

Peter opened his mouth to let out his tongue, gently licking you. He avoided your clit, instead just continued all around as you moaned and shifted around. “S-sir, please!” You whimpered out, trying to move your hips to where he would be closer. Peter gazed up to you, “Tell me what you want, angel.”

You felt yourself flush from the nickname, as you tried grinding your hips down even more. “Please, touch- or lick my clit, sir. Please!” You begged, hands clenching into the sheets. He smiled slightly at your plea. He set his tongue out again, licking a long stripe, hitting your clit, just how you wanted, and you cried loudly in relief.

Your thighs squeezed around his head without a conscious thought, and you quickly moved them away when you felt his tongue stop. He chuckled against you and you shivered from the feeling. “No more. Get up, whore.” He sighed out, scooting out away from your legs. You groaned in frustration and quickly grinded your thighs together, trying to get some relief. Peter quickly smacked your leg, making you gasp and spread them again.

“On your knees.” He commanded and you quickly widened your eyes and nodded. “What’s the safe word?” He murmured, wiping the sweat off your face as you got up on the bed. You furrowed your eyebrows, turning around with your knees on the sheets, and you faced the rest of your room.

Your eyes drifted to the door, widening when you saw the handle jiggle. “Wait, fuck, Peter hide!” You whisper shouted over to your boyfriend as your emotions shifted to panic. Peter scrunched his face in confusion, “What?” He asked back dumbly, as you stumbled off your bed, and picked up your towel you threw on the ground after your morning shower with Peter.

You quickly wrapped it around, covering yourself up, as Peter gasped, suddenly aware of the situation. He whipped his head back and forth around your room, groaning when he couldn’t find a place to hide fast enough as the door slowly started to open. He tumbled under your sheets, slowing his breathing as you shifted from one foot to the other, blinking nervously.

Your dad pushed the door open, staring at you oddly. “What took you so long?” He wondered, as he looked behind you. You cleared your throat, shifting in his line of vision. You glanced behind you, internally cringing when you saw Peter’s clothes and shoes on the floor, combined with yours.

“Shower,” You immediately answered back, as your hands started to tremble. You breathed in through your nose, almost groaning at the smell of sex in the air. Your dad raised his eyebrows to you, nodding and opened the door even more, to step inside.

He glanced up at you, “You aren’t wet though?” He questioned back, and you bit your lip, hiding your thinking of how you most definitely wet. “I was doing…stuff in the bathroom.” You answered hesitantly. Your dad sighed, shaking his head.

“I know you’re lying.” He shot back, making you flinch. Oh fuck. You glanced around nervously, as you wiped your face. He continued, “I heard someone shout.” Your eyes widened, cursing yourself in your head. What were you shouting though? You tried thinking about it, but your dad continued.

“Sir? It sounded like they were in pain or something.” Steve continued. He really didn’t mean to interrupt whatever you were doing but when he heard you scream, he ran over, hoping you were safe. He didn’t expect to see you standing there like that, with the clothes on the floor. He shook his head, wondering who the fuck was sleeping with you, hurting you. You were his daughter, and the idea of someone hurting you, made him clench his fists tightly, wanting to punch whoever else was here.

“…I was watching porn?” You hummed out, shaking your head at your lie, realizing how screwed you were. Your dad stepped through the room, glancing around in places, wondering where the person was. “Y/n, you have five seconds to get the fucker out of here. I’ll give them another five seconds to run.” Steve responded instantly, and you shook your head.

You instantly glanced over to the bed, making Steve scoff. He stepped forward, pushing you away when you tried stopping him, to reveal Peter, lying underneath the sheets, shaking in fear. “You fucking hurt her! Why would you-” Steve cut his screams off by grabbing onto Peter’s shoulder, dragging him out of the bed.

His underwear was still on thankfully, and you let out a breath. It was a good idea that he put on his underwear after the shower, well sort of. You yelled at your dad to stop as Peter quickly stood up, stumbling. “I-what? I didn’t hurt her!” Peter denied quickly, holding his hands up in defense.

“Yeah dad! Peter’s my boyfriend, and we’re both legal and it was all consensual!” You shouted, making Steve glance back to you. He scoffed out, pointing over to you and tilted his head.

“Consensual? You were hurt!” Steve shot right back at you, making you cringe slightly. Peter was still shaking as he glanced over to you. “I- uh, I like that type of stuff,” You confessed, instantly shutting your eyes as Steve gasped out in shock.

He looked over to your boyfriend, who nodded back. “It’s all safe, uh we’ve been together for a few months.” He mumbled, trying to stop his shaking. Steve backed away slightly, nodding. He shook his head in disbelief, not wanting to hear anything more.

“Just…don’t do that when I’m here, I’ve got to go. Y/n, we’re talking about this later.” Steve spoke up, making your eyes open slightly. You nodded back to him and glanced over to Peter who sighed in relief. Your dad scoffed again and shook his head, stepping out of the room.

“Shit, Peter.” You giggled out in disbelief. Your boyfriend huffed out a few breaths and nodded back to you, “Yeah, shit.”

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