Chapter Text
The swell of assurance in Peter’s chest that May affectionately dubbed Parker pride wasn’t borne of stubborn, stupid determination.
Jameson loudly proclaimed to have Spider-Man figured out—a super-powered menace with an addiction to danger and a high for the fame he’d garnered in the city he loved. But the choice to don the mask and swing toward circumstances that induced wailing police sirens was more than an egotistical urge to soak in the awed reactions of the people he swung in instinctively to save—from buildings as they were reduced to embers, from gangs of New York’s most notorious criminals as they closed in for the kill, from trains that screeched incessantly toward a precarious dead end.
Peter didn’t think himself immune to death or above the New Yorkers that he swore to protect. He didn’t think some higher power had chosen him to be the unassuming victim of an Oscorp-engineered spider-bite.
His persistence was much more practical than they’d expect. He followed the sirens, the distant cries for help, the discreet directions from intermittent phone calls with Yuri, not because he expected to swing into trouble unscathed.
He just knew that when he inevitably got knocked down, he was capable of getting up again—physically, since he was fifteen. Mentally—well. His finely spun confidence took a little longer to perfect.
Spider-Man got knocked down tonight. Hard and repeatedly. By six of his most powerful enemies.
The web he’d weakly flung out when Doctor Octavius carelessly tossed him from the roof had, by some rare stroke of good Parker luck, attached to the skids of a NYPD helicopter that was fleeing the scene to a new crisis altogether. Spider-Man limply hung from the aircraft, overtly aware of every freshly throbbing ache he’d sustained from villains that had long been itching for a chance to get him with his guard down.
While he blinked blearily through his lenses, waiting for the helicopter to hover closer to the Chinatown district, he started forming a half-baked plan. The lab would be his first stop. As much as it stung, Doc had been planning this under his nose. He’d look for clues there, try to get ahead of the villains before their reign of terror could reach too far.
He couldn’t stop to rest, to breathe, to mourn a friend and mentor. Not yet. Spider-Man gets up not only because he can, but because New York needs him to.
When familiar graffiti and brick buildings drifted into view, Spider-Man abandoned his ride and zipped to the railing beneath a water tower. He could swing it from here. The lab wasn’t far.
But his landing on the railing wasn’t a graceful one and the impact jarred his bruised ribs, made him suck in a painful inhale through his throat—which had been firmly clutched in Otto’s formidable claw.
Doesn’t matter, he thought. He healed fast.
He leapt off the water tower to the roof below. His knee buckled, followed by a flash of white-hot pain that made his keen vision blur until a midnight-blanketed Manhattan was little more than a swirling, fathomless black hole.
The ground met Spider-Man swiftly.
Peter Parker broke the one rule that came bound to his bright suit. He didn’t get up.
The treacherous headlines that were branded across every news channel and social media platform should have been enough incentive to stay locked inside your apartment—for a weekend, a week, a month. For however long it took until Spider-Man evened the odds, so the NYPD could force his greatest foes back into the Raft’s most technologically padded cellblocks.
But a part of you couldn’t believe that the city on fire on your television was your city. The city that Spider-Man protected with a determination that made it clear somewhere, in the hours when his web-slinging counterpart wasn’t tending to crime, he was just another New Yorker.
You looked ruefully through the window of your studio apartment. You had a perfect view of the dim alley and the overflowing dumpster belonging to the Thai place next door, but nothing to confirm the atrocity that interrupted your nightly viewing of corny-but-nostalgic sitcoms.
Pocketing your keys and a can of pepper spray that wouldn’t fare well against the Sinister Six but would do a decent job against a run-of-the-mill criminal, you left your apartment and headed up the stairwell to the roof.
October’s biting chill whipped against your cheeks and sirens—in the distance, down the street—overwhelmed the ordinary noise of the sleepless city at night. Plumes of smoke rose from the tops of several districts and your heart withered at the hopelessness of it all. Chaos spread like wildfire since the tentacled man who’d been identified as Otto Octavius came out of the woodwork.
This was the first time in the years you’d lived here that you wondered if a threat had finally arrived with the magnitude it would take to keep the webbed hero pinned down.
The thought terrified you so steeply, your eyes instinctively sought out the smoky skies for a peek of bright red, of a white spider—the last signal of hope.
And you found it, which made you stumble back against the propped-open stairwell door in shock. Because the symbol hadn’t flown past you with superhuman speed. It was right there with you on the rooftop.
A white spider. Branded on the chest of New York’s fallen hero.
“Spider-Man?” You whispered, half-wondering if your ceaseless thoughts summoned him here.
No response came from his collapsed figure. Whispered rumors around the city of how far his abilities might reach—immortality, physical invincibility—crumbled away at the sight of Spider-Man limply curled in on himself like a frayed web strand.
You cautiously looked around, like one of the Raft’s most powerful escapees would soon materialize in the atmosphere to finish him off.
But the rooftops were vacant—no signs of pulsing negative energy, or a poisonous tail, or mechanical arms. Just you, and the masked man who fought relentlessly to neutralize them.
You didn’t ask any questions. Channeling some of that Spider-Man instinct you’d witnessed in Bugle front-pagers—and in person one night, when he’d saved you—you acted.
You kicked the doorstopper in place, leaving a trail of artificial light behind you, and ran toward him.
“Spider-Man.” You knelt beside him, placing a hand over his heart hastily. Foolishly, you realize this should’ve been your first priority over gawking. It was still beating.
His usually pristine suit was scorched in some areas, tattered in others. Torn and electrocuted, both MOs of a few vengeful bastards you’d seen on the news lately. A jagged tear over his torso revealed pale, heavily bruised skin, nearly causing you to do a double take. As stupid as it was to ever doubt it, it was disorienting, and devastating, to be confronted with the irrefutable proof that under the suit, he’s only human.
“Hey,” you tried again, curving a hand over his shoulder gently. You did your best not to jostle the injured man awake, but rather let him rouse to the sound of your voice. “Please tell me you’re not in a coma.”
A strained breath emerged faintly and his head lolled toward you. The lenses in his mask widened, honing in on your face like a camera lining up its shot.
“Not in a coma,” his words were slightly wheezy. “Just…resting.”
“You passed out,” you anxiously corrected his severe oversimplification. “Look, Mount Sinai isn’t far, I-I don’t have a car but I can get you—”
Uttering Mount Sinai kicked the battered hero into action. He began shaking his head, leaning his weight up while barely leashing a groan of protest.
“No, no hospitals,” he croaked, stubbornly rising to his feet. His hand moved to cradle his side. “You should get inside. City’s not s-safe.”
“Spider-Man, please, you’re hurt.” You stood and raised your hands, both to placate the man and ready yourself to steady him—by the look of his stumbling figure, you’d need to soon. “I’m sure we could find a doctor that respects the masked situation, okay? But—hey.” You hastened to follow him, as he began limping toward the ledge of the roof. “Hey! What are you gonna do, swing away? You’ll barely make it a few blocks like this. And like you said, the city’s not safe.”
“S’why I need to go,” he replied unsteadily. “Make things right. Please, get yourself home. This will—all be…”
The conclusion of that feebly executed statement fizzles into nothing, as Spider-Man started to crumple to his knees. You caught him, clumsily but enough to keep him from slamming ungracefully into the ground.
Good lord, the man was heavy, a justifiable reflection of the muscles molded beneath the skin-tight suit. But you nudged him encouragingly, until he momentarily relinquished his stubbornness to lean against you. You wouldn’t let Spider-Man fall again tonight.
“If you won’t go to a hospital,” you said, hating the idea of withholding medical attention from a person visibly at the brink. “Then come inside. Give yourself time to heal.”
He turned his head away, his lenses narrowing. You weren’t sure if it was from fatigue or reluctance, but when he winced as your hand steadied against a presumably bruised part of his ribcage, you firmly made the decision for him.
“I live alone,” you added in a softer tone, guiding his arm over your shoulders. “I swear I’m not, like, leading you into an ambush, or plotting to unmask you. Pretty sure you’d still be able to stop me.” You side-eyed him doubtfully. “Just not sure you’d fare so well against the super-powered assholes on the loose.”
Spider-Man didn’t answer, but he spared several lingering glances back at the skyline. Beneath the mask, you imagined the hero’s remorse was plainly written across his face. You were asking him the impossible: to temporarily turn his back on his burning city. But to let him go, in this state, would mean you were turning your back on him. That, you refused.
You led him toward the stairwell door, silently surprised when he let you. The speed of his concession twisted your heart like gum smothered beneath the sole of a dirty shoe.
You kept your arm secure around his waist down the sets of stairs and on the dim, flickering path to your front door. Though you were acutely aware that Spider-Man was making a conscious effort not to fully leverage his weight against you, you wanted to take off as much of the burden as he’d allow.
“It’s a small space,” you said in lieu of apology, marveling at the strangeness of Spider-Man crossing your humble threshold. “And I’m not exactly a medical specialist, but I’ve got the basics in the bathroom, if you want me to take a look. Um…” You gave him a cursory glance. “We could…leave the mask, obviously.”
You bent near the sofa pushed against your wall, carefully settling him against the pillowy cushions. You’d never been happier that one of your apartment’s most prized possessions–a slightly cracked leather sofa that your parents had been all too happy to hand over–made up for its mediocre presentation with supreme coziness. The manufacturer had gotten a little overzealous with the stuffing, but Spider-Man didn’t seem to mind.
“That’s okay,” Spider-Man said, resting his head back against the top of the cushion. You were relieved that the strain in his voice, though still present, has lessened now that he was off his feet. “I’ll heal. Just…need to catch my breath.”
You supposed the immense wave of guilt you felt was borderline irrational. The guy was a superhuman with healing abilities that the most eccentric of scientists would kill to discern. He wasn’t going to die tonight, you knew that.
But it didn’t seem fair that after what he’d done for you, for this city, all you could offer in return was a couch and a semi-warm, slightly suffocating apartment.
“Your ribs are bruised,” you pointed out. “Or broken. Right?”
“Mmm.” His noncommittal answer works well enough. “Among other things." He waved a hand in dismissal. "Practically an unpleasant memory already. Like that dollar pizza place that got outed for having more rats than chefs. Not Eddie's." He sighed, the breath hitching in his throat on the exhale. "Love Eddie's."
“How fast do you usually heal?”
“Most things, I sleep off. Others, I…wait out for longer.” He paused, then started to lean forward, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth at the movement. “I can’t stick around tonight. Gotta go chase leads on the big guys. I appreciate this, you inviting me into your home–I mean, I really shouldn’t be an exception to the stranger danger rule, especially since technically anyone can try and replicate a suit–just look at that eyesore of a merch store on Fifth–but, I get it, circumstances were–“
“You–“ You planted your hands on his shoulders when he tried to push off the sofa, then, in contrast to your authoritative tone, guided him back to the cushions. “Are not chasing any leads until it looks like you can breathe painlessly.”
His lenses–eyes–narrowed at you. “The city–“
“Needs Spider-Man,” You finished for him. “So for God’s sake, take care of yourself.”
The costumed hero stared up at you quietly. For a moment, the only noise that filled your apartment was his breathing, interrupted by the occasional wheeze, and the lowered ramblings of an urgent news anchor on your TV.
You pinned him in place with the sternest look you could muster. It’s not something you’d have expected to be at all effective on Spider-Man, whose very existence defied the rules, but to your relief, he slowly sunk back against the cushions.
You let go of his shoulders, then maneuvered closer to the TV when a bold headline sliding across the bottom of the screen snagged your attention.
Spider-Man Overwhelmed by Sinister Six in Raft Breakout
Rather than reach for the remote to turn up the volume–and risk your guest overhearing a rundown of his defeat–you stared, horrified, at the helicopter’s captured footage.
On a lone rooftop, five of the unconventional criminals that frequently made the Daily Bugle headlines–and a sixth, new face looming over the rest–surrounded Spider-Man. The ever-agile superhero, caught upside down by a swift mechanical arm.
Then, he's tossed dismissively from the rooftop, a faint red speck plummeting in the atmosphere.
You couldn’t help the gasp that got strangled in your throat, the step you took toward the TV to see where he’d land. But the footage transitioned to recent fires set in abandoned storefronts and police wrangling Ryker’s escapees. Your hero’s plight, a headline gone as fleetingly as it was given.
“Wish they‘d tried to get my good side,” came his breathy attempt at a joke.
You scoffed and snatched the remote to change the channel back to the sitcoms that mildly entertained your night earlier.
“They almost killed you,” you stated lowly. “You’re lucky Octavius didn’t bother.”
“Yeah.” There was something heavy in his voice that coaxed you to turn toward him. “Lucky.”
If there was a story there, you have no intentions of pushing him to spill it. He'd have enough eager reporters pelting him with frantic questions when he returned to his city. Your only concern was nursing him back to that point.
You headed to the kitchen, barely a couple feet away, and easily kept Spider-Man in your sights. A hero that routinely soared above the heads of commuting New Yorkers and disgruntled criminals...lounging on the sofa in your entirely too cramped apartment. Had you fallen asleep during that last episode of The Nanny? Your wildest dreams did always seem to settle in your brain on Fridays, when the hustle and bustle of the work week slowly settled.
After tucking an ice pack under your arm and grabbing a bottle of painkillers, you rushed to the bathroom next for a heating pad. Switching between temperatures was supposed to be ideal for the sort of injuries Spider-Man sustained tonight, but, well, the bulk of your knowledge came from casual-watching Grey's Anatomy. You figured you couldn't possibly do him more harm this way. But if there was a way to ease his unnatural healing process, you had to try.
"No hospitals," you confirmed with finality, once you returned to stand before him. You set the painkillers down on the scuffed coffee table, then held up the ice pack and heating pad in Spider-Man's eye-line. "But we can still have you feeling a little better tonight."
Just as Spider-Man's throat cleared, you realized what you were indirectly asking him to do. Hastily, you tacked on, "Look, I'm not sure if that's a onesie, or there's a hidden zipper for easy access, but...would you...be comfortable..." Jesus Christ, he'd officially think you were a loony civilian disguising your eagerness with concern. Was there a non-intrusive way to ask Spider-Man to take off his damn suit? "You don't have to. I just thought it might help." You offered a reassuring smile. "That alright, Spider-Man? I promise I'm not observant enough to unravel your secret identity by matching it to an upper body. Although some Jameson fanatics might be up to the task."
It was a serious testament to the man's exhaustion when he nodded once, then, with a faint laugh and few shaky breaths of exertion, pushed himself up.
His gloved hands, almost skeletal with the white design spanning his fingers, undid a few fasteners hidden astonishingly well at the nape of his neck. You watched with quiet fascination when he deftly slipped off his gloves, revealing large hands that mortifyingly spiked a flood of heat along your neck. A soft groan held in his throat, as he craned his neck to grip the loosened edges of fabric and peel it down his arms. Inch by inch, pale skin, marred by an array of reds and shadows of indigo, came into view; as broad and muscled as the skin-tight suit boldly insinuated.
A legend being stripped to bare bones before you; you could hardly be blamed for freezing up like prey in the throes of headlights.
The upper half of the suit pooled at his waist. Still masked, Spider-Man deflated against the sofa, like even the small act of stripping reawakened all the soreness in his bruised limbs.
You gingerly positioned yourself beside him. Assuming an entirely clinical demeanor was relatively simple when, at this proximity, the pain in every inhale he drew in was glaringly apparent. Your heart ached for him.
"May I?" you asked softly, gesturing to his chest. That expressionless mask regarded you for a moment, then he nodded faintly.
You brought your free hand to his shoulder; you nearly squeezed reassuringly, then thought better of it. Whatever the extent of the mess his villains raged upon him, you decided it was safer to be delicate.
"Tell me if I'm hurting you," you murmured, bringing the ice pack a purpled patch above his rib cage. A quick breath sliced through his teeth at the initial discomfort, but it twisted into a sigh that contracted his abdomen.
"The night I had..." He eked out a chortle. "You'd have to have some crazy tricks stowed away for that."
"Is your guard down already, Spider-Man? Maybe I'm Rhino in a really convincing disguise," You ventured playfully, eyes alternating between his chrome lenses and the troubling bruise you were icing.
He responded with a louder laugh, then shuddered. "Ow, ow. That smarts."
"Sorry," you said sincerely, sliding the ice around to an unattended area near his hip. "I'll stop. Not sure how I'd explain to the authorities that I made Spider-Man rupture an organ with a bad joke."
"Anything like that transpires, head to the Fifth Precinct," he answered with a light tone that had you suspect he was sporting a smile beneath his disguise. "Captain Watanabe wouldn't bat an eye."
"Hopefully, I won't need to keep that in mind. Here." You took your hand off his shoulder to reach for his left hand. A black band curved around his wrist, with a slot in the center that brought the arc of his webs to mind. Marveling at the simplicity of the device that allowed for such astounding precision, you took his hand and pulled it over the ice pack, replacing where yours had been. "Keep this here a moment."
He wordlessly obeyed and you leaned away to prep a heating pad, wrapping it in a frayed towel and setting it to a moderate level. You wondered how his heightened senses handled the contrasting temperatures; was it significantly more pleasant for him than the average person, or were your everyday remedies laughable to the man who'd long since surpassed human standards? You snuck a peek at his slackened shoulders, no longer so rigid with agony, and hoped it was indeed the former.
Tucking a leg beneath you, you balanced the steadily heating pad in the crook of one arm and braced a hand on Spider-Man's spine. "I just need you to move up a little, okay?"
He uttered a low "okay" in the same breath that he shifted forward off the sofa. You'd always known Spider-Man had to be fairly close to your age, hardly a day beyond his early or mid-twenties, considering the pop culture references he was known to spout mid-fight. But that display of youth floored you now; the endearing supply of ceaseless energy had swiveled to the other end of the spectrum. This was heartbreaking vulnerability from the hero many had deemed untouchable.
The touch you laid upon his bare, equally battered back was more of a soothing caress to prelude the application of the heat pad. Spider-Man's neck inclined back as a soft exhale streamed through his thin mask.
"Feels okay?" you inquired. You suspected it did, but it was hard to assume anything with a bright red barrier to the man's expressions.
"Feels nice." The bashful, higher pitch in his response made you smile. The guy was all kinds of adorable. "Thank you." He angled his head in your direction, the two of you separated only by a hair's breadth of distance and fabric.
"Least I can do for Spider-Man," you said with a shrug, sliding the pad down his back.
Those lenses slitted again and you tried not to bristle. Finally, he voiced the reason for his scrutiny, "Something about you is...really familiar."
You saw no point in withholding the truth of the night that traversed your memories often. "That's because we've met before. Don't think I can speak for your alter ego, but I'm decently acquainted with Spider-Man." You regarded him meaningfully, your lip curving at the curious tilt of his head. "He saved me a few months ago."
"He-I...did?"
You weren't offended by his lapse in memory; wouldn't be fair, with the amount of good this man did for the city on a daily basis. So, contently, you supplied the info to cure the gaps, "The R train was a shit-show that night, so I took a detour on my way home. Made a few wrong turns." You gave him a sheepish glance. "Lived here my whole life and still got lost. It'd been a rough day."
"I bet," he said gently, waiting for you to continue.
You blew out a breath. You didn't mind sharing this story with the hero, if only to remind him of the good he'd done, the deeds that could never be erased even after the most monumental defeats. But revisiting that night, particularly the heart-pounding moments before a familiar figure swept in to flip the odds, still forced you to take a moment.
"Realized I was coming up on a shady bar and switched to the next street over, but it didn't matter," you recounted, while soothingly bringing the heating pad to a blooming bruise along his upper back. Spider-Man hummed. "Some guys out front had seen me. I tried to evade them, but they caught up with me eventually. Pepper-sprayed one, but it wasn't long 'till I was outnumbered by the others." You swallowed thickly, as that sensation of helplessness creeped in. But your guest suddenly made a soft noise of remembrance.
"By Mick's," he blurted out, lenses widening.
You blinked, thrown by his interjection. "Um...that old diner with the really crispy fries?"
"Yeah, you were nearby. I remember." He straightened up a little too quickly and before you could scold him to be careful, he was finishing his thought. "I'd stopped in for a snack on patrol. Worked up an appetite after tangling with some of Tombstone's guys. Then I heard you." His voice grew softer and you'd gone still, stunned that night had situated itself in his memory. "You were fighting, but you were terrified."
Fighting was a generous word for the feral defense you'd put up with everything you had against the group of men that saw an opportunity in a lost, lone woman. You'd been backed into a corner, literally, and elbowed, scratched, and kicked at anything in front of you, until a streak of red cut through the dizzying mass of males. Spider-Man had snatched up one by his collar, sent him careening into a dumpster, then pivoted back with a swinging kick that served as a more effective method of crowd control than anything your panicked brain could've strategized.
Humor hadn't accompanied the web-slinger's entrance that night. The incessant quips that made Jameson rage through a mic were sliced away, replaced with a controlled, threatening utterance: "Get away from her."
"Get outta here, spider!" One of the men had shouted, stumbling back. "Freak like you only get action from another man's leftovers?"
You'd bristled angrily. Spider-Man had shot out a web that struck the loudmouth's jacket, then jerked him forward, right into a waiting, forceful punch. He'd been down for the count after that.
It was all over in a matter of what felt like seconds and the ensuing silence was filled only by your hammering heart. Spider-Man had filled your line of vision then, blocking out your indisposed attackers, and addressed you softly, "Miss? Are you okay?"
When Spider-Man made the news, he was throwing a wrench in sprawling networks of underground crime or tackling foes as bizarre as human-lizard hybrids. But the concerned man in front of you was the core of what you'd heard store-owners and subway riders affectionately call him: the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, the guy who showed up for his people. The man who saved you when the sleepless city seemed to tumble too deep into darkness.
"Yes," you'd answered; it was shaky, but you meant it.
Spider-Man stared at you, then peeked at the ice pack you'd advised him to keep in place, and you wondered if maybe he understood now: your urgency to keep New York's truest protecter safe.
"It was still a shitty day, all things considered," you broke the silence, laughing halfheartedly. "But you were there. That..." You cleared your throat. "It meant everything. It still does. I never properly thanked you for that."
"You don't have to," he said and damn it, the guy was so sincere, it nearly severed your heartstrings. "But...thank you." He bent his head toward you, like he was letting you in on a secret. You leaned closer, drawn helplessly like a magnet. "For letting me in your home. Taking care of me. I don't make a habit of stripping for the New Yorkers I've saved, but you're a...nice change of pace." His tone turned unexpectedly playful; hell, you'd think he was flirting if you didn't know any better.
God help you, you absolutely wanted to kiss the man. While you gently retracted the heat pad, your eyes drifted to the lower half of his mask and quietly pondered what his mouth looked like. What it would feel like, caressing yours.
You stood up a bit too forcefully, inwardly cursing your obscenity. Spider-Man had been through the wringer tonight. You needed to get your priorities straight.
"You hungry?" You asked, far too high-pitched. Without waiting for his answer, you beelined it for the kitchen. "I've got some leftover tomato-basil soup. New recipe, but turned out pretty good."
"I can't take your food," he said, though you were already setting the pot on the stove to boil.
You frowned, glancing over your shoulder. Despite the fact that you'd been up close and personal with him barely seconds ago, you still couldn't shake the jarring effect of Spider-Man, suited only from the waist down and neck up. On your goddamned sofa.
"Why?" you asked, when you'd collected yourself. "Are you allergic?"
"No," he replied, a bit baffled by your assumption. "I just...can't. It's impolite."
You laughed, reaching for a spoon to gently stir the soup. "I say you can. Nothing more to it."
Spider-Man didn't argue. It would have been fruitless anyway.
A few minutes later, you brought him a steaming bowl of soup and a glass of lemon water. He thanked you a bit shyly, then set aside the ice pack to accept the bowl.
"If you want some privacy," you said, as he'd inevitably have to unmask, "just say the word. I'll lock myself in the bathroom with my copy of The Great Gatsby."
"Stay," he countered, with an undercurrent of something that made your skin prickle and eyes widen. "I only need my mouth, anyway."
Right, you thought, before inappropriate insinuations could take over your scattered brain. Of course. For eating. Soup-eating...mouths are good for that. Nothing else, really.
"Okay," you agreed, quietly glad he hadn't kicked you out, then reached for the ice pack to apply it once more, to a shadowed bruise beneath his pectoral muscles.
It helped to do something useful, anything to lessen the chaos of your thoughts as Spider-Man slipped his free hand to the bottom of his mask. Carefully, he lifted it up, just past the slope of his nose. You stared, you couldn't help yourself. The mystery of his mouth had weighed on your psyche longer than you'd ever admit and it had taken nothing more than a bowl of soup to pinpoint answers.
Spider-Man blew softly on a spoonful of liquid and...well. You were entranced. His pink-tinted, Cupid's bow mouth carefully sipped the freshly steamed soup. The sharply defined line of his jaw rippled ever so slightly when he swallowed. Your thoughts were fierce with fantasies of chasing the flavor that made the hero hum contently.
You were fairly flattered when he deposited the spoon and instead hefted the edge of the bowl up to his lips, sipping the dregs until the last of the red liquid disappeared. His mouth was stained the same color when he lowered the bowl. You swore your heart would finally give out when Spider-Man sent you an awkward, endearing smile. It now seemed criminal that the fabric had ever obscured such a sight.
"My compliments to the chef," he said, setting the bowl down on the table. "Feel like I should return the favor. I make a mean chicken curry."
His tongue swiped out to catch the sheen of leftover soup that made his lips glisten and you fumbled with the ice pack against his chest, then gracelessly played off the motion by acting as if you'd meant to set it aside.
"Oh, yeah?" You tried to follow his banter, though you currently wanted to use your mouth for other things. "Well, my kitchen's yours anytime you wanna show off. But I'll only let you whip out the culinary skills once you're healed."
You didn't mean it to truly be binding. Despite how much you enjoyed his company, Spider-Man had far too many places to be and your apartment was unlikely to get nudged up the list when this was over. But the smile he gave you was as genuine as his low reply: "Will do."
In the span of the time you’d spent in your apartment, the Spider-Man you knew in your heart seemed to slowly come back to himself. Defeat was an unavoidable shroud that never hunkered the hero down for long.
You were immensely relieved. And prematurely mourning his soon-to-be absence. He wouldn’t stay here for long. Not when New York needed him.
Still, you offered. “You can sleep here. If you want.”
Perhaps subconsciously, you gravitated closer to the man, eyes flitting between his rolled up mask and the soft curve of his full mouth. He didn’t move away. Spider-Man angled toward you; you’d tumbled into his web and prayed he wouldn’t free you yet.
“I should go,” he murmured, cocking his head. Aligning his mouth so yours would slot perfectly, if you chose to crush the distance. “Just thinking about how to repay you, for all this.”
“Well,” you breathed, rising up on your propped knee. Your fingers came up cautiously to stroke the fine edges of his jaw. “About that.”
“Hmm?” There was a willingness to the swift, easy way he craned his head back to meet you, as you hovered above him with purpose. His mouth was parted, waiting. A gloveless hand tentatively touched your hip, then curved there more firmly.
You had no idea which of you needed this more.
“I might have an idea,” you whispered. Spider-Man’s throat bobbed.
You pulled him into you, greedily capturing his mouth to reverently kiss the hero senseless. It was all you could do, in his bruised condition, so you gave him everything you had. A kiss to bring a last burst of energy to the tired spider. A kiss to remember that New York needed him, but it treasured him, too.
For all the ways that Jameson scorned his so-called grandstanding, you were pleasantly stunned at how simply Spider-Man melted into you, grew pliant beneath you.
He made himself a welcoming space for you to straddle, as you fully drew yourself up onto the couch. Let you guide his head up, to make it so blissfully easy for you to suck his bottom lip between your lips, tug on it with your teeth.
Still, you tamped the urge to press your weight into him, mindful of the injuries that time would superhumanly patch.
“Am I hurting you?” you asked him anyway, searing a trail down his jaw and neck with your mouth.
Spider-Man squeezed your hips, fingers brushing the skin where your tee shirt was rising. “No, no, you’re–ahh–“ The sigh that rendered his reply incoherent was one of satisfaction, of something more desperate that your hero was struggling to leash. You’d sucked teasing kisses into the slope of his neck to elicit that very, sweet sound.
You only wished you could see the way his eyes were fluttering, but the narrowed, chrome lenses were the only glimpse. But you wouldn’t push it. Spider-Man had bared so much of himself to you tonight. You were adept at working with what you were given.
Kissing back up his throat, you slid your mouth over his once more. His answering moan was muffled and you chased the sound with your tongue, sweeping over his.
He tasted of tomato and basil. You sucked at his tongue for good measure, eliciting a gasp from the depths of his throat.
“I know you can’t stay, Spider-Man,” you whispered into his lips, then pressed a kiss to his mouth, to the corners, to the slope of his jawline. No matter where you ventured, he craned toward you, like the instincts he’d termed spidey-senses were driving him in this moment of intimacy. You hated that for now, it had to end. “But you can always come back.”
He was breathless when you pulled away, but still leaned forward, seeking you more than oxygen.
It was with great reluctance that you removed yourself from him, but ultimately, you decided it wasn’t a terrible thing to leave him wanting.
At least you knew your hero would return.
“My bed, or sofa, is yours,” you said, bringing the empty soup bowl to the sink. “Can’t hurt to count a few sheep before you head back out into the city.” You looked over your shoulder, pleased to find that Spider-Man stared after you raptly, mask askew. “Might ease my mind, actually, if you stayed a little longer to recover.”
He cleared his throat, fumbling with the edges of his mask and tugging it back down. You’d already memorized the shape of his mouth anyway.
“I’ll take it easy,” he acquiesced, while securing the upper half of his suit back into place. “But I still need to check in with the Captain. See just what the police have been dealing with the last couple hours.” He glanced away. “And if there’s been any sign of Otto.”
“Be safe,” you told him softly, walking back over. “Maybe save the big guys for the morning. Keep it to a few low-level Ryker’s inmates tonight?”
He laughed, standing up slowly. You held your hands out, just like before–ready to catch him, if he needed you to one last time.
“Don’t really get to pick my battles.”
“Then make sure you survive them, Spider-Man.” You eyed him with a slight smile. “My door’s open when you need me.”
He tilted his head. “What about your window?”
“That, too.” You maneuvered to said window, pulling it open for the man to make his discreet exit. “Just try not to give me a heart attack.”