love’s never wasted when it’s shared

“I’m alright.” The words leave his mouth with a heavy sigh, failing to reassure the butler like he wanted as he sinks into the cushion. The adrenaline of the night had worn off long before he got home, but now that he wasn’t moving, he could feel every ache in his bones. “Get some rest, Alfred. I’ll be right behind you. I…just need a minute.”

“If you insist, sir,” the butler says, knowing that anything other than an agreement would fall on deaf ears.

Bruce watches Alfred quietly slip out of the study and shut the door behind him through half-hooded eyes. Just a minute, he reminded himself as the room’s newfound darkness, with the exception of the dim glow of the lamp in the corner, weighed on him. His eyelids felt droopy, his arms felt heavy, and his back throbbed in pain.

He didn’t want to move; he wasn’t entirely sure if he even could, but he did know that you were waiting for him, and all that he could see when he closed his eyes was you, cocooned in the duvet, greeting him with the sleepiest smile and a kiss.

His mind drifts off, thinking about you upstairs: were you awake? It was well past four in the morning by now, but he knew the possibility of your anxiety letting you rest without knowing he was safe, regardless if he was in bed with you or not, was slim. What were you wearing tonight? When he left for patrol, you were still in your pretty sun dress. Did you change into one of his shirts after you showered? Or did you opt for a slip tonight? Or maybe you were wearing the short pink pajama set you bought a few weeks ago?

His breathing slows, and he manages to muster up the last bit of his energy to take off both the cowl and cape, lazily draping them over the arm of the chair before fully leaning back against the headrest. His eyes grow heavier with each passing moment until his body surrenders to exhaustion, allowing him to rest his tired mind and aching body.

—

One of your hands grips the railing of the staircase tightly while the other rubs sleep from your eyes. The sun was beginning to rise, and with no sign of your husband, so was your anxiety. You could hear the sound of your heart beating in your ear over the creaks of the floors as you descended down the stairs.

Batman operated at all hours of the night and well into the morning, whether he was out on patrol or not. Your husband was more than likely in the cave working on a demanding case, completely drained and in desperate need of a cup of coffee. At least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself because the alternative made your stomach twist into knots.

He had gotten a lot better at coming to bed since the two of you got together. At the start of your relationship—and post vigilante identity reveal—it was rare that he’d make it to bed with you. Prior to moving into the manor, you rented an apartment near city hall, and during that time you would awake to a very sleepy (and bloody, depending on how the night went) vigilante abusing the tiny first aid kit you kept and crashing on your sofa. After moving into the manor, you had grown used to the sight of him face down in front of the computer, surrounded by case files and a blanket Alfred would put over him.

That’s how you hoped to find Bruce tonight.

Exhausted but home.

Your feet pad across the wooden floor, only stopping once you reach the door to the study and slowly open it. The light from the rising sun and from the lamp inside illuminates the room enough for you to make out the shape of your husband, slumped against one of the armchairs.

A soft smile forms on your face as you step into the room and hear his low snores. You study his face for a moment, drinking in the slight part of his lips and the way his features relax. There was no tense jaw or furrowed brows; there was only rest and traces of fatigue courtesy of the bags under his eyes.

“Oh, honey,” you whisper, brushing the few strands of hair out of his face.

The last thing you wanted was to wake him, but you also knew that his back would be killing him in the morning. “Honey,” you say a little louder, shaking his shoulder in an attempt to get him up. “Cmon, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”

You expected it to work. You’ve seen him shoot up with ease the second one of the kids tried to wake him. He would jolt out of bed with complete awareness and brief panic. But this was different. He was leaning into your touch, pressing his shoulder against your palm in his sleep.

It was obvious to you that waking him was a losing battle and that you’d be hearing about his back pain in the morning. So with delicate but precise hands, you reach for his blue gloves, gently sliding them off his hands and setting them on the end table. Your fingers ghost over the buckle of his utility belt next, but his hand loosely wraps around your wrist before you get the chance to undo it.

Your eyes dart to his face, watching as he repeatedly tries and fails to keep his eyes open. “It’s just me,” you say softly. “Just taking off the belt so you can be comfortable.”

He drops his hand at the sound of your voice, letting you unbuckle and remove the belt from around his hips. “Sweetheart?” he rasps out.

“Yeah?”

Bruce stretches his arm out, groaning in the process. “C’mere.”

“How about you come upstairs?” You suggest, bending at the waist and resting your palms on his thighs to support yourself. The muscle jumps under your touch, and a subtle frown graces his face.

​“Can’t. Carry me.”

You giggle at the mental image his words paint: you carrying big ol’ Batman up a flight of stairs. “I’ll need at least three of me to do that,” you joke, moving your palm from his thigh to push his chest down until his body goes lax and sinks back into the chair.

He mumbles something that you can’t quite make out and reaches for you, situating his hands on your hips and tugging you into his lap. “Stay then.” He shuffles around, adjusting you in his lap until he finds a comfortable position for both of you to sit in.

Your legs were hanging off the arm of the chair, and your head rested in the crook of his neck. He kept you close, with one hand draped around your waist and the other holding the side of your leg. “You’re wearing the set,” he murmurs, touching the hem of your sleep shorts.

“I am,” you hum, stretching your hand behind you to grab hold of his cape, haphazardly covering both your bodies as best you could. “Missed you.”

His hand slides down from your waist to your hip and lightly squeezes it. “Missed you too.”

“Go back to sleep,” you whisper, tilting your head up to kiss his jaw. “Alfred and the kids will be up before we know it.”

"And you?" he grumbles.

“Baby,” Peter whimpered against your lips as you reached between your bodies to undo his belt buckle. He should have known movie night was going to end like this: him squirming under you. He rushed over to your place after patrol and joined you on the couch, pulling you into his side while the beginning of the movie began to play.

He didn’t take into account that it had been over a week since the two of you had seen each other, courtesy of the semester coming to an end, finals, and work consuming your lives entirely. He should have known he was done for the second you started kissing his neck, nipping and sucking on the sensitive skin, marking him in the way he craved until he moaned and begged for a kiss. “Please,” he breathed out, “Want kisses…missed your kisses.”

The plea was all you needed to hear for the movie to be forgotten and for you to straddle his lap and put your lips on his. This kiss was different from the one you gave him when you opened the door and greeted him. That kiss was sweet, fleeting, something that said ‘it’s nice to see you.’ This kiss was slow and needy, something that, along with the slight rocking of your hips against his, said ‘I missed you.’

“Baby,” he whimpers again, holding your hips and anchoring them in place, rolling his own up until the rough denim of his jeans presses against your thin sleep shorts.

“So eager,” you tease as you press your hands to his shoulders and use them to steady yourself as you start to grind against his bulge, your wetness soaking past your shorts and on his jeans. Your lips curve into a smile when his breath hitches, “You like that, don’t you, pretty boy?”

“Yes,” he breathes out, looking at you with half hooded eyes and parted lips.

Your breath catches in your throat when the friction of his jeans rubs against your clit. “That’s it, honey. Just like that. So good for me,” you praise, picking up the pace of your rocking.

Peter squirms under you, moaning at the sensation, and gripping at your hips. He makes a failed attempt to guide your hips when one roll of your hips causes his eyes to flutter shut and drop his head back. “Eyes on me, pretty boy,” you coax as you rut against him.

You watch his face as he pants, his eyes opening just enough for you to see the dazed look in them, and his hands falling from your waist to the swell of your ass. “Fuck,” he whimpers. “Feel so good, baby. Missed you…missed you so much.”

“Keep going, please,” he begs as he starts bucking his hips up against you. “Please, baby.”

“Such a good boy,” you praise, your once steady rocking now rapid and desperate. “My good boy.”

“Yours,” Peter pants, “Always a good boy for you.” His eyes screw shut, his bucking becoming sloppy, and a loud groan escapes his throat. His chest heaves and he squirms in place, his body jolting as he comes in jeans.

“That’s it, honey,” you whisper, continuing to grind against him. “Did so good for me. Needed me so bad, didn’t you?”

He nods his head, his breathing harder, with tiny whines falling from his lips as his seed seeps beyond the confinement of his boxers and jeans and through the fabric of sleep shorts. He watches your face contort as you grind, your mouth opening as your head rolls back. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you continue to rut against him. “Tell me how much you needed me.” 

“So bad,” he cries. “Thought about you all week. Needed you all week. Always need you.”

“Peter,” you moan as your rhythm falters and your thighs start to tremble.

His hands twitch and grip your hips, bucking up and grinding into you as you chase your own high. “Oh!” You gasp as the friction and pressure of his denim against your clit finally sends you over the edge. “Perfect,” you breathe out, leaning forward and resting against his rising chest. “My perfect boy. Perfect for me.” 

Peter’s heart thumps under your ear, his exhales sharp and rapid as he comes down from his high. “Only for you.” 

“Yeah?” You tease, pressing a hand to his chest to prop yourself back up. The aftermath of tonight was evident on his flushed face, glossy eyes, and sweat glistening forehead. “Just for me?”

“I’m all yours, baby. You know that.” 

You smile, brush the strands of hair sticking to his forehead away using your free hand before caressing his cheek. “I know, but it never hurts to hear again,” you muse. The corners of his mouth curl up as he closes his eyes and leans into your palm, savoring the feeling. “Can we do this again?” 

“We can do this any time you’d like," you assured. "And Pete?"

"Yeah?"

“Peter!” You scold, smacking his chest as the heat of memory creeps up your neck.

“It’s true!” He muses, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Plus, you call me baby. I think calling you my girl is fair game.”​

A rebuttal rests on the tip of your tongue. If this were any other date with any other guy, you would’ve shot down the playful possessiveness. But this wasn’t any other date with any other guy; this was a date with Peter: your friend and the guy you’ve had a crush on since Betty introduced you to him at the Daily Bugle’s holiday party two years ago. Being his girl was a title you wanted, and if he was willingly bestowing it upon you, you saw no reason to argue against it. “I suppose it is.”

He hums in response, clearly satisfied with your answer. “I forgot to ask, have you been to the restaurant before?”​

You shake your head as the two turn the corner onto your street, “I have not. I’ve been wanting to since I moved into the neighborhood, but hadn't had the chance until you suggested I choose the spot when you called.”​

Peter nods and gives your waist a soft squeeze. “I’m glad we got to try it together. I also had a really great time.”

“Did you, now?”  ​

“I’m with you, how could I not have a good time?”​

“Sweet talker,” you playfully accuse, stepping forward once the red hand of the walking sign changes to the person walking.

“Sweet enough to come upstairs and see your new apartment?”

You raise your eyebrows at him, pleasantly surprised by his ask. “You helped me move in, Pete. You’ve seen my place.”

“But I haven’t seen the place since you furnished it,” he counters.

“I see…so you want the house tour?” You tease as you reach the entrance to your apartment building.​

“I want whatever you’ll let me have, sweetheart.”​

You brace against the brick wall, turning to face him, taking the time to admire the way he looks under the golden glow of the street lights. There was something so romantic about the way he looked standing in front of you in a half-zipped puffer jacket that exposed the white button up and tie he had on underneath, cheeks and nose a little red from the cold air nipping at his face, with his fluffy hair left unstyled in the perfectly messy way it always was. “And if all I want is for you to come inside?”​

Peter grins at your question, stepping closer and resting his hands on your hips. “What are we waiting for then? Lead the way.”​

—

“Take your shoes off, baby. House rules.” You tell him as you unlock the door to your apartment, step inside, and turn on the lights

Peter shuts the door behind him, kicking his shoes and neatly placing them in front of your shoe rack. He glances around the apartment, taking in the open layout of the space and shrugging off his coat. Your cozy little kitchen was the first thing you saw when you walked in. The dark brown cabinets and wooden countertops complemented the many magnets and photographs on your fridge nicely.​

He hangs his coat next to yours and steps further into the apartment, eyes roaming over the pictures before landing on a photo strip of the two of you from when he was your plus one to a friend’s wedding a few months back. He glances over his shoulder at you, watching you unzip your boots, “You know, May took this from my apartment when I told her I finally asked you out to show her book club?”

“I know and I’m honored,” you half joke, putting your boots aside and joining him in the kitchen.

“You know?”​

“May and I gossip, baby. She told me all about nabbing the picture and you refusing to tell her about our dates. And I gotta say she made a shaky but damning case about how she and her friends had been waiting too long for us to get together for you to hold out on them now.”

He raised his eyebrows, “Since when do you gossip with my aunt?”

“Since I called her a few months ago to ask if she wanted to come to the dinner party I threw to celebrate my promotion. It was supposed to be a quick call, but then we started talking about our days, and you and it just spiraled from there. Now we chit chat every other week.”

“So that’s why she stopped asking me about our dates,” he thinks aloud.

You shake your head and reach for his hand, tugging him out of the kitchen, past the small dining table, and into the living room. “Partly. She knows she won’t get anything out of me aside from telling her that the date went well and that you were the gentleman she and your uncle raised you to be.”

“And that’s all you say?” He asks, glancing around at the way you decorated your living room. Everything was so…you. From the sofa to the throw blanket hanging over the arm, to the pillows, to the books scattered across the coffee table, to the framed pieces of artwork mixed in with pictures. Your apartment felt so lived in, considering you moved in only a few weeks prior.  

“I don’t kiss and tell, Parker."​

“I know. I know you don’t,” he responds, taking a seat on the sofa. “I love what you’ve done with the place, by the way.”

“Do you?” The question rolls off your tongue with ease and affection.​

He looks up at you, the smile on his face widening into a grin as you stand between his legs. “I do,” he affirms, stretching his palms out until they were firmly planted on your hips. “I really really do…definitely a view I can get used to seeing,” he continues, eyeing you up before tugging you into his lap.

Your hands press flat on his chest, pushing him back against the couch just enough for you to readjust your position and comfortably straddle him with your knees on either side of his hips. You lean back on his thighs and admire the dopey smile he was sporting. “If you’re lucky, I might even let you admire the view in the morning too.”

“Yeah?” He questions, tugging you closer and stifling a groan when your hip rolls over his. “And how lucky do I have to be to admire you in the afternoon?”

“My nights, my mornings, and now my afternoons? I’m beginning to think you have a thing for me, Parker.”

A familiar smirk graces his face at your teasing comment. “Am I that transparent?” He asks, sliding his hands down to the curve of your ass and kneading your flesh over the skirt of your dress that was riding up.

“Mhm,” you hum, craning your head down to kiss him.

The kiss, like all your kisses had been, started off slow with his lips moving gently against, letting you set the pace but allowing himself to be a little selfish in the way his hands roamed your body. He caresses your thighs, squeezing them as you start to rock against him.

Peter groans against your mouth, his hands jumping back to your hips to guide your movement, and taking the chance to try and deepen the kiss by running his tongue over your bottom lip.

“So eager,” you mumble, rocking harder against his growing bulge, grinning when he lets out a moan.​

“Can you blame me?” He breathes out, hiking up the fabric of your dress a little further until it bunches at your hips. “Look extra pretty tonight.”

“So beautiful,” he whispers, kissing along the length of your neck and reveling in the low whimpers you were letting out as you grind against him. “Can’t believe I get you all to myself.”

His quiet praises never failed to make you flustered, and tonight was no exception. “Such a sweet mouth.”

“I can get a lot sweeter,” he jokes, nipping at your pulse point.

Your hands move off his chest and towards his neck, loosening his tie and then traveling back down to toy with the buttons of his shirt. “Can I take this off?”

“Who’s eager now?”

“Still you,” you quip, rolling your hips over the tent in his pants to prove your point as you start to unbutton his dress shirt.

His head rolls back with a shaky moan, “Sweetheart, cmon—“​

“What the fuck!”

Peter’s head snaps up to look at you, a panicked look on his face as he tries to figure out what prompted the wide-eyed expression on your face. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You stammer over your words as you hesitantly touch his chest, “Y-your…are you…Is this real?”

He glances down at your hand tracing over the webbing of his spider suit and freezes. “Is this real? Are you Spider-Man?"​

He opens his mouth to answer, but the words get caught in his throat. He knew he'd have to tell you at some point, especially if the budding romance between the two continued to bloom, and he was ready to do so at a later point when things were more official.

​“Oh my god, please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who dress as him and hustle tourists for money. Wait, is this a sex thing?”

​“What?” He laughs, the question immediately making the anxiety weighing in his chest disperse.

​You smack his chest, “Don’t laugh! I’m serious! I don’t mind a bit of roleplay, but a heads up would have been nice.”

​“Not a sex thing,” he tries to assure, through stifled laughter. “It’s not, I promise. And I’m not one of those guys that walk around taking pictures with tourists in Times Square either.”

​“So you’re the real deal? You’re actually Spider-Man?”

​“I am.”

​“Prove it.”

​“Is the suit not enough?”

​“You know how many guys probably have a spidey suit tucked away in their closet?”

​He raises his eyebrow, “Do you know guys with a Spider-Man costume on hand?”

​“Three excluding you.”

​“Three?”

​“Is it that surprising? Spider-Man has a ton of fans.”

​“Yeah, but it’s mainly little kids that dress up as me. I’ve seen a few adults on Halloween and the ones in Times Square, but that’s it.”

​“You still haven’t proved that you’re him. You could just be some guy in spandex.”

​“I’m your guy in spandex,” he counters.

​“But is my guy the real Spider-Man or just another fanboy?” You question, your fingertips gliding over the spider logo on the suit.

​“So skeptical,” he teases as he unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve and reveals a wristband with a red device attached to it. “These are my webshooters. They have an optical sensor and when I move my fingers, it recognizes the gesture and shoots out the web.”

​He aims his hand at your dining table, curling his middle and ring finger towards his palm until a loud thwip! echoes through your apartment, and a web shoots out and covers the wood.

​“Woah!”

​“They dissolve in about two hours.”

​“Wow. I want to touch it,” you blurt out, starting to move off his lap, only for him to catch your waist and hold you in place.

​“Don’t. It’s really sticky, and I don’t think either of us are interested in waiting two hours for you to get unstuck.”

​You nod and sit back against his thighs. “I’m guessing this isn’t how you were planning on telling me.”

​“Not at all. I completely forgot I had the suit under my clothes. Admittedly, I didn’t think the night would end like this. I thought I’d walk you home, maybe get a couple kisses before you send me on my way, but then we started flirting, and I made the comment about coming up, and then you said I could, having the suit on didn’t really cross my mind.”

​He squeezes your waist and pinches the fabric of your dress between his fingers. “It’s really really hard to think about all of that when you’re on my lap and kissing me and grinding on me.”

​“Too horny to think,” you conclude with a light laugh.

​“Yeah,” he huffs out. “Is this a deal breaker for you?”

​“Definitely not. I’m a little worried about your health and well being, but this doesn’t change how I feel about you. Or well it does, but not in a negative way.”

​“What does that mean?”

​“Your big brain and even bigger heart are two of the many reasons why I’m crazy about you, Pete. You being Spider-Man is just an enhancement of what I already knew; you’re a good man.”

​He breathes out and drops his head to your shoulder, “Good. That’s good. This is good. I know you probably have a lot of other questions, and I’ll answer them.”

​You hum in agreement and thread your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “I do have a lot of questions, but I’d much rather finish the house tour before we get to that.”

​“Finish?”

​“Haven’t even seen the bedroom yet, baby. What kind of tour guide do you take me for?”

​You could feel his lips curve into a smirk against your shoulder before he picks his head up to look at you. “I see. Wouldn’t want to leave things incomplete now, would we?”

​“No, we would not.” You whisper, leaning in to give him a fleeting kiss and sliding off his lap. “If you’d follow me this way, I’d love to take you there. It’s my favorite room.”

​He stands up and reaches for your hand, letting you lead him down the hallway. “Any reason why?”

​“There’s a theory that it's a place where your dreams come true. You’re a man of science, do you want to test that theory?”

Riding the subway late at night always made you anxious, regardless of how often you did it. You hated the unsettling feeling that crept up on you when standing alone on an empty subway platform like you were tonight. What you hated even more was the minor panic that shot through your body when you felt the eyes of a rather erratic looking man land on you as he trudged down the steps to the platform.

You tried not to look at him, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. He wasn’t just watching you; he was observing you. Observing the way you kept a straight face and stared across the tracks at the other platform, only breaking your trance to periodically gaze up at the arrival time signs. “Do you have a lighter?” He rasped out, stepping closer to you.

“No,” you answer, trying your best to keep your voice steady to avoid letting the fear rising in your chest spill out.

He lets out a huff, continuing to move closer. “You’re not even going to check?”

You take a step back as he approaches. “I’m not a smoker, sir.”

“Oh, c'mon, there has to be something in that bag that I can use,” he mutters, reaching for the straps of your purse. The man tries to tug the straps off your shoulder, smirking when he feels the resistance of you pulling the bag back towards you.

“Just let go, kid.” It was a warning that was accompanied by the click and shine of a blade as his pocket knife opened and locked into place.

The smart thing to do would be to let go, to release the straps, and avoid getting hurt, but you couldn’t. Not with your wallet, keys, phone, and laptop inside the bag. So you did the stupid thing.

You tugged the bag back towards you, shoving your hand into your pocket and grasping for your pepper spray. The man stumbles forward slightly, his glare growing more and more menacing as he lunges towards you, pointing the knife at you. “Drop it and I won’t hurt you.”

He thrusts the blade in the direction of your abdomen, and your arm stretches over the area on instinct in an attempt to shield yourself from harm’s way. The blade swings in a sweeping motion, cutting through the sleeve of your jacket and slicing the skin of your forearm.

“Fuck,” you hiss out in pain. The man attempts another swing at you, but you react quicker, pulling out the pepper spray and pressing down on the trigger.

You squeezed your eyes shut, waving the canister around to ensure the stream doesn’t miss him and to protect yourself from any blowback.

“Fucking bitch!” He bellows, stumbling back into one of the wooden benches in the middle of the center of the platform.

You can hear your heartbeat thumping in your ear as you take the chance to run, slinging the bag over your shoulder and booking it up the steps, past the turnstile, and back onto the sidewalk. Your eyes dart around the street corner, your chest heaving as you try to register your surroundings.

The coffee shop on West 4th Street, the Italian spot next to it that gave Peter food poisoning, the overpriced stationary store that tried to charge you twenty-five dollars for a singular pen, and the park.

Your body moves on autopilot as you flag down the cab cruising in your direction and breathe out the address to the Forest Hills apartment you shared with Peter as you climbed into the backseat. The driver, an older man, spared you a worried glance. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Yes,” you gasp out. “Yes, I’m okay.”

He looked far from convinced but pressed down on the gas pedal anyway, beginning the drive uptown. You tried to regulate your breathing as the adrenaline from the altercation with the mugger started to wear off and the pain from your wound became more pronounced.

The weight of the situation was beginning to sink in. You were almost mugged and now were bleeding in the back of a taxi on your way home trying your hardest not to cry. Part of you wanted to call Peter and ask him to end his night of patrolling early, but you knew he’d fixate on the fact that you were hurt and that the man who did it was out there.

You didn’t want your boyfriend the superhero tonight. You didn’t want to be questioned by him or hear about all the ways you could have avoided being in a situation like that, nor did you want Spider-Man to go on some sort of manhunt. All you wanted was Peter, your boyfriend, who would, without a doubt, be worried but refrain from asking for details to find the guy and just hold you while you sobbed into his chest.

The quietness of the cab ride provided you with a necessary stillness that helped calm your nerves after what had just transpired. You were safe, wounded, but safe, and with your bag still in your possession, and that’s all you could ask for.

One forty-five minute cab ride, eighty bucks, and five stories later, and you were finally home. “Hi, baby,” you hear the second you unlock the door.

You freeze at the threshold. Peter was rarely home before midnight. “Hi, honey. You’re home early.”

“Yeah. There’s not much happening tonight, so I figured I might as well come home and make a late dinner for us since you had class. How does pasta sound? And how was it by the way? I know you hate the professor.” His voice traveled from the kitchen to the entryway.

There was something about the soft tone he spoke in that made you break. You thought you could hold it together, that’s what you were telling yourself on the walk up to the apartment, that you could remain composed when you talked to him tonight. But hearing his voice and seeing him standing in the kitchen unraveled all the steadiness you desperately tried to hold on to.

“Peter,” you choke his name out in a sob as you hide your face in your hands.

“Baby?” The concern laced in his voice was apparent as his feet carried him out of the kitchen to meet you where you were standing. His heart sank when he saw the blood stain on the sleeve of your jacket. “Baby?” He repeats, stepping closer and gently taking you into his arms. “You’re bleeding.”

Your body trembles as he holds you against him. “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re home.” He assures you, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you as your cries fill the apartment. “I’m here. You’re safe."

He stands with you in the doorway, letting you sob into his chest while repeatedly reassuring you that you were okay and safe. He held you tight, only loosening his grip on you when your tears subsided and turned into sniffles. “Can I look at your arm, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you croak out, trying your hardest not to start crying again.

Peter reached for your hand, gently guiding you to the bathroom. It was strange having the roles reversed in this way. You had grown used to leading him to the bathroom, helping him strip off his suit, and cleaning his wounds. But tonight it was his turn to take care of you.

His hands reached for the zipper of your jacket, pushing the material off your shoulders and sliding it down your arms. His touch was light as he lifted your arm to assess the damage. You watch as his eyebrows knit together, his fingers delicately prodding at the wound. The slash was long but thankfully not deep. “I know it’s probably the last thing you want to talk about, but can you tell me what happened?”

The question gets drowned out by the sound of the sink running. “You don’t have to answer right now,” he adds as he holds your hand under the water.

“Attempted mugging,” you whisper, watching the dried blood wash away and tint the water a brownish red. “At the train station near campus.”

His eyes widened, “What!?”  

“He—” you pause to compose yourself. You didn’t want to cry anymore. “He tried to take my bag. I pepper sprayed him after he sliced me.”

For a moment, you brace yourself for the string of questions you knew would fall from his lips, but you’re only met with silence. “Pete?”

He stares at your arm, the wound now clean. “Are you hurt anywhere else, baby?”  

“Just my arm.”

“Did he take anything?” He asks, nudging you to sit on the closed toilet seat.

“No,” you shake your head. “Only tried to.”

He nods, running a washcloth under the water before shutting off and kneeling in front of you. He carefully cleans around the wound before applying a layer of ointment to it.

“Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that, sweetheart.”

“You’re quiet. I thought you’d have more of a reaction,” you admit

You watch as his shoulders rise and fall with the deep breath he takes. “There’s a lot I want to say and do. I want to find the guy who did this and deal with him myself. I want to take you to the nearest station so you can file a report. I want to rewind time and insist on picking you up after your class instead of going on patrol, so this could have never happened.”

“Honey—“

“But it did happen,” he states while unraveling the spool of bandages. “I can’t change that, no matter how much I want to. I mean, my job is to keep the city safe, and tonight the person I want to keep the safest got hurt.”

“I’m okay.” He knew you were trying to assure him and yourself, but the tremble in your voice did little to ease his nerves.

“I…” he starts as he begins to dress your wound. “I know you worry when I’m out there. I know it makes you anxious and scared out of your mind that one night I’ll leave and never come back. But I get anxious and scared, too. I see what goes on out there. I see it every day; it doesn’t matter if it’s in broad daylight or in the dead of night. And I know I can’t stop every bad guy that’s out on the streets—I know I can’t keep everyone safe, no matter how hard I’ve tried." His voice trails off, and you know exactly what, or rather who, he's thinking of.

You knew all about Gwen and the guilt he still felt from being unable to save her. Losing her was why he was so fearful of letting you in when you initially met. It was also the reason why he always held you so tight and kept close once he allowed himself to love again. He never wanted to go through the pain of losing the person he loves again, whether it was related to him being Spider-Man or not. "But I would like to think that if there’s one person I can protect, it’s you. I can’t be with you all the time. I can’t save everyone, I’ve come to terms with that. But sweetheart, I’d be a liar if I said I’m not terrified of something happening to you when you go out there, too.”

He sucks in a sharp inhale and secures the bandage in place. “I hate that this happened to you. I hate that I could have prevented it if I was with you. And I know that’s a terribly selfish way to look at this because you’re hurt, but I promise this isn’t about my ego or unresolved grief. I just want to make sure my girlfriend is safe and that she never has to be hurt or cry into my chest out of fear again.”

“I wish I had called you,” you whisper. “I thought about it when I left the science building and saw how dark it was but decided against it cause I knew you’d be patrolling and I thought about calling you when I was in the cab after everything happened to see if you would come home so I wouldn’t be alone didn’t want to bother you or pull you away in case someone needed Spider-Man.”

"You needed Spider-Man." He states, cupping your face and stroking your damp cheeks, wiping away any stray tears that were still falling. “You can call me anytime, baby. Anytime you need me. Especially when you need me.”

“What about—“

“Anytime,” he cuts off, standing up and holding his hand out for you to take.

“Anytime,” you repeat, letting him guide you out of the bathroom.

“Good. The water should be boiling by now. I can have fettuccine alfredo ready in twenty minutes tops if you’re up for it.”

You nod your head, knowing the domestic nature of your relationship with him would continue to help regulate your feelings. “That sounds nice, Pete. Really nice, actually. Can we cuddle after?”

“You don’t even have to ask. I’m all yours. Tonight, tomorrow, and every day after that.” His sappiness makes the corners of your mouth curve into a smile.

“What about yesterday? And the day before that?” You tease, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“I was yours then too,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your temple.

It started this morning with your lack of acknowledgment of the day. This was the first birthday you were spending with him, and he was expecting more than just a measly kiss and a quick ‘happy birthday’ when he woke up. He’d seen firsthand the way you showered your friend and family with affection on their birthday, and even if he insisted that the two of you did nothing to celebrate, he was expecting more than just a peck. 

He was prepared to write it off as getting exactly what he asked for until he got to work and realized you recruited Robin as an accomplice in whatever it was that you were planning. Who, less than subtly, scattered to answer the phone at noon, rushing out a  half assed explanation about how he was “expecting a call” and then promptly told him to take the rest of the day off. 

—

The smell of cinnamon wafts through the air as Luke crosses the threshold into your shared apartment. “Sweetheart?” He calls out. 

“In the kitchen!”

He follows the sound of your voice, stopping in the doorway when he sees you standing at the table with a beaming smile and a freshly baked pie in front of you. “Hi.”

“Hi, baby.” He hums out, leaning against the doorframe. “Want to tell me what’s going on?” 

“I know you said you didn’t want to make a big deal out of your birthday, but I thought it would be nice if we celebrated in a small way.” You explain, stepping away from the table, stopping in front of him. 

He straightens up as you approach, his hands instinctively reaching out and settling on your hips. “We agreed on not doing anything.” 

“We agreed on no parties or cake, and there is no party or cake. It’s just us and a pie.” 

“Smartass,” he mumbles.

You take a step back, slipping out of his hold, carefully scanning his face, trying to gauge his reaction. “Is it too much? I know this isn’t what you wanted, but I just wanted to feel special on your birthday for a change.” 

“There’s nothing special about my birthday.”  It’s an immediate response; a belief ingrained in his subconscious, something that he’s heard so many times that he now repeats to himself. 

“You might feel that way, but I don’t. You and your birthday are very special to me, and it’s worth celebrating even if the only thing we do is eat pie and watch TV.” 

Luke’s lips start to curve into a small smile upon hearing your tender words. “No one’s ever done something like this for me before.” 

Your features soften at his quiet admission. “Well, I’m happy to be the first.”

“And it’s just us?” 

“Just us,” you confirm. 

He steps closer to the table, glancing down at the steaming apple pie and then back up at you. “You didn’t have to do this.” 

“I know, but I wanted to.” 

“Why?”

“You associate your birthday with bad memories…I thought maybe, if we created a good one, your feelings about today would change. Even if it was just a little.” The thoughtfulness of your explanation makes his heart swell. “Do you like it?” 

He nods his head, bridging the gap between the two of you and pulling you in by the waist until you flush against his chest. “I do. Thank you, baby.” 

“Anytime.” 

He leans down, moving one hand from around your waist to your face, and kisses you. It’s a gentle yet passionate kiss that gives you a taste of just how much he appreciates you for making sure that he was finally having a birthday surrounded by love instead of the hurt, violence, and anger he had grown used to. “So sweet,” he mumbles against your mouth before pulling away. 

Was it an even worse idea to abruptly march into the restaurant and insist that you were in grave danger and needed to come with him immediately after seeing your date lean in for a kiss? Yes. 

It was a terrible idea, one that was barely thought through, and Peter was certain it wouldn’t work, but your date bought it hook, line, and sinker and urged you to go with Spider-Man. 

You did, angrily and hesitantly, mainly due to the number of people staring and taking their phones out to record New York’s resident webhead.

Your heels clicked against the concrete as you brushed past people on the street, eyes trained on the entrance to the subway at the end of the block. “It’s late, princess. Let me swing you home.” Peter pleads, his voice muffled by his mask, his footsteps falling in step with yours. 

“Fuck off.” You snarl, walking down the steps into the subway station with Peter hot on your heels, jumping the turnstile to catch up with you. 

He follows you down the additional flight of stairs onto the platform, standing beside you as the F pulls into the station. “I’m sor—“ 

“Don’t,” you cut off, stepping into the mostly empty cart as the doors open and taking a seat. Peter sits across from you, nodding at the few people who were staring, presumably trying to decipher whether he was the real Spider-Man or one of the many guys who dressed up as him and harassed tourists in Times Square trying to get home. 

The train ride was quiet aside from the group of drunk college students that laughed uncontrollably for a few stops after one of their friends nearly fell flat on their ass from the train moving. 

Peter stared at you for the entire duration of the ride. You couldn’t say for certain, but you knew when you stared into the reflective lenses of his mask and saw the frown on your face that he was staring back with a similar expression on his face. 

“You don’t have to walk me home,” you tell him after getting off the train and seeing that he was still close behind you. “Should’ve just taken it to May’s house and crash in your old room.” 

He presses his hand to the small of your back, nudging you towards the exit. “It’s almost midnight. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you walk home alone.”

“I can handle myself.” 

“You can,” he agrees. “But that doesn’t mean you have to. I’ve never let you walk home alone when I was around, and that’s not going to change now. Even if I’m not your boyfriend anymore.” 

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” You mutter, moving towards the exit, shivering when a gust of wind hits you square in the chest once you come up from the subway. 

“I know you’re mad at me, but I’m still not letting you walk home alone,” he says, trailing behind you.

“Whatever, Peter.” You mutter, speeding up just enough to make him do a slight jog to catch up. 

“I know you’re mad at me-“

“No shit.” 

“-But I am sorry.” 

“Are you though?” You ask, stopping in front of your door and fishing through your purse in search of your keys. “Because I don’t think you are.” 

“Maybe I’m not.” He admits, wedging his hand in the door before it can shut, following you inside.“It wasn't exactly enjoyable to watch you go out on a date with some guy who's not good enough for you.” 

“How do you know he’s not good enough for me? You don't even know him.” You counter, turning on the lights, kicking off your heels, and b-lining to your bedroom. 

“He’s just not right for you; not the kind of guy you should be with.” He says, pulling off his mask and walking after you. 

“Unzip me.” You instruct, glancing over your shoulder at him. “And who are you to tell me who I can and can’t be with?” 

You can feel the webbing of his suit over the fabric of your dress as he holds your waist and pulls the zipper down. The material pools at your feet, leaving you standing in nothing but your underwear and stockings. His eyes follow you around the room as you shimmy out of the stockings and slip on an old t-shirt, his breath hitching in his throat at the sight of you. 

His eyes land on the faded graphic of his mask printed in the shape of a heart as you reach under the hem to unclip your bra. “I’m your future husband, and probably, father of your future children.” 

“My future husband? Peter, you aren’t even my current boyfriend.” You point out, brushing past him and ignoring the hurt look on his face as you head into the kitchen. 

“Things can change. I can change.” 

“And what makes you so sure?” You question while filling your kettle with water and putting it on the stovetop. 

“Are we just going to act like we weren't building to that? You said it yourself, when you think about the future and who you grow old with, it’s me, not some fucking guy.” His voice is rough but lacks any malice, making it obvious that he is hurt. 

“That was before I realized you can’t be the man I need.” It was a low blow, and you knew it, but you were far too irritated to stop yourself from holding your tongue. 

You turn and lean against the counter and catch sight of the way his body deflates and his fall even further. “I can be.” He whispers, his voice cracking. “I know I fucked up and I wasn’t here when I needed to be but I love you, I’m in love with you, and I can work on it. That has to count for something, right?” 

He hesitantly approaches you, putting his hands on either side of you, caging you in. “I can be the man you need, I can be anything you want me to be.” 

“Pete…” you say softly. “I can’t do this a second time. I love you, I do. I think I’m always going to love you, but I can’t be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t prioritize me. I’m a constant for you and I was more than happy to be that but you aren't that for me, or at least you haven’t been in a long time. I just want someone in my corner who I know will be there when I need them, not just when they need me.”

His heartache in his chest as you acknowledge the main fault in your relationship: his inability to show up for you when you needed him. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I know.” The bite in your voice had fully disappeared, your anger simmering and solidifying into the familiar sadness you felt when thinking about the fallout of your relationship. Peter was far from a bad person; he was just a man who was constantly spreading himself thin and often failed to juggle his responsibilities and relationships with being a hero. 

“I can be better,” he insists, moving his hands from the countertop to hold your waist. 

You rest your head against his chest. “I can’t do this again. I don’t have it in me to be as understanding as I used to be. I know the city needs Spider-Man, but sometimes I just need my boyfriend, and I don’t want to go down this road again if it’s going to be more of the same.” 

“It won’t be.” He says quietly, rubbing your back slightly. “I can be dependable. I can be there for you. All I need is a chance to prove it.” 

“I can’t do another empty promise, Peter.” You say quietly, gently pushing him back when the kettle whistles. “I can’t pick up where we left off and white knuckle my way through life because you can’t make me a priority. You said you're my future husband, the future father of my kids, but how can you maintain a healthy marriage and be a present father if being a good boyfriend is such a challenge?” 

His shoulders sink, and he goes quiet, trying to think of a way to show you he could and would change. That he can be the man you need, be present and dependable, be husband material. “What if we start over?” 

“What?” You ask, pausing mid-stretch as you reach for a mug on the highest shelf of your cupboard and turning to look at him. 

“What if we start over. We don’t have to pick up where we left off, but we don’t have to forget either. We can start over and go slow. I can show you that I’m capable of being the man you need me to be, and we can rebuild what we had into something bigger and better.” He clarifies, shooting a web at the mug you wanted and handing it to you. 

“Do you think that would work?” 

“I do.” 

“What if it doesn’t and we end up right back where we are?” 

“We won’t.” 

You hesitate for a moment but nod. “Okay. We can try again.” 

He lets out a sigh of relief, snaking his arms around your waist and holding you tightly against his chest. “Thank you.” 

You wrap your arms around him, letting yourself relax in his hold. “Please don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t.” He promises, squeezing you. 

“How did you know by the way?” You question, pulling away from him. 

He raises an eyebrow at you, “How did I know what?” 

“That I was on a date? You were there the entire time. Kenneth saw you on the rooftop. He thought you were doing a stakeout.” 

“Oh,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sasha mentioned that you were going out on a date, and I kept asking about it until she finally relented and told me.”

“Oh!” 

“Yeah…but if we’re asking questions then did you let us stay in contact because you hoped we’d get back together?” 

“Partly,” you answer truthfully. “You’re important to me and I think I just wanted to have you in my life in whatever way I could. But I also didn’t want you to think you had nobody to go to if you got hurt by going no contact.” 

A bittersweet feeling spreads throughout his chest at your thoughtful and caring nature, even when he had failed you over and over again, you were still standing in his corner. “Thank you for thinking of me and being there even when I don’t deserve it.” 

“Everybody deserves somebody.” 

“I’ll be your somebody.”

The blanket draped around your shoulders drags across the floor as you trek towards your front door, every step you take more sluggish than the last. 

“Coming.” You croak out, trying and failing to call out to the person pounding on your door for the past five minutes. A part of you was hoping whoever was knocking would let up and go away before you reached the door, but the moment you peered through the peephole and caught a glimpse of Luke, you understood why the rapping had yet to cease.

The hinges of your door squeak and ring through your ears as you pull the door open. “Hi.” He greets, bypassing you at the door and walking straight into your living room. You watch as he kicks off his shoes and sets the paper bag he was carrying on the table in your entryway. 

“What are you doing here?” You ask, your voice barely audible as you shut and lock the door.

“Robin said you called to tell me not to come over tonight cause you weren’t feeling good.” He answers, shrugging off his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack, and cupping your face. His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he looks into your tired and teary eyes, “I brought soup. Do you want it now or later?” 

You reach up and grab hold of his hands, gently pulling them from your face. “You shouldn’t be here. You’ll get sick.” 

He ignores your comment and reaches into the bag, taking out a can of chicken noodle soup along with a bottle of cough syrup. “Soup now or later?”

On any other night, you would’ve put up more of a fight, insisting that you were fine and that he should head home to avoid catching the flu, but the exhaustion coursing through your body left you with little energy to argue. “Later.” 

Luke nods and walks into the kitchen, leaving you standing in the hallway as he flicks on the light. The sound of your drawers sliding open, followed by your silverware clanking together, fills the room before he appears in the doorway, his shadow blocking the warm glow that was trickling out into the hall. 

He carefully approaches you, trying his best not to spill the spoonful of medicine he's holding as he brings it to your lips. He watches as you open your mouth and swallow, your face scrunching in disgust as the bitter taste of the cough syrup reaches your taste buds. “I know it’s nasty, but it’ll help you feel better, baby.” 

He retreats back into the kitchen only to re-emerge a few seconds later, turning the light off behind him. “Let’s get you back into bed. I’ll wash the spoon in the morning.” 

A low groan rumbles in your throat at the mention of being back in bed. There was nothing you wanted more than to crawl back under your covers and sink into the mattress with the hope that resting would ease the ache in your bones. 

Luke’s hand pressed against the small of your back in the usual way he does when leading you anywhere. Tonight, however, was different. You expected the slight nudge or tap that served as a silent indicator for the two of you to move, but it never came. Instead, he hooked his arm under the bend of your knees, scooping you up and carrying you bridal style down the hall towards your bedroom. “I can walk.” You whisper hoarsely, wrapping your arms around his shoulder. 

“My way’s faster.” He rasps out, kicking the bedroom door open and gently laying you down on the bed. He pulls at the chain of the lamp you kept on your nightstand, illuminating the room enough for you to see him taking off his shirt and undoing his belt. 

“You’re staying?” You croak out as he steps out of his pants and remains only in his boxers. 

“I am.” He says, getting into bed and holding his arm out, a silent invitation for you to cuddle into his side. 

You shuffle closer, resting your head on his tattooed chest and haphazardly draping your blanket over him. “You don’t need to stay.” It felt like a necessary reminder that he wasn’t your boyfriend, even if there were occasions that he behaved like he was. He didn’t need to stay with you. 

His hand circles your waist, drawing you in closer and slipping under the hem of your shirt. “I don’t need to stay. But I want to.” 

“Even if we don’t have sex and I get you sick?” You murmur as your eyelids start to get heavier.  

He runs his hands up and down your side, feeling the burn of your skin under his palm. “Is that why you called and said not to come?” 

You nod against his chest, trying not to lull away as you sink into his side. 

“I don’t care about the sex.” He states firmly before continuing, “It’s great but I care about you and I want to take care of you even if it means getting sick too.”

“That’s boyfriend talk.” You mumble, looking up at him through your eyelashes.