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[maybe-moonchild]

CH4 𓆣 James Potter x Slytherin Reader summary: the first match of the season arrives and you receive the last name 'POTTER'. wc: 6.3k ⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ

The first Saturday in November arrived and you were so nervous that you couldn’t eat breakfast. 

You’d barely been able to sleep either, having arrived at the dining hall earlier than necessary. Every nervous drum of your fingers against the table did nothing to calm your nerves. Absentmindedly pushing your eggs around your plate did nothing for your appetite to return.

Lance was in the same boat like usual, always a bundle of anxieties before each game. He was the picture of overthinking. His leg bounced before you finally nudged it with your knee. When you quit, Keith quit without a second thought. He’d been the Slytherin seeker, having spent the past five years going head to head with Lance to go after the snitch. 

“This is weird, huh?” Keith sighed as he slipped into the seat across from you. The two of you shared a grimace while Lance barely hummed in response. “I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t playing on game day.”

“First game. Fifth year,” Lance droned. “You had detention.”

Pausing from reaching over our friend, Keith considered that before shrugging. That checked out, you hadn’t won that game which had been a massive disappointment for your house. 

“Sounds like you’ll be catching a lot more snitches this year,” he teased and dropped eggs on his plate.

Lance mumbled something in Spanish. The only thing you could make out was something like ‘bite me’.

You nudged Lance's plate in his direction to get his attention. “Stop freaking out. They have a new Slytherin seeker. How good can they be?”

The Gryffindor shot you a flat look, “You’re  literally freaking out too.”

“So?” You scowled. “Different reasons.”

Keith tossed a breakfast potato at both of your heads to divert the tension. It was a weird morning and the last thing anyone needed was more weight hanging over the results of the match. 

“You,” he pointed at Lance, “Stop spiraling. I helped with tryouts last year, unless our house has been harboring a secret quidditch star, you're fine. They were all awful.”

Your smug look vanished when it was your turn to be pointed at. “You, also stop spiraling. If Gryffindor loses, Kaston never even needs to know you were involved. There. Now pass me the bacon.”

It didn’t take long for Remus and Peter to join you, soon followed by the other star players, Sirius and James. You were holding it together but every second that ticked closer to the start of the game just made the dam of panic harder to contain. 

“I’ll make sure to send a bludger directly into Kastons face,” Sirius winked as he slipped between Remus and Lance.

“Focus on the plays Black.”

James chuckled as he squeezed to sit beside you, nearly spilling Peter’s orange juice to make room. "Now, now, Padfoot," he said with a grin. "We want to win this match fair and square. No need to stoop to Kaston's level."

The atmosphere at the Gryffindor table was buzzing with excitement and anticipation. The first game of the season was always a big deal, and this one especially so, with the tension between Gryffindor and Slytherin running high this year.

Somehow, the act of Remus elbowing Sirius in the side looked incidental. “Don’t get disqualified in the first game of the season. You already know how thin of ice you're on already with McGonagall.”

“Watch it you tosser,” he muttered around a mouthful of breakfast. 

“Oh my god, please don’t get disqualified,” you groaned, covering your face in your hands. Someone clapped you on the shoulder but you didn’t bother to look up. “Why am I so nervous? I never got this nervous the past six years and I’m not even playing.”

“Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to catch the snitch in the first five seconds since I’m no longer up against Keith,” Lance joked, grinning at the bored looking Slytherin at his side, donned in his jersey. Keith always got Lance’s good sweaters considering he hoarded most of them the entire year. 

You were content enough to watch the game in the red and gold scarf, paired with the matching mittens. 

James tried to give you a reassuring smile, hoping to ease your worries. When you still hadn’t looked up, he sighed and lifted your head with one hand. "We'll do fine," he said, his tone comforting, yet determined. "We have practiced our asses off, and we know all of Kaston's tricks."

He knew this game was important to you. To him it was maybe even more personal than just... house pride.

“Now shush and eat something so you don’t make yourself sick. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

You held his gaze, glowering under his cheerful watch. James just leaned over you, his arm grazing yours as he dropped your favorite muffin on your plate. Letting him win, you picked up your muffin in defeat in the hopes that his good luck would continue and translate to the score.

“If I wasn’t so desperate for you to win,  I’d hope your karma comes in the form of a quaffle to the head,” you grumbled back,voice lacking any real bite.

“Here, I’ll hand feed you. Hand me your fork.”

“Taking it back. I hope you win and get a quaffle to the head.”

Eventually the players needed to head down to the locker rooms to get ready to warm up. The groups said their goodbyes, exchanging words of encouragement before splitting up. 

You joined the players, no one batting much of an eye that you were hanging around after you’d been doing it the past two months. 

“Kastons aim is better when he has the chance to be still. Odds are, if he’s not stopped, he’ll hit the bludger at the closest player, specifically to his left,” I rambled, going over what I could for the hundredth time in the past few days. “Simmons is faster when going up and to the right. When going to goal, aim down and left. Oh! And-”

James listened to you intently, his expression focused as he tied his shoes and pulled on his jersey. He knew how important this information was for the upcoming game, but at some point, what was done was done. There was no more drilling and studying that could be done besides applying everything he knew. 

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced over at you, "I got it, I got it," he assured you, a hint of playful teasing in his tone. "I've got it down, don't worry."

He stood up and stretched, turning to face you fully. At some point over the past two months, his physical touch no longer felt foreign, his hands coming to grasp your shoulders until you relaxed. 

James smiled at you, eyebrow cocked as he waited for you to crack. It only took a few seconds before you folded, finding it impossible to do anything but bite down on your lip in semblance of remaining stoic. But James knew he had you when he grinned proudly. 

It was hard not to believe in him when he looked so damn sure of himself. 

Despite how obnoxious you’d always found him, you actually enjoyed spending the past few weeks scheming and strategizing. 

And as much as you hated Elias Kaston- which you did vehemently with a white hot passion- if he hadn’t ran you off the Slytherin quidditch team… well, you wouldn’t be standing there, face inches from James’s very pretty one. 

You liked being there. 

Seemingly satisfied that you were no longer about to fly off the handle, he stepped back to continue getting ready for the match. The match you had to believe he was going to successfully lead his team to win.

“I know. I know that. You’re… you’re great.” When you realized what you’d said, your eyes widened and you stuttered to correct yourself. “At quidditch. You’re great at quidditch and you’ll be fine.”

Damn it, the damage was already done. James couldn't help but grin as you corrected yourself, a mischievous glint flickering in his eyes. 

"What was that? You think I'm great? Sorry, did I hear that right? You did use the word great, yeah?" 

At the realization you’d just made his ego swell before your eyes, you hang your head in defeat. 

“Oh, I'm never going to hear the end of this,” you groaned under your breath, arms folding over your chest as you leaned back against the locker. 

Sirius grinned as he passed, “Oh you are certainly not.” You scowled when he clapped you on the shoulder. The two boys exchanged nods, Sirius first as if giving his friend the okay to do something. You were a bit too distracted taking a breath to calm your nerves that were threatening to bubble up again. 

Most of the team had either already slipped oJames reached for his bag, rummaging around for a moment before pulling out the extra jersey. He held it up, presenting it to you as he stood up from the bench.

"Here," he offered, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint. "You better wear this and cheer extra loud for me. A good luck charm for us." 

out of the locker room and onto the pitch, the space growing quieter but the sound rising as students filled the stands. That was your cue to find the rest of the group and take your seat. 

James took a breath and reached for his bag, rummaging around for a moment. "Here," he offered, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint. You barely managed to catch it as you held it up, inspecting it with furrowed brows.

It was his spare jersey. The shirt was the exact same as yours had once been, aside from the red and gold material and the name POTTER stitched on the back. You’d barely registered what it was before looking up to see James already back towards the door.

"You better wear this and cheer extra loud for me. A good luck charm for us." 

“Why?” you blurted out. All you received in response was a shrug, cheeky grin and a wink before he was gone, the curtains of the tent flapping closed behind him. That was it; he was gone and it was just you and his jersey remaining in the locker room. 

That was totally on purpose. 

You scoffed, mouth falling open in disbelief. “That asshole.”

For a while, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but stare at. The material was familiar in your hands, making you frown as you studied it like it would make everything make sense. 

If you put it on, you were accepting something. You just didn’t know what that was. That was what scared you. Putting on this jersey wasn’t the same as throwing on one of Lance’s generic sweaters in support of the Gryffindors.

You wouldn’t just be supporting their house; you would be supporting James Potter specifically. You would be broadcasting that support right on your back. 

Not wearing it… well, it would be rude not  to wear it…

You were quick to strip off Lance’s scarf and toss it into his locker, slipping James’s jersey over your head. Maybe if you somehow did it fast enough, it wouldn’t have happened by your own doing. Like magic. 

Finding Peter, Remus and Keith in the sea of red took longer than you anticipated. It was a struggle to track their faces through the giddy students nearly bouncing in their seats. You pushed through to join them, ignoring their shared and knowing looks as you took your seat.

You had maybe three, whole seconds of peace. 

Keith grinned, his smirk widening as he studied the jersey you were wearing. "What's this? Trying to show some Gryffindor pride?" He teased playfully, bumping your shoulder with his own.

“Shut it.” You didn’t even turn in his direction, focusing up at the players warming up around the pitch. 

“Just saying.”

“You also ‘just said’ that there was something particularly softer about Lance’s sweaters-” your mumble was cut off by a playful swat of your head but you didn’t miss the pink flooding Keith's cheeks. 

“He doesn’t use magic to wash his clothes, they are softer.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You waved a dismissive hand in his direction, your eyes narrowing in Kastons direction when you saw him flying around. “I get it. I’m a real cheerleader.”

Remus, who was sitting on your other side, raised an eyebrow. While he said nothing, you knew he had something to say. Whatever it was, he kept it to himself and pretended to be very interested in the players above your heads. 

“Well, we are happy to have you in the stands with us today,” Peter said warmly as he leaned forward, flashing you a smile that you returned wholeheartedly. 

Watching the place you had once been spent all of your free time hurt, but not as badly as you’d anticipated it to. There was a flash of a moment that your eyes stung, throat constricting around the fact that your time playing quidditch had come to an end. As quickly as it came, it was gone; because it was okay. 

You’d get over it, you really would. That was clear now. 

You also had more fun with quidditch the past two months than you had the past six years. No one had undermined your abilities or ideas, your efforts were appreciated, taken into play. It just felt right. While you were a good player, maybe you were a better coach when you had a receptive team. 

James hovered in the center, running over your notes and information in his head as he accounted for all of the Slytherin players. His teammates worked on practice drills, warming up and exuding tenacity. 

The sight of you wearing his jersey caused a wide grin to spread across his face, and he fought hard to keep his focus on warming up and not swooning. The knowledge that you were proudly donning his jersey to watch him play had his heart racing with adrenaline.

Sirius' laughter rang out from where he was circling, slowing to a stop beside James. "You know, you’re  probably going to be insufferable after the game," he teased, his eyes glinting with amusement.

James couldn't help himself. He smirked up at Sirius, his eyes gleaming with a fire that couldn't be contained. "Oh, absolutely, Pads. I'll be riding this high for weeks. No, months. I'll ride this high for months."

A wry smile tugged at Sirius’s lips. "Months, eh?" He asked, arching an eyebrow playfully. "Are you sure it'll be months and not years?"

"Probably," James agreed with a nod, his cocky grin widening. He glanced down, his gaze resting on your form once again. Your eyes darted around the players, making it clear you were running plays through your own head like James was doing himself. Occasionally, you’d lean over and murmur something to Keith, directing him towards a Slytherin player with a nod of your head. 

James could get used to his name stretched across your back and he wasn’t even scared of that thought anymore. 

Gryffindor played with a ferocity and focus they had never played with before. Their plays were clean, flight patterns direct and intentional as the Slytherins struggled to catch up. They didn’t even know what hit them. Every move they made was calculated, as if they knew exactly what would happen next. Which they kinda did, thanks to you. 

James was unstoppable, relentless as he flew around the pitch, scoring goal after goal

Kaston's frustration was evident on his face and in his flying, his anger growing and making his bludger hits erratic. He lost control on where he was sending them and they rarely met their mark. 

You cheered. You cheered with every goal, cupping your hands around your mouth to yell with the crowd. The energy was electric and you were not disappointed at the experience. 

You couldn’t place the exact Kaston figured it out. At some point he had, likely when he saw you repping ‘Potter’ on your back and realized that all of Slytherin’s tactics had spread to their rival team. Which was why Sirius had to block three bludgers that Kaston had tried to hit into the stands, another attempt to take your head off and you weren’t even playing. 

No one seemed to notice that it was intentional aside from you and your friends around you. The game had become ruthless and fierce, with every score against Kaston sending a wave of pride and excitement through the crowd. The tension was palpable, the atmosphere charged with the intensity that was building between the players.

You were on the edge of your metaphorical seat when Lance and the new Slytherin seeker caught sight of the snitch. Given the score, 130 to 40, you expected the fight to catch the snitch would be more intense given it normally was between Keith and Lance. 

But no, Lance left him in the dust; easily weaving through the game in pursuit. 

And then, the moment you had all been waiting for – Lance finally caught it. The crowd went wild, cheering and screaming as the Gryffindor team surged forward, celebrating their victory. Your section erupted in celebration, the energy infectious as they all stood to cheer and yell in celebration.

You nearly lost your footing when Remus, Keith and Peter slung their arms over your shoulders, their whoops and hollers making you laugh. 

He had done it- well the entire team worked for the win- but James was the one that delivered his promise. He led his team to victory, kept his end of the deal to humiliate Kaston and his team after what they had done. They swarmed their captain, clapping for themselves and their performance. 

James, grinning brightly on his broom, shoving his dark hair off of his forehead and clapping his team on the back, had never looked more like the sun. 

There was a collective wince from the crowd when Kaston slammed right into James on their descent. You gasped as the force of the impact sent both boys tumbling to the ground. It didn’t stop there as Kaston and James grappled in the grass, their limbs twisting in a dangerous dance as both fought to regain control.

Your eyes were wide, completely taken aback at the blatant violence from your old teammate. Remus didn’t miss a beat, shoving at your shoulder to get you to move. 

“Go. Go. Go,” Remus urged and you moved, pushing Keith forward who complied. The four of you shoved through the crowd and down down the stands, all of the students starting to cheer or boo depending on their hoped outcome of the fight. 

By the time you got down there, fists were flying. 

Everyone was yelling as you jogged over, both teams adding fuel to the fire as they circled the altercation. Sirius was not attempting to hold James back, instead chest to chest with Alder as they shoved at each other. Lance was shouting to calm the two of them down but no one seemed to be listening. 

You slowed to a stop, hands flying to cover your mouth at the sight of James; his usual happy go lucky demeanor something else entirely. He was nearly unrecognizable, grappling on his back before managing to get the upper hand. 

Keith intervened first, like always, to run and step between Lance and Alder. Remus was moving forward in an instant, focusing on yanking Sirius back to keep the violence from spreading. You just stood there, unable to move. It wasn’t like you could really help at this moment.

Kaston's eyes were filled with fury as threw James off of him and onto the grass. "You think you've won," he spat, his voice laced with anger. "You think she's won this game for you. But you've got another thing coming."

"You think you can get away with that?" James shouted, his voice echoing across the field. "You'll pay for last year you Git!”

He moved fast, launching himself at the Slytherin captain with a violent intensity. A sickening crack echoed through the silence as his fist connected with Kastons’ jaw, sending him stumbling backwards with a pained cry. Your hands flew to cover your mouth in shock, unable to move from your spot beside a wide eyed Peter. 

Kaston roared in pain and anger, launching himself into the fight with a feral growl. He pounced forward, landing a hard punch of his own into James’s nose with a satisfying crack.

"You think you're above me, Potter," he growled, hatred seeping into every word. "But you're just a lucky prat with a pretty face. And she-“

James stumbled back from the intensity of the hit, his teeth gritted as the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Anger flared through him like wildfire, his vision tinted red as he launched himself at Kaston once more. 

"Shut. Up," James growled, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps of air. His nostrils flared as he wiped his bloody nose on his forearm, his expression filled with rage. "Don't you dare mention her," he snarled. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you, you filthy rat?"

Sirius and Remus were trying to separate the two, but they weren't having much luck. Sirius pulled at James, trying his best to pry him off of Kaston. "James, snap out of it!" As Dumbledore and McGonagall, followed by Slughorn, crossed the field in a concerned hurry, you were at least thankful that no one was swinging anymore. 

Lance helped keep James at bay with the others. You were hardly surprised that Keith was trying to keep Kaston back, only because he didn’t have to be gentle with the asshole. 

Tension seemed to be dying down, the fire in their eyes starting to diminish as their flared nostrils turned to panted breaths. You were stunned and maybe you shouldn't have been considering Kaston tended to speak with violence. 

Kaston managed to make note of you, his eyes finding your place in the crowd. 

“Enjoy the mudblood, blood-traitor.” His sneer revealed his red tinged teeth before he spit near your feet. 

You sucked in a breath, stiffening at the word like it had delivered a blow to your own face. It set James off again, the boys stopping him mid lunge from landing another blow. 

"You don't get to speak to her like that," James seethed, his voice low and dangerous. He felt a fire surging through him, his teeth gritted, his fists clenched so hard that his knuckles were turning white.

But Remus held him back firmly, his eyes dark with anger. "Prongs, enough," he said, his voice low but stern. "You need to calm down."

“What on Earth- Potter! Mr. Kaston,” McGonagall shrieked, her voice cutting through the chaos. All of the spectators in the crowd barely quieted themselves but the players on the field were happy to fall still. “Enough! Both of you, to your locker rooms now!”

James’s shoulders heaved up and down but, without tearing his eyes away from Kaston, he let his friends tug at him until his feet moved. 

From the pursed lips and set stance of your professor, she clearly was livid, containing her emotions until she unleashed them later. Most likely that rage would be directed at Kaston because he had thrown the first punch and called you something no one should ever be called. 

“Both of you will report to my office immediately after you are presentable.”

It seemed Slughorn was in agreement as he curtly nodded, looking flabbergasted at the behavior of the new quidditch captain he’d picked for the Slytherin house. As if on cue, he caught your eye. Slughorn frowned and you looked towards the ground. It wasn’t like things couldn’t be pieced together now; why you’d turned down his offer to resume your position as captain for a second year after being so successful. 

If you could lift your head up, then you would've seen the matching frowns on Dumbledore’s and McGonagall’s faces, the two of them likely putting together the same events. 

The two groups retreated as they were told. Despite spending the past hour standing out in the November chill, you were hot all over. You watched James’s back, watched his head turn and he caught your eye. Instantly, the fire in his eyes seemed to dim immediately at the sight of your distress. 

James’s blood still boiled with anger and anger consumed him, but he forced himself to look away. He didn't want to see the look on your face – he didn't want to see the disappointment or disgust. He couldn't bear it.

And then he was gone, successfully shoved through the curtains of the Gryffindor locker room by Remus. 

“What the hell just happened?” you breathed out, eyes trained on the spot he had just disappeared. Only Peter remained at your side, the other boys having followed James to follow McGonagall orders. 

"Bloody hell," Peter muttered under his breath. "James went mad. I’ve never seen him so angry before."

Now that the show was over, the students' excitement began to settle, their interest no longer obtained as they trickled out of the stands. You glanced at the professors speaking in hushed tones as they huddled together. As soon as you made eye contact with McGonagall, it was clear that you were a part of their conversation. 

So you nudged Peter and nodded towards the exit. “Come on. Let’s head back and wait for them.”

It was almost an hour before Lance and Keith spilled into the Gryffindor dorm room, sans one James Potter. You and Peter had opted to sit on the beds in quiet- well you were quiet- quiet and appreciative of Peter filling the silence in an attempt to brighten the mood. 

They informed you that after James’s cool down, he’d gone off to have a stern talking to with McGonagall before being sent to the infirmary. It was clear by your fidgeting that you were dying to go there to see him.

You weren’t sure whether you wanted to hit him yourself or-

Oh. 

Oh.

Clearly you must’ve been more shaken up than you had thought if… kissing him… had been… instinctual…

That was weird.

Waiting around became too much after two minutes but no one seemed surprised when you shoved off the bed and out of the room. You had to remind yourself not to run through the halls, especially when the occasional student passing by glanced in your direction. The need to see him, see that he was okay and why he didn’t stop fighting him and ask him why you felt so overwhelmingly concerned for his stupid well being- you just needed to see him. 

You might've over compensated with your enthusiasm, shoving open the infirmary door a bit harder than you intended. You almost stumbled into the room, catching yourself before actually tripping. When you looked up, there were three pairs of eyes already on you. 

James sat up straighter immediately, his eyes wide in anticipation of your presence. His jersey had been exchanged for a dark colored sweater and jeans. That served as a reminder that you were still clad in his own jersey, the sleeves rolled up so you didn’t drown in its size. All traces of blood had been wiped from his face, his perfectly messy hair indicative that he’d showered before Madam Pomfrey cared for his injuries. 

There was little evidence of the fight at all. Aside from the faint bruises on his cheek, jaw, and nose that were already healing. You still were impressed with the magic of healing in the wizarding world.  

“Hi,” you said lamely.

Sirius had to look down in an effort to not laugh, receiving a subtle kick from Remus to shut up. 

James couldn't help but feel a tinge of anxiety as you took in his injuries, feeling self-conscious as your eyes studied his face. He still was unable to look away as he tried to guess what was running through your mind.

Perhaps you were disappointed or even disgusted at his behavior. 

“Hi,” James returned just as breathlessly. 

The boys exchanged a look before getting to their feet. If your presence wasn’t enough of a sign to leave you alone, then the long stare the two of you shared only solidified that their presence was unnecessary. Their movement in your peripheral finally made you look away and clear your throat. 

“Hey.” You greeted them again as you approached the bed just to break the quiet. 

“Hey, hey, hey! Look who it is!” Sirius called out, a beaming grin crossing his face at the sight of you. "The mastermind behind our win!”

From across the room, Remus raised an eyebrow and glanced at James, giving him a knowing look. He missed it entirely since he was too busy staring at you. Sirius' eyes twinkled with mirth as he greeted you with a mock salute to break the ice.

You shook your head, “No. That was all you guys. Congratulations. You played really well, cleanest game in a while.”

“Cleanest game I’d seen. Well, up until Kaston got his blood all over the field-”

“Padfoot, out. Now.” Remus just groaned silently, ensuring you and James that they would see you later as he pulled a pouting Sirius out of the infirmary. 

For the past hour, you hadn’t been able to get your brain to shut off. Memories had been playing on a loop, plaguing your mind with images of James’s head snapping back or the glob of blood tinged spit landing in the grass at your feet. 

But now, standing there in front of him, you couldn’t think of a single thing to say. 

You expelled all of the air from your cheeks just so there was sound before dropping down on the edge of the bed. A sudden urge to reach out and touch him shot through your nerves, insisting that you brush the hair from his forehead, to trace his split lip with your fingertip. Purple ebbed along his knuckles, matching the purple on the bridge of his nose under the frames of his glasses. 

“I think this was proof enough that you truly are the most dramatic person I’ve ever met.”

His shoulders sagged in relief, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, despite the pain that still coursed through him. He let out a soft chuckle, his eyes shining with warmth. You did the same, peeking up at him from your lashes to confirm some of the tension had broken. 

Your quiet voices carried along the stone, the empty infirmary lacking any audience. Kaston must’ve been recovering separately to prevent any more altercation. 

"What can I say," he shrugged, an easy grin spreading across his face, "if I'm going to get myself into trouble, I at least want to make it memorable."

“Oh, I’m aware.” You leaned over him to pick the half melted ice pack up from the table, tossing it between your hands absentmindedly. “How much detention did you get?”

"Oh, you know me, just a week's worth. Got an earful of it from Minnie.” He reached over and snatched the ice pack from your hands and placed it back on his shoulder, wincing at the cold. “Just her usual ‘hitting is wrong even if deserved’ and ‘leaning more on your back leg will land a harder hit’.”

There was more damage hidden under his sweater, the sling on the end table was evidence of that. You grimaced at the sight, guilt tugging the smile on your face into a frown. He’d really gotten hurt at the end of the match, hitting and getting hit in front of the entire school. 

You looked down and sighed, “Sorry. This shouldn’t have happened. That was… oh god… that was bad and you shouldn’t be sitting here like this.”

James shook his head instantly, looking somber as he scooted down the bed to sit next to you. 

“Hey, don’t apologize. I wanted to hit him, and he deserves it, honestly. He’s a prick. I should’ve done it before."

His hip brushed your lower back as he settled closer. your breath would’ve caught in your throat but you were too distracted by him reaching out to touch your chin. You let him nudge your head in his direction, reluctantly meeting his eye, unable to look away. 

“Can’t say I’m not jealous,” you snorted softly. “I’ve been itching to hit him since first year.”

Not trusting yourself, you kept your hands clasped together in your lap, attempting to suppress the urge to touch him back.

"Jealous? No need to be. I'd be happy to lend you my services any time. Just say the word, and I'll hold him down so you can land a hit or two.”

And then he smiled. 

Your stomach did that thing, a flipping sensation that you always associated with nose diving on your broom. Pulling up at the last second kept you from smashing every bone in your body. The risk only made the thrill more intense the longer you could go before giving in. 

Right then, you were well aware that you were horribly and irrevocably fucked.

James' hand didn’t fall away when you looked down at the comforter. He only secured the home of his touch on your face, cupping your jaw with the faintest of touches. 

“Congratulations, by the way,” you said after a long second, voice softening unsurely under his stare. 

"For what? The fight or the win?" he asked, ducking his head to try and meet your eye. James got quieter as he found it harder to bite down his smile. "For being so great?" 

You rolled your eyes but the flat look you tried to give him was far too fond to do any damage. All it did was make you aware of how close the two of you were. 

“All three. It was great,” I breathed out, leaning into his hand as we sat side by side on the edge of the infirmary bed. “It was really great.”

"Not as great as seeing you in my jersey." His hand on your cheek grew firmer as he allowed himself to feel the warmth of your skin against his fingertips.

Your head was beginning to spin, thoughts tangled in a dizzying mess of questions and desires. But amid the chaos, one thing remained clear: you enjoyed being with him, more than you ever had thought possible.

James Potter had an ego the size of a lake, but a heart to match.

James’s leg dangled off the edge of the infirm bed, the toe on his hightop grazing your own. The other was tucked under him, adding more contact between his shin and your thigh. The two of you had spent the past two months bumping elbows, his chest brushing against your back when he’d lean from behind you to read something over your shoulder. 

At the beginning of the year, his touch made you tense, you’d hold your breath until the moment passed. Along the way, it stopped feeling like your heart was thrown off the top of the astronomy tower as you formed a routine together. 

This was different. This was intentional. 

You wondered if he could feel how hot your face was under his palm. It was almost embarrassing, how you felt like one of the first year girls that would giggle with their friends as he ran past. It would’ve been embarrassing if it didn’t feel so good. So you leaned your head into his hand.

“You make no sense. It’s like, anytime I think I have you figured out, I realize I have you all wrong, again.”

With a cocky grin, he leaned in towards you, his face mere inches from yours. "Ah, but that's what makes me interesting, isn’t it?" he teased, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Keeps you on your toes, keeps you guessing. I'm a complete mystery. I don't even understand myself sometimes." 

You scoffed and he leaned a bit closer, the warmth of his breath now brushing against your cheek. "But isn't that what makes me so fascinating?”

“I still think the most fascinating thing about you is how you manage to get your massive head in the air with your broom,” you murmured.

“Oh, you thought my head was big before? Just wait until you see how big it is after I do this.”

James closed the distance, his mouth finding yours with ease. His thumb slid under your chin to tilt your head back, allowing him to lean further over you. 

You’d had your fair share of kisses over the past few years, but none had ever felt like this. This was like drinking liquid luck until you got sick. You gripped his collar, pulling yourself closer and he was happy to wrap an arm around your waist to tug you closer. 

Every sense was heightened, the touch of his mouth sending your mind spiraling. Everything faded away, the world narrowing down to the feeling of his tongue swiping your bottom lip, the slight weight of his hand resting against the side of your neck, the sound of your own uneven breaths.

This was what it must have been like to taste the sun. It was like laying under an open window and basking in the early morning light on the first day of summer. Tangling your hands in his hair was like growing roots into the earth as it orbited around the sun.

You were burning alive and nothing had ever felt better. 

The two of you pulled back after what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, your breathing ragged and eyes wide. You searched his face for any sign of dislike and were ecstatic when you couldn’t even imagine what that would like on his face. 

Not when the two of you were breaking into smiles. 

If you had thought James Potter glowed before, now he was blinding.

“Yeah,” he drew out and brushed your hair behind your ear. “I’m about to be insufferable now that I’ve finally done that.”

quid pro quo master list here

[maybe-moonchild]

CH3 𓆣 James Potter x Slytherin reader summary: seventh year begins, James drives you nuts sometimes but he makes up for it. WC: 5.0k ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You turned James and his idea down on the Hogwarts express. 

The more you thought about it, giving Kaston a reason to stick a target on your back, it sounded like a horrible idea. His humiliation would lead to nothing more than your own suffering. He wouldn’t take kindly to your involvement with the rival team and he would make sure you knew that. 

Much to your surprise, the start of the year had been going well. 

Your new found and budding friendship with the marauders almost created a shield, one that Kaston was less likely to try and infiltrate. The occasional insult still made it to your ears but Kaston seemed to be watching himself, trying to avoid becoming a victim to a prank thrown by the infamous Marauders. 

At least it was going well until the evening of the 13th day of school led to you knocking on the door to the Seventh year Gryffindor boys dorm, blood soaking into the sleeve of your sweater. 

You’d thanked Marlene and Lily extensively as they let you in the portraits, their concern making you suddenly embarrassed. They continued to scrutinize and question you as they walked you up the stairs, barely believing your dismissive answers but eventually dropping the subject. It was clear their hesitance to leave you alone was out of kindness and they continued to glance back at you as they retreated. 

You didn’t hesitate to use your elbow to bang weakly on the door. The metallic tang of blood was nauseating, practically overwhelming your other senses considering it was still dripping from your nose. You doubted that it was actually broken but it certainly 

There was a quiet inside the room that almost made you panic no one was even around. The sound of rustling and footsteps reassured you, the sound drawing closer. It was James that opened the door, his expression changing immediately at the sight of you. He quickly ushered you in, a look of concern on his face as he closed the door behind him.

"Merlin, what happened?" James said, his tone filled with worry as he hurried to guide you inside the room. You let him, more preoccupied with keeping your head tipped back and sleeve pressed against your nose. 

He hardly looked surprised when you grumbled out a “Kaston.”

Without a second thought, James helped you settle on the edge of his bed, the covers haphazardly made from the morning. He kneeled next to you and gently pried your hand from your face. You winced, him wincing in return but knowing that he needed to inspect the damage. 

He made sure to be gentle when he tilted your chin back, his touch light and gentle. It was an immense contrast to the way he grit his teeth in anger. Being an asshole was one thing, violence, especially towards a girl, made him want to put Kaston right into his grave. 

Your hand returned to your face, fingers tacky with blood as he pushed up and to the little trunk under Remus’s bed. It was for… monthly emergencies… but it would work for this too. . 

“Charmed a book right into my face when we passed each other in the hall,” you continued while he collected a washcloth and wet it with his wand. “I had my guard down, that was foolish. Things have just been so quiet recently and… well, I knew if I ran into Keith in our common room, he would Kaston in his own bed. But, if I came here and ran into Lance, he would just tell Keith so he would still murder Kaston in his bed.”

By the time you were finishing your rambling, James had returned to your side. He was uncharacteristically quiet- even more uncharacteristically irritated looking. 

You didn’t entirely know why you had shown up here of all places. You’d told yourself that going to Lance was a safer option but… you also had a very strong feeling that he was going to be in the library with Keith. 

"You should've come here right away," James replied firmly. "I wouldn't have let him get away with it. I won't."

Never before had Jaames looked so serious in your eyes. You were just as shocked that he was entirely unflinching at the sight of blood, how it stained the front of your sweater, clung to your fingers and now his own skin as he removed your hand again. 

You let him work in silence, eyes angled up at the ceiling to not make him uncomfortable if you were staring at him this close up. Okay, so maybe it was more because you were more uncomfortable from his proximity but that was beside the point. 

Point was, you let James take over. 

“I did come here right away. I think I just realized I needed to.”

"Are you sure you don't need to go to the infirmary?" James asked in a concerned tone, his gaze flickering down to your nose, which looked even more battered under the fire's light. 

“I just- no. I… I don’t need to go to the infirmary. I came here.”

“Do you want me to track down Lance? I can get him to take over if you would be more comfortable.” He asked quietly, half paying attention as he focused on trying to fix you up. With the same softness of his voice, he held your face with one hand and slowly worked on wiping away the crime scene on your chin. 

“No,” you frowned, tilting your head at him before he directed it back in place. 

"How bad is the pain?"

You shrugged dismissively, starting to get frustrated that he wouldn’t let you finish. “Sore. Fine. That’s not my point though.”

“What point?” James asked, some of his irritation slipping away to confusion. 

“I want to help Gryffindor demolish Slytherin this year in quidditch. Kaston got my spot as captain and Keith quit with me. They only have two open spots on their team. That means I’m more than knowledgeable of the five other players' styles, drills, weaknesses- I know it all.”

He looked a bit taken aback when you blurted out the words, an attempt to get him to stop interrupting you. 

After a long moment, James’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm, a smile spreading across his face. "Really? You'll do it?" You nodded and his enthusiasm only grew as he scooted closer. "So you're in? Like in-in? You’ll help us take down Kaston and the rest of the snakes?”

You nodded which only made him light up more. His excitement was soothing, filling you with a hum that only intensified when his hands found your shoulders. It solidified your belief that you were doing the right thing.

Fear had dictated your every move and decision over the past six years. You had watched your mouth when you wanted to do nothing but scream, kept your head down to shy away from an opportunity to be targeted.

You should’ve kicked Kaston and Alder and everyone else off the Slytherin quidditch team at the start of last year. You should’ve said fuck it and not cared that your team would have been demolished every game, filled with second years while being a total joke. At least then it would have been a team you could be proud of. 

Your mind was already racing with the possibilities, his own ideas to win this year's match almost making him bounce in his seat. 

“On one condition,” I added, scooting closer to emphasize my point “I want him to know. I want him to know what’s happening so when he loses, it’s even worse for him.”

"Absolutely," he said with a wicked grin. "We'll make sure Kaston knows exactly who's responsible for his downfall. He'll be begging for mercy by the end of the match, and everyone will know you're the one who helped us do it."

Somehow, he managed to glow even brighter as he leaned in closer to you, the spark of triumph in his expression clear. "I promise. So we have a deal? You’ll do it?”

“Yeah, it's a deal. The only record I want him to break as captain is for getting his ass kicked.”

When the two of you shook hands, it almost felt like a blood oath given the situation. 

Your smile grew with his but it just made you wince in pain, hand reaching up to tentatively feel your nose. James grimaced before resuming his work at playing nurse. 

"Sorry," he murmured as he finished cleaning the dried blood. "I'm almost done, I promise. Got a bit distracted.”

Plotting Kaston and the rest of the Slytherin team's downfall was exciting. 

The plan was to keep your involvement a secret until a future time, to prevent anyone from figuring out where James was getting his information from and keeping Kaston from switching practice tactics. Aside from the Marauders, Lance and Keith, your involvement was on a need to know basis. 

It would make Kaston’s discovery of that fact so much better after he had at least lost one game to their rivals. 

If the Gryffindor players wondered why you and Keith were hanging in the stands during their practice, it was because you were waiting for Lance. If anyone found the amount of time you, James and Sirius spent whispering at tables in the library, pouring over open books, it was because you were helping him with Muggle Studies. 

Most of the time you would meet James in the Gryffindor dorms, spread out on the floor in front of the fire or his bed, surrounded by papers and books. There was the occasional library or kitchen meet up as well. 

If anyone wondered why you would suddenly scribble something on a scrap of parchment and lean back in your chair during potions, subtly slipping it into his palm, then… well you weren’t sure what anyone would think of that so you didn’t dwell on that. 

Regardless, sneaking around and plotting was fun. 

Most of the time. 

“Alder’s fake out on his left is significantly worse than his right. If you and McKinnon focus on his right- forcing him left then you can easily duck around him and intercept. Getting back to our side without getting nailed by a bludger is a bit tricky, but I think if we place Sirius on the wings then you can- Can you please focus?”

James didn’t hear you, his eyes tracking the red head who’d made a stop at Dorcas and McKinnons table on her way out  of the library. He’d been leaning back in his chair, idly staring off into space as he let his mind wander.

This was not an uncommon occurrence, his attention being stolen away the moment he caught a flash  of her red hair. Recently, he seemed to be studying her intensely whenever she passed, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed as the only sign he was deep in thought. 

You snapped your fingers in front of his face which abruptly snapped him out of his thoughts, bringing his attention back to you. James sat up straighter in his seat, raising his hands in surrender at the sight of your frown. 

"I know, I know," he sighed, "But you saw her. How can you expect me to pay attention when Evans is walking by.”

You blinked hard. 

There was no amusement in your tone when you threw up a hand. “You’re right James. How could I forget that drooling over her clearly takes precedence over the first match of the year.”

At least he had the decency to make his smile look sheepish. You did not find it amusing, your flat expression unwavering as you stared back at him from over the table.

“Oh come on,” he nudged your foot with his under the table, “It’s a month away. Five minutes staring at Evans won’t cost us the match. Besides, I normally dedicate much more of the year to doing it.”

His joke didn’t even make you smile. You weren’t trying to be so uptight or irritable, but the closer the match got, the more worried you were. If Gryffindor lost, you would feel like a failure. 

If Gryffindor lost and Kaston found out that you had been feeding the Gryffindor team's captain information… you would never live that down… and maybe not survive the rest of the year. So you were on edge, painfully nervous about pulling this off when you had very little control over the outcome with your influence.

You shook your head but opted not to bite his head off. It wasn’t like he was doing anything wrong besides being annoying with his attention span of a niffler when it came to his infatuation with Lily Evans. He’d already bailed on your plans to discuss what you had managed to learn about Slytherins new seeker, opting to work on a prank on Filch.

That had been in retaliation for the three days of detention he had last week for getting caught trying to sneak into the potions classroom late at night with Remus. So he had missed another playbook session while he helped Professor Sprout with the chomping cabbages. 

“Then why don’t we wait until you can go more than five minutes without getting distracted because I have better things to do,” you huffed, slumping back into his seat and no longer wanting to look at him. 

Say what you want about James and his ability to push the limit, but he at least knew when to concede. His face softened into a frown at your irritation. 

"Hey," he protested, reaching over to rest his hand on top of your closed fist. It was really hard not to concede to turn in his direction. "I'm sorry, alright? I'm paying attention. I am."

The touch made you grimace, the taste of guilt for being snappy tasting bitter on your tongue. You met his eye and made a point to make sure he was aware of your skepticality, waiting for him to glance in Lily’s direction again to ensure she was gone. He didn’t.

"I'm listening," he insisted, leaning forward in his seat to emphasize his empathy. "Tell me about Alder and McKinnon again. I promise I'll focus this time."

You were quiet for a long moment, bottom lip saddled between your teeth in worry. James probably thought you were trying to make a point when, in reality, you were shoving down the urge to panic. You’d been forcing down the feeling since you agreed but it just seemed to be pressing on your spine and shooting through your nerves. 

Your prolonged quiet just made his frown deepen. 

“Hey,” James tried again, giving your hand a little squeeze. “What is it? What’s wrong? Did Kaston do something?”

Eventually, you gave in, finding it impossible to actually be cross with him when he was looking at you like a wounded puppy. 

You turned to face him in your seat with a sigh. “No, he hasn’t done anything. Sorry, that was a bit harsher than I intended to be.”

He nodded earnestly and gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "Sorry for getting distracted. It won't happen again."

Damn him. Why couldn’t he just be foul? That would make staying annoyed at him so much easier.

Both of you relaxed as the discomfort in the air eased. Even though you tried really hard to make pulling your hand from his look as casual as possible, he seemed hurt. It was strange so you took a breath to try and brighten. 

“It’s fine, seriously.”

“Is it though?”

“Yes,” you grunted and reached for the paper beside him that was covered in notes about Alder and his playing. James was quick to snatch it out of reach, holding it hostage behind his head so you had to look at him. 

"Is that all that's bothering you? That I’m annoying.”

“Never said that.” You made a reach for it but he quickly pulled it back. You were not impressed as you let your hand hang in the air between the two of you. 

James didn’t miss a beat when adding, “Of course you didn’t, I’m a delight.” His eyebrow raised a little higher, waiting to see if you snapped again, a sign that you were more upset than you were letting on. “So what has you in a mood.”

“I’m not in a mood.”

“You seem pretty moody to me,” he said with feigned nonchalance, looking around the room innocently.

You scowled and dropped your hand into your lap. 

“You know what, I take it back; now I actually am saying that you’re annoying.”

He raised a hand to his chest, mouth hanging open like he’d truly been scorned. The moment he saw the twitch of your mouth, an indication that you were fighting a smile, his eyes lit up. James was more emotionally intelligent that you had given him credit for. His ability to lighten the mood, to chase away someone's frustration or stress was just another talent he possessed. 

“Now, that is just rude,” he scoffed before pretending to be sympathetic. “I think my charm might’ve gotten under your skin. It’s only natural for women to fall at the sight of my beautiful face.”

“Oh for the love of god…”

“That’s the thing about you, though. There is clearly something wrong with you.”

You just shook your head. “Have I ever told you that you’re a drama queen?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned, “Many times.”

That did it, earning a laugh out of you as your hands pressed against your face. Laughter bubbled out of him too, the sound quiet as his facade broke and he had successfully cheered you up. The paper you’d been reaching for slid in your direction, catching your attention as you accepted it. 

“Then I won’t beat a dead horse,” was all you could get out before he was speaking again, more intently and seriously than prior.

“We can do this, you know," he reassured you, his tone filled with confidence. "We've been working on this for weeks. We're going to win. I'll make sure of that. We're going to kick Kaston's arse and show him what a real quidditch team can do."

You didn’t look convinced for a long moment, mulling over the idea. Something flickered on his face, his lips pursing like he was now mulling over something conflicting in his head. It was gone as quickly as it appeared when he composed himself, leaning back in his chair and focusing back on the notes spread out across the table.

 "We'll crush Kaston and the rest of Slytherin in the most devastating defeat they've ever experienced," James declared with a wide grin. "They won't know what hit them."

The pep talk worked.

For a moment, you’d almost been worried he was flirting with you. 

“I’m saying cut around after looping the goals twice,” you explained, tracing the drawing with your finger. 

“That’s what I’m saying too.”

“No, you’re saying cut through after looping the goals twice.”

“That is the exact same thing.”

“James, no it isn’t.”

“Um actually, yes it is.”

You groaned, using your sleeve to wipe the diagram away so you could explain the play again while drawing it out. Neither of you were frustrated at each other at least, more frustrated with how difficult it was to explain things on the occasion that words didn’t transfer well. 

“No, see; you’re saying through, going straight here,” you explained as you drew a dashed line, “but I am saying go around, so you can duck between their chasers and get open for the quaffle while having an open shot.”

You turned to James, watching him slowly nod as he studied the board. The little crease was there, always settled between his brows when he was deep in thought, mouth twisted up to the side. Your shoulders sagged with relief as you set the chalk back down. 

“Yeah, that still sounds like the exact same thing.”

“James.”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled, the sound hesitant to keep from irritating you too much. He’d been much more focused since that day in the library, not cracking less jokes but being more conscientious of their timing. “Around. Through. I’m not seeing a difference.”

Thankfully the locker room was thick with warmth given it was the end of October. In one week, the first Saturday of November would hold the first match of the year. Gryffindor would play Slytherin with you sitting in the stands rather than being in the air. 

Your anxieties had only been growing each day, the prospect of not pulling off the win was increasing your stress little by little. You’d at least hoped that your nerves would overwhelm the disappointment you’d been harboring at the prospect of not playing. 

It didn’t. In fact, it felt like your dismay grew in tangent. For the first time since your first year, you would be a spectator to something that you loved. 

Shrugging it off, you turned away to drop down on the bench and scribble a note on a piece of parchment. You didn’t want to wrongfully project your frustration onto him when he was only trying to help. James followed, still clad in his practice jersey and raking his hair off his forehead. 

“Lance will get it,” you sighed but still gave him a reassuring look to ensure he knew you weren’t upset. “I’ll have him show it to you at tomorrow's practice.”

“Then just show it to me now.”

“I can’t show it to you now. I didn’t bring my broom this year.” Saying that outloud seemed to make your disappointment feel even heavier in your chest. You could’ve brought it with you but you preferred to not look like you were wallowing in your decision to quit the team, flying around the pitch pathetically like you were reliving your glory days. 

James was not deterred. 

“So?” 

You raised an eyebrow at him as you packed up your bag. “So? So I can’t show you without a broom.”

James made a face when it wasn’t obvious. 

“What?” You threw your shoulders up when he didn’t respond, waiting for you to put it together. When it was clear you weren’t going to, he sighed dramatically. 

“Up, come now.” With an ease that easily contributed to the solidness of his arms (that you certainly had not noticed), he had you on hauled to your feet, tugging you towards the exit with one hand and his broom clutched in the other. While you didn’t actually resist, you certainly were a bit too caught off guard to stop him.

“What?”

Cold bit at your skin the moment you stepped into the quiet of the pitch. It was dark out, the moon settled high in the sky and casting a silver light onto the dark of his hair. Damn it, he still looked like the stupid sun even when it was nowhere to be seen. 

“Just show me now,” he repeated with a shrug. “My one, and only, weakness is patience. I won’t be able to sleep until I get it. So just show me or I’ll be up all night, pacing and sighing until the sun is up. Then, I’ll have to sit through all of breakfast- the entire school day in agony. Each waking moment-

“Alright, alright,” you conceded. He grinned and earned an eye roll in return. 

A new found buzz filled your veins in the face of flying again, the open sky, wind whipping your hair around your head and the familiar feeling of your stomach dropping during a quick descent. 

But then  James got on the broom- No. Then James got on the broom and gestured to in front of him-

Hold on, James got on his broom and gestured for you to occupy the spot between his legs, on his broom, so you could show him the play while you were both simultaneously on the broom. 

You stared at him in disbelief, his expression completely undisturbed in the face of your confusion. 

“No. Why? Can’t you just…” you whined. There was no reason for the thought of being on a broom together to set off warning bells in your head. Especially when you were more likely to shove him off mid flight than the other way around. 

Clearly James didn’t share this concern when he threw his head back and groaned. “Merlin, come on already. I’m starving to death. Show me so I can go eat dinner.”

When you opened your mouth to protest again, he reached forward to tug you forward, hand grasping the crook of your elbow. Once James had his mind set on something, there was no changing it. 

“Why can’t Lance just show you?”

“Broom. On. Now.”

“You know I do not enjoy being bossed around.”

“I’m aware, so hurry up and decide for yourself to get on. I’ll be absolutely beside myself if I show up to dinner and the rolls are all gone.”

“Fine!”

With a huff, because you really did not want to climb on with him, you did anyway. His hand found your lower back to rest there while you threw your leg over the handle. You held your breath and hoped he couldn’t feel how tense your body was when he scooted closer. His chest was warm and hard against your back, the feel making you nearly suck in a sharp breath.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He leaned forward even more to wrap his hands around the handle in front of you, his arms caging you in. You followed suit and placed your hands below his. Each time exhaled, you could feel it on the back of your neck, making you want to jump off even when he began to ascend into the air. 

You quickly forgot about his proximity as the ground disappeared beneath your feet. 

Being back on a broom was both liberating and soul crushing. You were shocked that the weight of your grief of giving up what you loved didn’t keep you both rooted to the ground. Instead, felt alive again; like you had a piece of you missing since your return to Hogwarts and didn’t even notice. Now, you would be forever aware of its presence. 

“Don’t drop me.”

James smirked, “As if. My track record of not dropping people in flight is immaculate. Nearly one hundred percent.”

When he circled one of the goals, the both of you barely lurching to the side, you laughed. The sound bubbled from your lips before you could think about it, all breathless and relieved at the same time. A wide smile broke out on his face too and he watched you for a moment, drinking in the scene. 

You looked completely and utterly at peace with the world. 

“What?” He asked softly from behind your shoulder, eyes flicking around the side of your face as he slowed to stop. “What is it you find so funny?”

Your heart was beating so fast in your chest, exhilaration pumping through your veins hard enough that you wondered if he could feel it. 

You shrugged and half turned around to smirk, “I don't know. I guess I had just thought you were better on a broom.”

At your friendly jab, his eyes lit up with competitiveness. Maybe something had been missing for him too this year. James had become so used to your friendly competition over the past six years that it had felt as much a part of playing quidditch as catching the quaffle. 

He missed watching you play. 

James missed playing against you. 

“Oh, is that so?” With a nudge of the handle, you both seemed to forget the reasoning behind your flight as he took you up a bit higher. “Me? Not good at flying?”

You turned back around to face the front when he pressed closer. His hands found themselves directly above yours, his skin barely brushing your knuckles, in an effort to make sure you're better boxed in between his arms. 

“You can’t honestly believe that. Clearly you aren’t thinking straight if that's what's in that pretty little head of yours.”

If either of you noticed his use of the adjective to describe you, you didn’t show it. Not when you’re too busy laughing as he takes a dive towards the grass. 

And it was fun. 

It was so horribly fun it nearly feels sinful. Your hair is a tangled mess but you don’t bother to ask him to stop so you can pull it back. That would mean you would have to stop and you think you might die if the moment ends. 

James doesn’t hold back, making loops and nosedives, weaving in and out of the goals so you have to duck your head. Having the best of the best, his broom is fast. So fast that there are a few times you both nearly lurch right off before he throws his arms around your waist.

At some point, he just left his arm there, tightly wrapped around your middle to keep you securely to his chest. Neither of you seemed to remember the need to eat or mind the rapidly dropping temperature.  

James didn’t walk you back to your common room until it was long past curfew and you couldn’t feel your fingers.

quid pro quo master list here main master list here

[maybe-moonchild]

CH 2 𓆣 James Potter x Slytherin Reader summary: you could have worse company... you could also have less annoying company... WC: 4.5k ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Sixth year ended uneventfully. 

You had a few more run-ins with Kaston, most involving insults, the occasional tripping or knock of your books out of your hand. The typical pure-blood ideology bullshit was sent Lance’s way too when he was around. Keith only hexed him once. 

Classes went well enough after final examinations were completed and you received report of your grades. Packing  up your dorm for the summer resembled shoving things into your bags the day before boarding the Hogwarts Express. That was it. Your sixth year was done and you had three whole months spending time with your family, enjoying the weather and exchanging letters with your friends until you got to see them. 

Most importantly, you had three months of no magic. 

You almost felt guilty how relieved you felt not being around wizards each day. You didn’t feel like you were behind, always playing catch up on their way of life. 

Your new found peace ended with your Hogwarts letter calling for you to return at the end of August. Your parents seemed almost disappointed when you told them you wanted to go school shopping alone, your heart broke at the way their excitement fell, plastering on a smile and chalking it up to you just wanting to be mature. 

You let them think that. It seemed a lot easier to let them believe instead of the fact that returning to Diagon Alley with your muggle loved ones seemed like they would just be in danger. So they agreed, making sure you planned your trip with Lance and Keith so you wouldn’t be on your own. 

Flourish and Blotts was relatively busy, the once lazy feeling in the air associated with summer turning to an excited hum for the upcoming school year. You were still waiting on the arrival of your friends as you stood between the shelves. You hadn’t been able to refrain yourself from grabbing the most recent edition of The Daily Prophet and flipping through its pages.

Sometimes you wondered if the war was truly ever going to end.

It seemed as if you’d missed a summer of awful news; more disappearances of muggles and muggle borns, their families found killed in their homes. Hogwarts and magic had once been exciting, filling the gaps in your life with wonder the more you saw and learned. Along the years of whispered threats and hissed insults at your back, you felt like you’d been chased away from your prior love of the Wizarding World. 

You were too enthralled in reading to notice a group of boys chasing each other into the store. 

Sirius accused Peter of stealing his recently purchased sugar quill as they stomped through the store. James was too busy reading through the list of things he and Sirius were supposed to purchase today to keep Euphemia Potter from being cross. Remus hid his smirk behind the stick of the sugar quill hanging from his mouth. 

When James glanced up from his list, the sight of you between the shelves they had just passed made him do a double take. For some reason, he just stopped in his tracks. He was staring, he knew that he was but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. You looked more or less the same aside from having gotten some sun and your hair gaining a little length. 

It wasn’t like he was watching you in a weird way… just… watching. 

“You going to go over there or just keep staring,” Sirius whispered in his ear before blowing into it. James jumped slightly as Sirius whispered in his ear, a scowl instantly forming on his face as he playfully smacked the back of his head. 

Laughing at his own antics, Sirius leaned back, raising an eyebrow in question as he settled against one of the shelves. 

“You’ve never been the quiet type before,” Remus murmured as he read the back of a book, “Even with Lily, you’d be tripping over your own feet to talk to her.”

"What are you-" James began, but the words got caught in his throat as he glanced up and spotted you once again. “This is- This is nothing like with Evans! I was just looking!”

Sirius snorted, “More like drooling.”

James’s mouth dropped uncontrollably, snapping shut in the hope that he could look unbothered. 

"I was certainly not," he muttered under his breath, his confidence sounding more like false bravado.

“Want me to wipe your chin, Prongs?”

“Want me to smack you right in the store?”

Thank Merlin you were both far enough away and too engrossed in The Daily Profit to even look up. 

Remus continued browsing the spines of books. “And yet, you are stalling,” he teased, not even bothering to glance up.

James was instantly on the defensive, his eyes narrowing as he shot Remus a dirty look. "Just because I'm not rushing over there doesn't mean anything," James muttered. His eyes returned to the piece of paper in his hands. 

“Why don’t you go talk to her then?” Sirius smiled smugly, barely able to contain how humorous he found the sight. “Instead of standing here like an idiot.”

"Oh, he’s got it bad,” Remus hummed with feigned sympathy. . 

“Is this how you usually land girls then?” Peter, a better actor than all of them, cocked his head to the side, “by staring at them from across a store?”

Sirius was nearly doubled over as he tried to stifle his laughter to keep himself quiet. Leaning forward to rest his forehead against the wood, Remus clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder, the both of them chuckling. 

“You know, you’re a real git, you know that, right?” James hissed, his voice sounding more frustrated than menacing. He turned to glare around at the other Marauders, who seemed to be taking great pleasure in witnessing his predicament.

Scoffing, his face turned even redder, shoving the list back into his pocket. "I'll have you know I am a certified charmer." He tried to say this with confidence, but even Peter's words had chipped away at his normally impenetrable ego. 

Sirius just laughed harder behind his hand.

"I was simply... trying to decide on the best way to approach her.” James was trying to maintain some semblance of his usual charm.

"You're not even approaching her," Remus pointed out dryly, his lips twitching with a barely suppressed smile.

The other three boys shared a look, one that had Peter and Remus slipping away while Sirius hung an arm around James’s shoulder. 

“Listen mate, you’re getting too into your own head. Sure, she may not necessarily be the biggest fan of you and your ego, but she doesn’t hate you- in fact! Once in a while you make her laugh at your own expense.” Both of them moved in your direction, James finding himself nodding.

“So, remember you’re a gryffindor, quite being a big baby, and talk to her.”  As Sirius finished giving his advice, he was all too ecstatic to give him a shove.

James stumbled forward, catching himself just in time to avoid falling directly into you. He could hear the sound of Sirius' laughter in the distance, but he ignored it as he found himself face-to-face with you when you had startled. 

Both of your eyes were wide for different reasons, yours in surprise and his in… well also surprise but because he really hadn’t planned on having to catch himself on a shelf at the last second. At least he had crushed you. 

You visibly relaxed at the realization that it wasn’t a threat, just an idiot. 

One that you didn’t hate horribly. 

“Hi James,” you drew out skeptically, amused nonetheless. 

His strange behavior fell away to reveal his usual charismatic appeal as he gave you a roguish smile. James adjusted his arm gripping the bookshelf where it caught his fall to lean against it with his forearm. You were sure you had seen him like this many times before. 

Usually it involved the Hogwarts library, Lilly Evans and an attempt at flirting. 

“Hi.” As if he remembered that himself, he stood up straighter and cleared his throat. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You frowned in thought, “Is it? I didn’t think it was all that unexpected given most students do their shopping on the weekend.” 

You were unaware that James was half listening to what you were saying, and half shooting a dirty look to the other Marauders when they peaked out from behind a bookshelf. You didn’t see it, too busy trying to make sense of James, something you gave up on long ago. 

“Have a good holiday then?” James asked abruptly, grinning as he turned his attention back to you. 

“I’d say so, spent time at home, a little bit of traveling with my family, relaxing,” you shrugged, “Nothing special. What about you? Heard Black moved in with you. Your poor mother.”

James let out a snort of laughter, a warm smile spreading across his face. You didn’t hesitate to feel as lively as he looked. 

"Yeah, she was not thrilled that we accidentally crashed our brooms into her garden multiple times, but she loves us both nonetheless," he said with a chuckle, shaking his head. Even though the conversation about the situation was lighthearted, you knew that Sirius leaving the house of Black was no small event. 

"As if I wasn't bad enough, they now get two of us.” He shrugged, his hands slipping into his pockets as he leaned back casually against the bookshelf. The sight of the other Marauders watching them from a distance was not lost on him, but he chose to ignore it for the moment. “So eh, yeah. I guess it was a good summer, It was great having Sirius there with me. He could always crack a joke that would make even a dementor laugh.”

“That’s good, I’m glad to hear it.”

A group of Ravenclaw girls slipped by, greeting you both before erupting into a fit of giggles once they’d passed. You were at least grateful to know that you weren’t the object of their laughter. The thing about being in James Potter’s presence was that he always outshined you. That was fine by you as long as it kept any negative attention from hanging over your head. 

Clearly they were giggling about having successfully said hello to him.

“You finish your shopping then?” 

A movement behind him caught your attention as you opened your mouth, “No, just started actually. Waiting to meet with Lance and Keith at The Leaky Cauldron in twenty minutes.”

"I think I have a couple left as well," he said a little too enthusiastically, clearing his throat with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Why don't we, you know, shop together?"

You raised an eyebrow at the offer. Sure, maybe James had been a witness to your moment of weakness last year, but it wasn’t like the two of you had even exchanged letters this summer. But he looked so earnest about the offer, you felt like saying no would make him look like a kid who just watched you kick a puppy. 

So you smiled, albeit a bit unsurely, you smiled nonetheless. 

“Uh, sure.”

He instantly brightened, bright enough to hurt your eyes like you had stared directly into the sun. Luckily, you looked away quickly as you peaked behind him. 

“Will uh, your friends be joining us too?”

James whipped around to see Sirius, Peter, and even Remus sticking their heads out from behind a shelf. The sight was comical, looking straight out of a cartoon; even more so when they realized they’d been caught and jumped out of sight. 

You found it amusing to watch how he nearly cringed. “I suppose they will be,” he sighed. 

The five of you didn’t spend too much longer there, easily picking up the books you’d need for seventh year. You were pleasantly surprised to chat with Remus about books you had read over the summer, learning that he also enjoyed muggle literature. It made you more aware of how little you actually knew about The Marauders, aside from what was surface level. That was okay but you hadn’t expected to enjoy learning more. 

Given that you still had some time before heading to The Leaky Cauldron, you didn’t mind stopping at another store or two to pass the time.

Up until Sirius mentioned stopping at Quality Quidditch Supplies. James was ecstatic at the idea, quickly involving you in the plan given the three of you were the quidditch players of the group. The two boys were too engrossed in their conversation about what broom polish they preferred to notice your sudden discomfort. 

Sirius let out a loud exaggerated scoff, rolling his eyes as he turned to face you and James. "I could still outfly the two of you any day," he teased. “Come on, we’ll meet Remus and Peter at The Leaky Cauldron when we’re done.”

You opened your mouth, the words sticking apprehensively to the tip of your tongue. You urged yourself to say something, to even just feign disinterest and opt to head to Rosa Lee Teabag, just lie and say you really loved tea. 

Instead, your mouth closed and your shoulders sagged in defeat as you followed behind Sirius and James. 

You were quite familiar with Quality Quidditch Supplies, having frequented the store before each return to Hogwarts. The smell of boom polish was overwhelming when you opened the door, feeling like a sense of home. You couldn’t help but inhale deeply as the three of you stepped inside. 

You half-listened to James excitedly discuss the new broom he’d gotten over the summer. There was no doubt it was the newest model, his parent’s religiously sending him off to Hogwarts with the best model available given he was a star player. 

Normally, you would’ve been rolling your eyes; snorting out a sarcastic comment asking if that broom would be able to lift his massive head off the ground. You were just uncharacteristically quiet on the topic and it didn’t take long for it to be noticed. 

James glanced behind him, looking for evidence that something was wrong. Your mouth was twisted into a little frown, teeth worrying at your bottom lip as your fingers trailed along the broom handles in the displays. 

He wanted you to say something, anything. He couldn’t understand why you were so uncharacteristically quiet. Wasn't this your favorite subject? Quidditch had always been something you loved.

As Sirius announced that he would be going to look at new goggles, James hung behind when you stopped in front of a shelf. He reached over your head to pluck a jar of broom polish sitting over your head and pretended to be very interested in reading the label. 

“You alright then?” James asked, glancing over at you in hopes that he sounded flippant on the topic. 

You pretended not to hear him for a moment, humming in confusion so you could assess how closely he was watching you. 

“Oh. Yeah.” You shrugged, mirroring his attempt at looking casual by picking up a bottle of broom polish and inspecting it between your fingers. Neither of you were doing a good job considering the air seemed to feel thicker in the face of the awkwardness. 

You should just say it. 

Afterall, he’d been witness to your tears at the end of last school year following your humiliation at the hands of Elias Kaston. 

“I uh… quit… quidditch.”

From how big James’s eyes got and how quickly he whipped to look in your direction, you might’ve been speaking another language. You didn’t look up at him even though you could see how he was staring at you in complete shock. 

James couldn’t have heard you correctly, because there was no way that you just said what he thought you did.

"You... you quit?" His voice was obnoxiously loud. “You quit? Why? Why on earth would you quit quidditch?”

A few shoppers nearby turned in your direction, concerned at the sound. You turned to look at him and raised a hand, hoping to placate James and his knack for dramatics. “Okay, okay,” you hissed, “Keep it down, would you? It's not that big of a deal.”

If Sirius would have been in the vicinity, half of Diagon Alley would have known by now.

“Not that big of a deal? Really?”

“Which it’s not.”

“You’ve been playing since second year.”

“Yes, James. I am quite aware of that.”

“You were captain last year- you won the final match last year!”

You shrugged, the action far too tense to be as dismissive as you tried to be. “I just wasn’t feeling it this year, I don’t know.”

No one would believe that excuse, especially when you turned away, picking up a different bottle of broom polish. It gave you an excuse to avoid his scrutinizing eyes that made you practically itch as you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. 

James’s lips pressed into a thin line, inhaling slowly through his nose and saying nothing. You didn’t need to. 

He stepped closer, speaking passionately in a much lower volume. “You’re a better player than Kaston.”

“It’s not because of Kaston,” you scoffed. James continued, speaking over your protests and speaking louder as your lies continued.

“You’re a better leader.”

“Doesn’t matter, it has nothing to do with that.”

“You had the potential to lead your team to another cup this year.”

“Well, I already won, wanted to give you a fair chance,” you shot back, feigning disinterest. His hand shot forward to pull your distraction away from you, holding it out of reach when you attempted to snatch it back. You had to look at him then, see the disappointment in his furrowed brows and parted mouth. 

“Are you really going to give that all up for an asshole like him?”

“I’m not doing it because of him!” It came out sharper than you had intended and you were immediately embarrassed; less so about the outburst itself and more because you felt stupid even bothering to deny it. James had been the one to see the effect your year as captain had on you last year when he found you in the kitchen, how defeated you were when you should have been celebrating. 

Being the captain of the Slytherin team last year had been a disaster and you couldn’t imagine doing it again. But the thought of remaining on the team while Kaston took your spot of power-

Who were you kidding? You wouldn’t have made it through the first round of tryouts.

You bit back something sharp that wanted to fall from your lips and impale him, just so you would maybe feel better. That would’ve been wrong; James was clearly still trying to help. So you forced yourself to look away and chewed on your bottom lip to give yourself a moment to take a breath.

 “I already told you last year,” you sighed, leaning back against the shelf and staring at your feet. “No one listened to me. There were times no one besides Keith showed up at practice. Do you know how many bludgers to the head I got last year? I stopped counting at 12.”

You opened your mouth before scrunching up your nose in the prospect of silence. 

There was the other, bigger, issue. 

You were going to spend the rest of seventh year keeping your head down. If it kept your family safe, then you would happily give up quidditch for your last year at school. Quitting hurt, you wouldn’t lie to yourself that you hadn’t shed many tears over the summer as your broom sat collecting dust in the corner of your bedroom. 

Getting over the loss of your beloved sport? You would get over it eventually. 

Getting over the loss of your family?

You would learn to be a spectator in the fan section. 

James’s frown only deepened when he seemed to understand the copious amount of reasons behind your decisions behind it. He knew from first hand experience you were a phenomenal player- you had beaten him several times last year. You were clever, quick witted, and had a sharp eye for spotting opportunities to go for goal; it wasn’t fair. 

Both of you stayed quiet for a moment, the sound of a bell chiming cutting through the weight of the situation. 

He expelled all of the air from his cheeks, nodding slowly like he was coming to understand everything- at least to understand the best he could. 

“Alright,” James finally said, his voice soft but determined. "How can I help?”

Out of everything you’d expected him to say, that wasn’t it. 

“What?” you blurted out. Your confused scowl didn’t deter the intent look he wore. With a sigh, you ran a hand down your face. “James, you can’t do anything. It’s done. I turned it down. The only thing you can do is beat him this season.”

“No, I can do more than beat him on the field.” He stepped closer, ducking his head so he could keep your eye. 

James didn’t want to just beat Kaston this season. He was going to obliterate him. 

“Help me coach Gryffindor.”

You almost thought you’d misheard him. “I’m sorry, what now?” 

“Help me this year with coaching the Gryffindor team,” he reiterated without missing a beat. 

Oh, so you had heard him right. 

“What? No,” you hissed back in an attempt to keep your surprise from projecting itself, “I can’t just… help you coach…” It came out less like a statement and more like a question. 

“Why not?” James didn’t miss a beat. When you tried to turn away, his body moved to cut you off. “You know the Slytherin team better than anyone, and you're a damn good player. That's why you were captain in the first place, right?”

 You pointed a finger at his chest and he wrapped his hand around your wrist. There was nothing you could do to escape the urgency in his eyes, like he was pleading for you to consider what he was offering. 

“You want me to… what,” you asked tentatively, “Help you coach your team on everything I know about the Slytherins plays in hopes to beat them?”

To spill all of the secrets you’d learned the past six years? To work on plays with James, the captain of the Gryffindor team so that they would win? 

Once you said exactly what he meant, he nearly beamed with excitement. 

“Yes! You can help me figure out the best drills for the team, give me tips and advice, make sure the people I choose for the team are well suited for the positions I put them in. You can directly help take down Kaston on the field.”

You shook your head but he didn’t even falter. Not even the way you looked like him like he’d grown a third head made a dent in his glow. Burning, burning burning; he was glowing white hot like the sun and you were going to get burned. 

"What do you think? I think it's a positively brilliant idea- one of my best yet," he grinned. 

"I think that James Potter has officially lost his mind."

He just laughed, eyes never leaving your face as they scanned your expression. It was like when you watched him fall down the stairs, how he’d laughed and you’d wondered why you didn’t just throw yourself down them to see what was so funny. 

“It's not just about beating them. It's about humiliating them.” As he spoke, James' tone grew firmer, his eyes gleaming with determination as his hands moved to shake your shoulders. "Imagine it, we’ll wipe that smirk right off Kaston's face."

Your doubt was clear but there was a flicker of something else- a spark of temptation.

“James, no,” you said sternly. 

“Think about it.” “No, I will not-”

“Come on, just for a second; really think about it.”

“I am not entertaining this-” “No one even has to know you were involved! Think about how he would feel not being able to carry his team to victory after a muggleborn did it the year before.”

That made the rest of your protests die on your lips. James nearly grimaced, attempting to reel himself back in and not scare you off because you were considering it. Albeit reluctantly, you were at least thinking about the possibility. 

“Think about it…” His eyebrow raised cautiously. “Think about how he’s going to feel when he realizes he can’t do something you did.”

How pureblooded Kaston would feel when he couldn’t do something a mudblood did.

Fuck. 

“Fine. I’ll think about it,” you conceded. James somehow beamed even brighter, the feeling contagious as you laughed and he shook you enthusiastically again. 

You tried to make your face more serious. “I’m saying I’ll consider it. I’m not saying yes but… I’m not saying no.”

“Brilliant!” His grip on your shoulders loosened, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Yes! You won't regret this, I promise. We're gonna destroy them this year, I swear it."

“I said *maybe*. I need to think about it. So it’s just… it’s a maybe.”

Both of you stayed like that, biting down on smiles and standing closer than you realized. This close, you could make out the knick of a scar on his cheekbone, so faded that it had to be from his childhood. Words to describe his beauty easily escaped you. Those words were harder to retrieve with the way he was watching you. 

“I miss something,” Sirius said out of nowhere, appearing from behind a shelf with his bag of purchases and looking between you. Your trance was broken, both of you stepping apart. 

James recovered immediately with a crooked smile. 

"Yeah, mate, there's something going on," James responded, slinging an arm over your shoulders and guiding you towards the door. "Guess who just agreed to help... coach Gryffindor?"

“I did not agree.” 

After only a few steps out into the street, busy with witches and wizards as they shopped, you gave up on trying to dislodge yourself from under his arm. You chuckled to yourself, James doing the same when you nudged his ribs with your elbow. 

Sirius turned with a smirk as he led the group towards The Leaky Cauldron. "Just how friendly have the two of you been?” He asked, his tone mischievous.

“Shut it, Pads,” James replied. He got back at him by throwing his other arm over his friend's shoulder.

Sirius let out a yelp when he nearly spilled the quidditch supplies he carried. 

“I’ve just convinced our dear friend here to help us obliterate the snake house. Imagine, all three of us working together. We'll crush them so hard they won’t know what hit them."

You rolled your eyes, “Can I just remind everyone that I am still a part of said snake house. 

"Details, details," James grinned, dismissing that fact with a waive of his hand. 

quid pro quo masterlist main masterlist

[maybe-moonchild]

CH1 summary: you might have won but you’re still the biggest loser. WC: 5.7K

⋆˙𓋼𓍊 ⋆⭒𓆣˚.𓍊 ⋆𓆙

“The fuck was that Kaston?” you called out the moment your feet touched the grass. You had a white knuckle grip on your broom in one hand, storming across the pitch towards your teammate. Not even the cheers and screams from the Slytherin section could remedy the crackle of anger in our chest. 

Elias Kaston lolled his head in your direction over his shoulder, a smirk only growing at the sight of your pink cheeks and clenched teeth. Alder and Jordan snickered behind him as they folded their arms over their chest in an attempt to play his groupies. 

As Slytherin’s captain, you should’ve been ecstatic over the win. You had been the one working your ass off all year to secure the 1976 Quidditch House Cup. 

Except you had spent the entire game trying to score while also dodging the bludgers Kaston had intentionally sent your way.

It had been intentional in order to- what? Knock you off your broom? Kill you? At this point, you wouldn’t be surprised if he had been hoping you would snap your neck before halftime. 

You’d managed to evade most of them, still going after the quaffle and shooting at the goals as they whizzed past your head at the very last second. All of them, aside from one that you hadn’t seen from behind, whipping around at the last second as it connected roughly with your shoulder. The momentum sent you flipping over your broom and nearly plummeting fifty feet. Thank Merlin you managed to keep a grip on the handle and haul yourself back on over the cheers from the crowd. 

“Got a problem?” Kaston barely put any effort into feigning innocence. Why would he? He wants you to know that he’s so determined to get rid of you that he’s willing to sacrifice his own team's win to do so. He stands a bit straighter to emphasize his lack of fear. 

“Yeah! You.” You closed  the distance without hesitation, coming to stop at his feet. If you weren’t seething, all consumed how disheartening this season had been even with the frequent wins. 

A few heads turned in your direction but most of the Gryffindor team was reconvening around their captain. The students in the stands were too busy shuffling towards the stairs, disappointed in the outcome of the match, and not even interested in staying  to cheer while others outright booed. 

You didn’t care. Not when you’re practically boiling under your uniform in animosity for the slimy asshole that has a head on you in height. 

“Seriously Kaston,” Keith scoffed, jogging to catch up as back up in the form of his fists. “Someone could’ve gotten seriously injured.” 

At the sound of his voice, Lance glanced over from his spot with the Gryffindor team, frowning wearily at the scene unfolding. You were sure the last thing that Lance wanted was to break Keith up from a fight right after Keith had been one to catch the snitch. 

This time, you would happily and personally punch Kaston himself. 

You’d been fighting with your teammates all year since Slughorn had named you captain at the start of sixth year. Things had never been particularly warm between you and your team, but you had always made it work the best you could. The other chasers eventually would give in and pass you the quaffle during a match to prevent losing. 

This year, it seemed that they didn’t mind losing at the expense of undermining everything you did. Half the team showed up on a given practice; those that did barely listened to you.

Your clothes had been stolen from your locker multiple times following a morning practice which made you have to return to your common room to shower, therefore were late to class. You’d received some broom handles to the ribs, quaffles to the head, and the occasional full on body slam. 

It didn’t matter that you were captain or that you had managed to get your team to win the cup, all you would ever be reduced to was your blood status; muggleborn. 

“What?” Kaston pouted, head cocking to the side. “Would’ve thought you’d be able to handle yourself.”

Stiffening, you barely let him finish, “You almost threw the match!”

 If you weren’t so pissed, you would be impressed at how you don’t back away, standing chest to chest and unrelenting in holding his eye. You were done being intimidated. “If you would've just played like you were supposed to, then I wouldn't have had to do your job out there."

"Maybe you're just not as good as you think you are," Elerin cut in, shooting you a pitiful look that made your face even redder. You were as good as you thought you were, maybe even better. You had spent the entire game scoring the most points and evading bludgers without assistance.

"Maybe you should back the hell off," Keith snapped. His shoulder bumped yours as he stepped forward, a reminder that you had backup from one of your best friends that had also been your only teammate to listen to you. 

You were quickly gaining the attention of the players on the field. One of those players was Lance, who sighed at the realization that resolve wasn’t going to magically appear. He shook his head in disappointment, tearing himself away from his own team, jogging towards the altercation. 

“What? Can’t fight your own battles?” Kaston smirked. “Gotta have the blood-traitor fight them for you?”

You didn’t miss a beat as you stepped into his space. “Want me to show you just how well I can fight my own battles?”

"Woah, woah, woah," Lance attempted to satiate as he approached. Given Keith’s more ‘hot-headed’ tendencies, Lance placed a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to snap him out of it. All Keith did was shake him off. 

You didn’t even pay attention, refusing to break under the leering look Kaston was ecstatic to give. Clearly he had been waiting for you to snap all year. 

"That so?" Kaston didn’t back down either as he leaned even closer, making sure you didn’t miss the amusement in his eyes as yours were set hard. It was a challenge. 

One you weren’t backing down from.

“Absolutely.”

You willed him to hit you. To lay one single finger on you which would let you punch that arrogant little look off of his pinched face. You didn't start fights, but you’d sure as hell finish this one.

"What's going on?"

"Kaston sucks at quidditch,” Keith chirped to Lance's question, making sure it didn’t fall on deaf ears. 

"Don’t forget that he's also an asshole," you spit back. Something lit up in Kaston’s eyes, something that would've seemed like excitement if it didn’t seem tinged with poison. It seemed as though everything had become more and more tinged with poison each ear. 

"You think you're better?" His friends snickered behind him as he barked out a laugh, his breath tickling your face. "Maybe you're not as good as you think. Maybe you're just a filthy little mudblood."

The word cut through the air. 

Your shock showed in the way your eyes widened a fraction of the inch and your face softened. You weren't the only one, most of the students that had moved closer to watch, seemed stunned at the bold use of the word. 

For six years war had plagued the wizarding world, the same year you began at Hogwarts. The peers that had been sorted the same day you had become more opinionated as they neared adulthood. Their parents' ideologies shaped their offspring's opinions to bring hatred towards muggles into the castle. 

People were getting bolder. It was one thing to hear ‘mudblood’ whispered behind your back, hissed in your ear from someone sitting behind you in class. 

This was… something just seemed to change right then and there. 

Kaston, seemingly satisfied at your reaction, straightened and you could no longer smell his sweat still clinging to his jersey. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out the sounds of the few whispers making it around the players, some of the lingering students in the stands taking note of the scene. 

Everyone would know about what happened within the day. 

Keith recovered first, stepping up so he was standing at your side. Yet again, Lance tried to cool him down with a hand on his shoulder. That was all he did, opting to keep his mouth shut because of his own blood status and not even you could blame him for that. Maybe you would’ve said something if you could have thought of anything to actually say. 

Just one thing, one word to pretend you didn’t feel like the bludger had successfully knocked you from your broom, sending you to land in a heap of crunched bones and flesh. That would’ve been less mortifying. 

Luckily, Coach Weaver shouted from where she was hurrying to break up a fight before it could begin. She had been the keeper for the Holyhead Harpies for years before retiring after a successful career, becoming Hogwarts’s current quidditch coach and professor. 

"Hey! Hey, what's going on here? Kaston and- Oi! Back it up. Both of you!"

Neither of you moved but it didn’t seem to matter when she was pushing both of you away from the other. You bumped into Keith, his hand wrapping around your upper arm to steady you. You didn’t forfeit the stare down. 

Alder nudged Kaston who stepped back. The smug smiles on both of their faces were enough to make you wish you had said fuck it and decked him right in the face anyway.

“I’m serious you two, deal with it after you’ve cooled down.” Glancing between you two, it was clear Madam Weaver chalked it up to being a petty fight about a play or a missed goal.

When it was clear that Kaston did not plan on leaving the pitch first, Lance tugged at Keith to move, which in turn, made him tug at you. You stayed rooted to the grass, wanting so badly to stand up for yourself or shove the asshole just so you could relieve some of the pressure of the emotions building in your chest. 

Instead, you begrudgingly let Keith pull you a few steps until your feet worked. You pushed past your friends, letting them hurry behind you towards the locker room. The feel of everyone's staring at the back of your head made your eyes sting with embarrassment. 

Yet again, you were humiliated by the very same people you had just carried to winning this years cup. 

Lance worriedly chewed on his bottom lip, avoiding directly making eye contact with either of you as you put away your things. His elbows rested on his knees in an attempt to keep himself from hanging his head. Everyone knew that it would only be a matter of time before something like this happened again, making him a target. 

"Such bullshit," Keith grunted as he yanked open the door to his locker. He was fuming, body all rigid and tense as he yanked his jersey off. Keith had plenty of his own problems that involved being a Slytherin blood traitor from a family openly in support of The Dark Lord which was why he spent his summers running away from foster homes. 

If you opened your mouth, you might've yelled. You kept it clamped shut and opted to shove you padding and broom away. It was easier to pretend you weren’t absolutely mortified at being called…that in front of everyone. To pretend that you were just pissed at spending the whole match playing a bludger target.

It might have worked too if James Potter wasn’t so... James Potter.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You found solace in the kitchens.

At least, you really truly hoped to. 

Your shower had been quick in an attempt to avoid bumping into any Slytherin girls. Actually, it had been in an attempt to avoid anyone. You’d managed to duck out of the common room, damp hair still soaking into the collar of your sweater, before Keith could intercept you. Of course you loved your friends with your whole heart, but you didn’t feel like pretending not to notice their wary glances checking on you the rest of the night. 

They would understand when you saw them tomorrow at breakfast. 

House elves had proved to be better company; after they dropped a mug of hot chocolate in front of you, they didn’t pay you much mind as they returned to cleaning up dishes from dinner. Eventually, you would have to leave if you wanted to continue to avoid students who came looking for a late night snack. 

You looked like the picture of defeat, ice pack pinched between your cheek and shoulder so you could prop your head in one hand. The other traced the wood of the table and occasionally pressed too harshly into the surface when a flash of Kaston, his smug face and leer, invaded your thoughts.

One more year. All you had to do was finish out the last month of sixth year, spend your summer at home with your family, and then finish out seventh year with your head down. 

James hovered in the doorway, debating whether or not his company would only exacerbate your foul mood. 

Here was the thing, you and James, while not exactly friends, did spend a significant amount of time around each other. 

The sixth year Gryffindor boys dorm was home to Remus, Sirius, Peter, James and Lance, one of your closest friends. Neither you, Lance, nor Keith were very fond of hanging out in the Slytherin common room (for obvious reasons). That made the Gryffindor common room, or sixth year Gryffindor boys dorm room, the frequent hangout spot. 

It was never uncommon for The Marauders to stumble in their room while you and Lance were sprawled on his bed, trying to finish the DADA homework without Keith’s help. The four boys usually came in tripping over themselves, exuding an air of nonchalance and laughing until they were breathless. You didn’t mind their company when they were at least able to keep things entertaining. 

You actually enjoyed Peter’s company when he asked to join you in the company, usually looking so stressed that you couldn’t not help him with his homework. He was good at drawing, doodling little pictures on the corners of his parchment and turning beet red when anyone complimented them. Occasionally you hated the way it seemed that Peter was always tagging along, trying to catch up with the others so he didn’t get left behind. You went out of your way to make him feel included when he was sitting near you in the dining hall even after you realized that he was just as much of a Marauder as the others. 

Remus was dryly funny, making times you were seated next to him for class much more entertaining. He was more reserved at first glance, seemingly more mature and above his friends' pranks when he was constantly instigating things to go one step further. While he was less likely to ask to sit next to you out of nowhere at the library, Remus could remember a comment you had made in passing weeks later and maintained scarily impressive eye contact. Three seconds later, he could also kick James’s chair out from under him at the last second without so much as turning his head. 

You found Sirius’s company less enjoyable but he did have redeemable moments. He was flirty, obnoxious, and a bit invasive, whether that be throwing an over your shoulder out of nowhere to lean his weight on you or take the butterbeer right out of your hand for a sip. There was the time in third year that Alder kept pulling your hair when he passed you in the halls. When Alder took a sip of his pumpkin juice one morning, screaming when his hair would not stop growing, you almost hadn’t noticed Sirius trying to meet your eye from across the room. When you did, he gave you a wink which you returned with a grateful smile, Alder tripping over his hair that dragged on the floor as he ran to the room. 

If James Potter was the sun, no one at Hogwarts could be deemed worthy of a comparison to the moon. 

That was it. James just glowed.

If he ate shit and wiped out, tumbling down an entire flight of stairs, he had the ability to laugh and make an onlooker embarrassed for witnessing it.

That had actually happened in fifth year.

You faltered at the top of the stairs, staring at the way he threw his head back and laughed. His glasses had still been askew on his face where he laid in a heap on the snow covered pavement. You had to blink a few times before scoffing out a laugh. The whole thing had been mesmerizing.

He’d been attempting to convince you to let him and the others into the Slytherin common room later that evening. You’d barely managed to turn him down after witnessing that. 

Normally, the two of you maintained a witty banter that bordered on bickering. Well, a better description would be you bickering with James for being annoying, while he easily turned the conversation into banter with his quick mouth and smooth talking. 

Your head raised at the sound of a chair scraping against the stone floor, watching him warily as he sunk into the seat with a grunt. It was a familiar sight, something he had done frequently when he had no one else to bother. “Well, I suppose congratulations are in order, I suppose you were right after all about demolishing my team this year.”

You raised an eyebrow which didn’t deter the cool look he wore. With an ease no one else seemed to possess, he shoved back his dark hair, even darker from his own shower and gorgeously messy. While red tended to be his signature collar, he looked stupidly good in navy blue, the sweater loose on his frame while still managing to show off his shoulders and strength. 

He flashed you a cheeky smile that seemed softer than usual, tentative in a way he normally wasn’t. It satiated you enough to relax and not be entirely on guard. 

“Thanks,” you sighed without any excitement. “Demolishing seems like a bit of an over exaggeration. You guys did good too.”

James's gaze softened as he took in the sight of you, the evidence of the game still present on your face in the little bruise on your cheek. You could’ve gone to Madam Pomfrey’s for bruise cream but the pain was a nice distraction for the squeezing feeling that had been occupying your chest since Keith caught the snitch. 

He shrugged, “Maybe… but I don’t think that’s the most pressing issue.” 

You didn’t bother to put any effort into your voice to seem convincing. “What issue? There’s no issue. We won. What could possibly be an issue?” 

You knew that he had seen it, been right there watching a few feet away with everyone else on the pitch. Even if he hadn’t been there, news of Kaston and what he called his own quidditch captain without shame had certainly circulated around the school by now. 

“Come on, I’m not that unaware,” he snorted, a finger pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Kaston was gunning for you all game. Nearly sent you into the dirt with how he was sending those bludgers your way on purpose.” A conflicted look crossed his face, studying you carefully as he tried to navigate the elephant in the room. “Or what he said after…”

Well.., he certainly had the subtlety of a erumpant. 

“Oh.” You sounded disinterested as you sank lower into your seat. “That issue.”

Of course you had known what he was talking about, you just didn’t want to talk about it. 

James raised a brow at your response, but didn't comment on your reluctance. He waited in silence, his gaze unwavering as you dropped the ice pack onto the table. His eyes raked over your form, taking in the mess of your hair, the slump of your shoulders, the disheartened look in your eyes. 

For once, he couldn't think of a witty jab or sarcastic comment to make.

So he didn't. Instead, he glanced at where he’d watched the bludger connect with your arm during the match. 

"How is your shoulder?"

Instead of answering right away, you just shrugged again, regretting it with a wince. You were certain that there was no break of your collarbone but purple had already begun blotching your skin when you inspected the area during your shower. 

“Normal match injuries I suppose.” After a long moment of quiet, you kind of felt like an ass for being so sullen. “No broken collar bone though.” 

You tried to smile at him for emphasis but gave up quickly when not even you found it to be remotely convincing. Fire crackled in the hearth, licking the cauldron that held the stock for tomorrow’s meal, making the entire room feel like a blanket. James could be much worse company at the moment considering it could have been Sirius- it could have been James and Sirius. 

Merlin, the pair of them together at this very moment would have driven you to serve detention every night for the next month until the school year ended. 

"No broken collar bone," he repeated, eyes brightening in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. "You're lucky I'm not Madam Pomfrey, or you'd be spending the night in the infirm.”

Your attempt to hide your amusement was futile when you no longer were inadvertently scowling. You stared at him for as long as you could before smiling somberly. 

“Lance already checked it after the game,” you lied. “Just bruised and sore. Not much to do about it without a broken bone.” 

What had really taken the hit was your ego, splintering under the force of the word Kaston had spit at you. Quidditch had been everything to you the past five years, working your ass off each day to prove that you deserved the spot as captain of the Slytherin team. It wasn’t just about skill, which you clearly had, it was about leading, making plays and executing them; getting others to execute them. 

Each year, younger students replaced the older ones, shifting the ratio of those with mild prejudice regarding blood status with those that were extremists. 

Professor Slughorn had seen your determination and awarded you appropriately at the start of this year, the little pin you got to wear on the front of your jersey feeling like it took all of the weight off your chest. It just didn’t take long for the first practice to be a disaster which continued to snowball each day. 

His eyes found yours, and he gave you a hopeful look. "Well," he said slowly, trying to sound nonchalant, "I guess that means you'll be back out there in no time, ready to beat me once again."

The words made you wince; the idea of repeating your captain's experience is difficult to play off as you look away. 

“Maybe… I don’t know,” you shrugged as dismissively as you could manage given your injury. Your brows pinched together and you opted to fidget with the ice pack to look unbothered. “Maybe quidditch isn’t as for me as I’d thought.”

James nearly fell out of his chair with how quickly he sat up straighter. You stood, ignoring his usual flair for dramatics when his mouth hung open. A house elf appeared in your path, holding out their hand to collect the warming ice pak and scurrying away as you thanked them. 

"No way!" He exclaimed, unable to hide his shock and indignation at the idea of you no longer on the field. His hands braced the surface of the stable as he pushed himself from his chair, earning an eye roll from you.

“Might be good to just focus on classes next year, figure out life after Hogwarts.”

James’s narrowed eyes followed you when you collected your mug and brought it towards the sink. Something seemed to be working in your favor because no one stopped you, allowing you something to multitask with. 

He just followed, "Seriously? You don't mean that.”

“How do you know that I don’t?”

His eyes darkened, “Is this because of Kaston?”

“No,” you shot back, scowling as you dumped the drink out, letting the remnant of chocolate that hadn’t quite dissolved slowly drip out. Looking at that was a lot easier than looking at him directly. A part of you was certain that the lie was obvious on your face and you opted to keep your back to him. 

“It’s not just about him.”

His expression softened, matching the new defeated tone of your voice. 

All of Hogwarts loved James Potter,  most of all his Gryffindor house and his adoring team.. Not only did they listen to him as their captain, but they wanted to be victorious together rather than simply win.

It wasn’t fair. There was nothing fair about any of it. You didn’t mean to resent him but it was inevitable anyways. His obnoxious pranks, obnoxious friends, and obnoxious personality still made him loved; not even you could truly hate him when he was so stupidly bright like the sun. 

You were probably nicer, certainly much less distracting but anyone who saw the green tie was still wary after six years of classes together. So maybe you were destined to not fit in anywhere here, neither in your house or out of your house, but rather in the space you and your two friends had made. 

Maybe you had come to terms with the fact that your spot as captain had been injudicious on Slughorn's part.

He approached you slowly, well aware of his chronic habit of putting his foot in his mouth.

"Well, who cares what they think?” He urged with confidence that came as naturally as breathing. "You shouldn't care what they think of you. What does it matter if they don't like you? You're good at what you do. You've done well, you've won a lot, and you've led the team. Why give that up over something petty like what they think of you?”

You didn’t respond, facing forward and setting the mug into the sink. His optimism was tangible, nearly suffocating. You gripped the edge of the counter in frustration. 

“Who cares what your team thinks of you when you’re the one leading them to the win?”

“I care, okay? I care what they think of me!”

The admission snapped out before you could stop it, whipping around with a throw of your hands in the air. You press your lips tightly together to keep you from speaking anymore deep, dark insecurities into the heated air of the kitchen. 

James seemed caught off guard, his conviction faltering enough that he isn’t quite sure what to say. His empathetic look started to feel more like pity, making the pressure in your chest grow sharp shards that were difficult to swallow around. 

You shook your head and scuffed the toe of you shoe on the stone. “No one listens to me. No one gives me credit for the wins but they make sure it’s clear that that it’s entirely my fault if we lose. I spent half of today’s match dodging bludgers because my own teammate was trying to send me plummeting fifty feet into the ground.”

Hearing it out loud hurts more than you thought it would.

Being angry was better than being fearful, something that you were more and more each year. The war raged on, muggleborns and their families vanished, and opinions were more vocalized in the walls of Hogwarts. Chalking the whole thing up to Kaston just being an asshole rather than an asshole with a powerful family with strong ideologies about blood purity and the ability to do something about it, that was easier to stomach. 

For a moment, you leaned back against the counter, picking at the edge and letting your confession hang there. He watched you carefully, eyes wide and concerned beneath the frames of his glasses. He wanted to get it, to under stand; he really did but, how is a boy that grew up a Potter supposed to understand anything of what it means not to have everything. 

Without the egregious inheritance he sat on, privilege was in his blood. 

Both literally and metaphorically. 

Adrenaline and privilege pumped through his veins each time he played a prank on someone like Snape. It was as vital to who he was as magic or his last name, acting like a shield that kept anyone revenge on the mild side. If you or Lance would have played a prank like James and his friends then it would be your names in the paper, followed by the names of your family members and the word missing. 

James got to keep his head held high because he didn’t have to continuously look over his shoulder. 

Hesitantly, he stepped closer, ducking his head in a desperate attempt to catch your eye. “I… I didn’t know it was that bad.”

You couldn’t even find it in yourself to scoff or roll your eyes. If you tried, you knew the sound would crack on the way out of your mouth just at the feel of your eyes burning. So instead you just shrugged so you could have a moment to collect yourself. 

Crying in front of James Potter? You would never live that down. 

“It’s just the way things are right now.” The way things were sucked. As you ran a hand down your face, your thumb brushed against the  bruise on your cheek and reminded you all over again about how shitty of a day you’d had. 

James had never been particularly good with words in these kinds of situations, so he went with his next best idea.

In hopes to console you, he stepped forward again, ignoring how you stiffened when his arms wrapped around you.

There was a timidness in the way his head settled on yours, his muscles all stiff as he held his breath. Your first instinct would have been to shove him off if you weren’t so gob smacked. 

You opened your mouth to scoff, fingers twitching at your sides to shove him off because this was so weird, but you couldn’t seem to do either. Maybe that was why you’d truly been avoiding Keith and Lance the past few hours. That the feeling cracking around in your chest has become so convoluted so you could pretend it was not the urge to cry.

And you knew that you really couldn’t control it as you gripped the bottom on his sweater. Your face pressed into the fabric of his sweater, the softness of the material a subtle reminder that it likely cost a ridiculous amount even as your tears soaked in. 

As you leaned into his embrace, James felt a wave of surprise wash over him. He relaxed first, the tension slipping as he readjusted his hold on you. Part of you expected him to crack a joke but you were glad that he didn’t because you didn’t think you’d manage to make yourself laugh. Your shoulders didn’t heave, you didn’t let out loud sobs against his chest or collapse in his arms because you didn't quite have that in you.

This was just... a moment of succumbing to the weight of everything that had been occurring since you received your Hogwarts acceptance letter in the mail years ago.  

The two of you stayed like that.

Time passed as house elves paid you little to no attention, moving around you to continue prepping meals for tomorrow and clean the kitchens for the day. If you had told yourself that golden boy James Potter would ever be the one to comfort you, you would have laughed so hard butterbeer could have come out your nose. 

It wasn’t so bad in the moment, working the tangle of emotions out of you and releasing some of the pressure. All you knew was that you felt a little better. Not great, but it was something. You wished you could’ve placed why a silly hug from a boy that you barely considered a friend did the trick. 

“Sorry,” you laughed, the sound watery in your throat as you pulled away first, using the sleeve of your sweater to swipe at your eyes. You hoped that you could dismiss the moment as his hands seemed to hesitate between falling to his sides. Smoothing your hair, you hoped it made you look more put together; or maybe your fingers just itched for anything to do. 

“Sorry. Normally I’m…”

‘More collected? Too clever to be crying to a pretty boy in the kitchens? A bit more off putting to others?’

You settled on, “Thanks, I, uh… appreciate it, Potter.”

A faint smile appeared with the relief that you at least seemed a bit better, making him brighten with pride at what he had managed to accomplish. 

“Yeah, yeah,” James teased, “you’re a real badass that never cries.” 

James managed to convince you to leave the kitchens eventually. The afternoon had trickled away to evening while you’d been hiding, darkness pressing against the glass of the windows. Straggles filled the halls, most students already beginning their Saturday evening plans. Some would be attending the celebratory party in the Slytherin common room or opting to drink in the Ravenclaw dorms instead. 

At least you knew the mood in the Gryffindor common room would align with your own, wallowing in their loss of this year's cup and you wallowing in your own self pity. 

“You nearly took my head off with the quaffle-”

“Oh please, I absolutely did not.”

“-did a corkscrew and just whipped it at the goal, didn’t even care if you killed me. There would be hell to pay.”

“Such a drama queen.”

James placed a hand to his chest, mouth hanging open comically in offense. “There would be an uprising. I am Hogwarts’s sweetheart, you know that right?”

You rolled your eyes and chuckled to yourself as you kept instep with him. He seemed oblivious to the occasional glances sent your way, thankfully not malicious but  just as embarrassing at the reminder that clearly news had spread quickly. You’d be getting curious looks for the next few days until the buzz died down. 

“You, James Potter, are something alright.”

story page here

[maybe-moonchild]

MASTER LIST

TEMPEST

QUID PRO QUO

[maybe-moonchild]

QUID PRO QUO

James Potter x Slytherin reader

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

"I think it's a positively brilliant idea- one of my best yet," he grinned brightly.

"I think that James Potter has officially lost his mind."

⋆˙𓋼𓍊 ⋆⭒𓆣˚.𓍊 ⋆𓆙

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CAST

JAMES POTTER

SIRIUS BLACK

REMUS LUPIN

PETER PETTIGREW

LANCE PEREZ

KEITH CANMORE

ELIAS KASTON

[maybe-moonchild]

CHAPTER 6

summary: in which it is the end. oh, what a ride this has been. WC: 6.0k

°｡⋆˚🕷˚⋆｡⋆｡

Later doesn’t come until after you’ve been discharged from the hospital the next evening. 

Since your ‘mugging’ resulted in loss of consciousness, you had to spend the night and morning under observation before discharge papers made their way into your hands. Well, more like into Peter’s hands. After he watched you struggle to hold the clipboard and pen to sign your name, he took over without a word. 

You had to change back into your dress which was less than pleasant. Red tinged the back of the collar from the blow to your head and dirt streaked the front but you don’t really care, not when you’re too busy being wheeled down the hall, out the door, and under the dreary skies to wait for a cab.

Peter is there every step of the way. 

He’s always there, hovering, whether it be sitting beside your bed, helping you into the cab, or opening all of the doors to your apartment, he’s there. His presence isn’t overwhelming considering neither of you are feeling particularly chatty. While you half consciously watch TV, he’s napping with his head in his arms beside you in that shitty hospital chair. When you start to get restless and struggle to find a comfortable position propped against the crappy pillows, he wordlessly adjusts them for you.

The ride back to your apartment is filled with a similar quiet, neither of you knowing what the two of you are. Before today, you hadn’t even been friends. Just two people maneuvering around an awkwardness, one as tangible as the furniture in your entryway as he guides you inside. 

Katies missing presence is apparent the moment you step in the door. Darkness holds the room captive, the only light coming from the windows, even that all gloomy from the weather. A part of you is relieved you might blurt out Peter’s secret to the first person you see, the knowledge settling in your stomach like you swallowed a firecracker. 

Plus, she texted that she’d be home late. Something about having dinner plans and needing you to check her in for a lobotomy in the morning... whatever that meant… 

“All I’m saying is that a 24 hour sushi spot… game changer,” you murmur, earning a sound of amusement from Peter as he shuts the door. Your keys find themselves in their home in the catchall on the table, clattering against the glass a familiar sound of home and you finally feel like you can relax. 

“You’re saying you eat enough sushi at two in the morning to justify that?” 

Your limbs still feel heavy that you don’t protest as he works your coat off your good arm, the other side hangs off your shoulder. 

You just shrug, returning another timid smile as he hangs up your jacket. “I’m just saying that I crave enough sushi at that hour that I could keep them in business.” 

“Okay. No more sushi at three in the morning,” he snorts. Something about the sound almost feeling like a laugh makes you feel a little lighter. 

“Do you want something to eat?” he asks. The way you scrunch up your nose is enough of an answer. After the events of last night, nothing sounds particularly appetizing. You’d eaten at the hospital since you were under watchful eyes, but you were more focused on the prospect of crawling into your own bed. 

You struggle to unlace your shoes with one hand, leaning back against the wall for support. It’s harder than you thought, the laces of your high tops being a struggle only reminds you that, for the next 6-8 weeks, everything is about to be a struggle. 

Without a word, he’s crouching in front of you so he can take over. You let him, head falling back and watching him, pretending you’re not making note of his mouth, how it pinches to the side when he concentrates. His freckles had become less prominent over time, once dusting his cheeks which now were likely in a constant state of bruised. His fingers are gentle as they work out the knot before pulling off your shoe, dropping it to the floor. . 

You tell yourself it's the drugs; that’s why you suddenly wish you had a microscope, magnifying every detail of his face so you could scrutinize each detail about him. That the remnants of drugs from your time in the hospital- who were you kidding? A part of your discharge requirements was that they were wearing off and your pain was managed by over the counter medications. 

Fine, then maybe it's simply because you are still trying to comprehend that Peter is Spider-Man. That you’ll eventually see something that makes it all click into place, making that somehow seem less like a dream. If he said it was all a dream, you might have believed him. 

Your shoes land with a thud beside the door, his hands finding your hips to steady you and himself as he stands. The contact is brief and you feel disappointed in how hard it is not to reach for him. It’s almost embarrassing, how strong of an impulse it is that you barely manage to keep your hands to yourself. 

So you focus on the things you can completely control. 

Change clothes, brush teeth- hell, maybe your hair too- and then right to bed. A shower can wait for morning and you will happily rewash all of your sheets in the afternoon if it means you can crawl under the sheets. 

“I’m okay, you know.” His brows furrow at the unprompted statement, like he can’t believe you would try and convince him of that. Peeking up at him from your lashes, the corner of your mouth turns up in what you hope is a reassuring smile. “I’m just going to head to bed… so… I doubt you got any sleep last night sitting up right in a plastic chair.”

Truthfully, you don’t think he had even tried to rest. You managed to sleep pretty well considering you were partially conscious and partially hopped off the steady stream of whatever drugs were floating around your IV. Each time you stirred throughout the night, you managed to get a glimpse of Peter, his leg bouncing anxiously, either half asleep or fully awake. 

“That would be really great if I believed you.” You frown at him, unsure if he’s talking about you actually saying you’re okay or if you’re going to go to bed when he leaves. 

His shoulders dip in a shrug. “I don’t want to leave.” His tentative smile drops for a moment. “You’re hurt…I feel responsible for it. You should never have been in the place to…,” he adds before lifting his head to look down at you. The words are bitter in his mouth, coated in something that tastes like guilt and shame.

But you also wonder if he hates the idea of being alone as much as you do. 

Except, when you actually think about it, if anyone else were here, you wouldn’t want them hanging around. You realize that it’s less about being alone and more about the crave of his company. 

Specifically, the crave of his presence. 

“You can borrow something of Flash’s,” you say over your shoulder. Peter lifts his head, taking a moment to raise his eyebrows before quickly catching up as you lead him down the hall. Drugs make your steps a little fumbled, Peter's hand hovering behind your lower back like a shadow. 

His mouth twitches into a little frown, “Flash?”

Katie and Flash, the two people had somehow wedged themselves into the spot that had once been his- No, no no. That wasn’t true. They’d trickled into his place when Peter had left it vacant. Through four years of high school and another four  years of undergrad, they stuck around. Katie’s room was just down the hall and Flash crashed enough on your couch to warrant him having a drawer here. 

They stayed with you. They didn’t leave. 

And Peter did. 

They were always there. 

And Peter wasn’t.

Before either of you really think about it, Peter’s moving with a muscle memory he didn’t realize was still ingrained in his limbs. He finds your bedside lamp, flipping it on to bathe the room in the dim light that sends the shadows stretching around your furniture. Then he’s flipping off the overhead light since you’ve always found it to be ugly and harsh. 

As you dig through said drawer of Flash’s, searching one handed for a T-shirt and sweats that will fit him, he opts to hover near the wall. 

“Here, just let me help,” he adds, his voice as his touch as he reaches for you, steadying you by the crook of your arm and your waist. “You. Sit. I’ll be your hands.”

You’re too tired to argue. Instead, you just nod and let him guide you to sit at the edge of your bed. Your pajamas are sitting on your desk chair, a habit you’d had since you were a kid. Peter collects them and sets them in your lap. 

“You can change in the bathroom and I’ll change in here?” 

The two of you go your separate ways so you can strip off your damp clothes in an attempt to escape the vague sterile smell lingering on the fabric.  By the time he’s returned, dark hair messy and arms easily filling out the borrowed T-Shirt so nicely, you’ve managed to get your shorts on.

That's it. 

“I can’t get it off one handed,” you grumble from where you have flopped backward on the mattress, “I can’t actually get the sleeve over my cast with one hand but I can’t use my other hands because it is clearly the problem here.”

That was where you had given up. Your legs dangle off the edge, eyes staring up at the ceiling as you frown. The frustration of  trying to do such a simple task with such a great difficulty had been enough to almost bring you to tears. 

Give yourself a break, you’d had a pretty rough day. 

The corners of Peter’s lips twitch as he slowly shuts your bedroom door. Even though your eyes are still staring flatly at the ceiling, he does his best to hide any sign of amusement on the chance that will send you over the edge and into tears.

“Come here,” Peter says, his voice soft and gentle as he uses one knee to kneel beside you. He pulls you up so you’re sitting upright and you let him, even if you can’t help but sigh dramatically. This was going to be a long six to eight weeks until the hairline fracture in your arm healed entirely. 

You watch him from under your lashes as he bends down. His fingers are delicate and deliberate as he starts to work on shimmying your sleeve around the cast. Your eyes can’t help themselves from flicking at his mouth; his bottom lip rolling under his teeth in concentration, trying to avoid his knuckles accidentally brushing along the skin of your stomach or back

“There,” he says, gently brushing your hair back behind your ear. “There...all set.”

You would mumble more than just a thanks if your brain didn’t feel like it was short circuiting. The sleeves dangle at your sides, arms free from your dress while it is still on in some capacity and you’re not sitting entirely exposed either. 

“You can uh… just… turn around.” There's a long pause and your skin feels so hot you want to die. 

“Instead of leaving the room- if you’re comfortable with that…”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, definitely.” Peter doesn’t hesitate as the words practically spill from his mouth before he is spinning around. “Yeah, I can just- I can’t see anything but, here I can cover my eyes.”

“Pete, you don’t need to cover your eyes-”

“Too late. Already covered.”

You shake your head fondly, feeling like the entire room has taken a breath. 

It might as well have been a lungful of carbon monoxide when you quickly realize that you’ll be changing just a few feet away.

You’re an adult; grow up. 

Clearing your throat, you move gently when you pull off the dress, feeling exposed even if he clearly isn’t looking and he’s humming to pass the time. Peter is humming, facing the opposite direction and rocking back and forth on his feet. At first you think he’s only doing it because he’s trying to make it as apparent as he possibly can that he is not looking. Then you start to wonder if it’s because he’s uncomfortable at the prospect of you changing behind him, just a few feet away. 

Now you feel uncomfortable at the idea that you have now made him uncomfortable. But why would he be uncomfortable over that after last week when you’d slept over? When his mouth was hot and feverish on your neck, distracted in the quest of tasting every inch of skin- you yank the NYU sweatshirt over your head to shut your mind up. 

“You need anything?” he asks after a moment has passed. 

You shake your head before realizing that he can’t see you. “No, but thank you. I’m good, by the way. You can… uh… look now.”

The first thing he does is take your dirty clothes and toss them into your hamper with ease; just so you don’t have to get up. Then, he’s lowering himself behind you and making quick work at freeing your hair from the collar of your sweatshirt as you try to yourself. 

You inhale sharply when he brushes against the back of your neck. 

Fidgeting with the plaster of your cast is a good way to hide part of your face and avoid his eye. Peter’s head is tilted to try and see you anyway before he seems to hesitate, reaching out before pulling his hand back. He must decide to go for it then, inhaling quietly and letting his fingers dance with your own. 

“You’ll have to sign it,” you hum, knocking his knee with your knee to lighten the mood. “Make it look less ugly right?”

It works, a little smile appearing on his mouth before he tries to press his lips together to stifle it. This time when you look up, Peter’s not looking at you. While it looks as though he’s studying your intertwined hands, you know him enough to know he’s staring at the cast and letting his mind runamuck with guilt. 

“It was like when we were ten. When you tried to teach me how to skateboard.” You look down too, but more so that you can remember the memory. 

“God, that was a nightmare,” Peter chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “You’re first and last time on a skateboard.”

“Nuh uh, I got on it after that.”

He snorts quietly, lost in thought, “Yeah, only when I held both of your hands.”

The two of you settle into a quiet that makes the splatter of rain against the glass echo. Gray clouds hide the sun, making it feel later than it truly is. Everything seems quieted by a thick blanket of solitude. 

As kids, the two of you had a knack for trouble and injuries. Usually it was Peter that needed some degree of medical attention with scraped knees from the pavement or a sprained wrist when he didn’t notice a particularly troublesome crack in the sidewalk. Your injuries were usually in conjunction with his when he tripped you on his way down or a spout of shenanigans sent both of you falling down a few steps. 

Teaching you how to skateboard had been difficult that Saturday afternoon when you were both nine. Red and orange leaves covered the driveway, half raked into piles the two of you had made to jump into before he found a slug and you decided you’d had enough. 

So when you agreed to let him teach you to skateboard, gripping each other's arms as he slowly pulled you forward, he’d been ecstatic. He was even more ecstatic when you felt confident enough to let go and roll a slow few feet to a stop. Until you stepped back, lost your balance and the skateboard flew right out from under you. 

Peter really did try to catch you when you fell. His fingertips brushing the sleeve of your sweater and instead, you went down hard, a hairline fracture in your wrist that was donned in a red cast for most of November. The guilt was so consuming that he climbed in your window every night for a week because he couldn’t seem to rest.

It had been nothing like tonight. Tonight, neither of you had been reckless and stupid children. A Mickey Mouse band aid or a popsicle didn’t dry watery eyes until the pain was dissipated by the distraction of cartoons. 

Nothing could make this better. Peter had been so worried for you. So, so worried that he’d nearly broken his own phone. When he’d thought of Fisk deciding to do something drastic to make a point, he didn’t care about finding his backpack he’d stuck to a dumpster to change. He didn’t care about showing up in his suit, his secret identity not mattering if you were…

His fingertips press against the pads of your own before tracing down each digit and brushing your knuckles. It’s strangely nice; calming you even deeper towards the bone deep exhaustion that has settled in all of your muscles. 

“It’s because you’re Spiderman right?” you breathe out, more like a statement than a question. “That's why you stole those files. That’s why you wouldn’t tell me how you got them.”

There’s a pause before he manages to nod slowly. 

“Yeah,” Peter says in a low voice. “That’s why. It was… a complicated thing, you know.”

Another pause, but this time, you nod slowly. What are you supposed to say to that? 

Everything seems more complicated than possible. You still can’t quite grasp the fact that he’s Spider-Man, no matter how hard you try to envision him crawling in his window, yanking off the mask to reveal his staticy looking hair or flushed face, you just can’t see it. 

The entirety of Midtown High had noticed when he stopped getting his ass kicked without throwing a punch back, how he filled out and seemed a little bit brighter. You’d noticed more than anyone, making sure it seemed like you noticed less than everyone else. 

Katie had been the first one to make an offhand comment about it while you two were stretching for cheer practice senior year. Both of you had been co-captains, roles you’d been destined to fill since freshman year that you worked your asses off to obtain. She said it as she was tying her dark hair into a pony, voice hushed and teasing. 

‘Know how Parker always bolts out of class randomly? Like all the time? Ever wonder if he’s the friendly neighborhood hero? Hey, you guys used to be close, you think that Parker has a body like that- ow!’

You’d promptly shut her up with a playful smack on the arm. 

The idea that Katie had been the one to put it together first, sporadically mentioning that she still believed that dorky Peter Parker could be the one swinging around Manhattan, despite you and Flash writing it off. At least you didn’t have to go through the tremendous I-told-you-so that she would have since you could never tell her. 

He shifts and starts again,“I’m sorry you had to…” Play hostage by a crime boss, spend the past day in the hospital and now two months in a cast.

He can feel his throat burning when he admits that, feel the burn of shame in his chest as he looks at you. Who he was now was based around a secret. One that he didn’t want you to ever know to keep you out of danger. 

Turns out, secret or not, you had been in danger anyway. 

You know that there is a jumbled mess of an apology tangled on his tongue, his mouth parting again and again like he can’t quite find where to start. It’s why his silence doesn’t make you angry that he’s not more vocally apologetic. You know he’s practically beating the life out of himself inside of his own head. 

Just because he was apologetic didn’t mean that you were thrilled at him either. 

“Do you know how scared I was?” You think you’ve asked him that before- no, you know that you have asked him that before. The question either an irritated grumble as you put a bandaid on his elbow or a yell, like when he wiped out on the MET steps because he was spontaneously attempting to grind along the railing without a helmet on.

“I know,” Peter mutters softly, nearly wincing at the thought. The nervous fidgeting of his fingers still, wrapping around yours and squeezing to give you some sort of reassurance. “I know. I know how scared you must have been.” 

He turns to face you more.

“But I promise you - I’m going to do everything in my power to never let anything like this ever happen again to you. I mean it, okay? I am never going to let Fisk anywhere near you.”

Your frown deepens which is not the reaction he had anticipated. 

“No. Not for me,” you clarify. “For you, Pete. When Fisk told me to call you… I just.” The thought of it makes you wince. “I thought he was going to kill you. It’s why I hung up the phone. I just couldn’t…”

Couldn’t be the reason something happened to him.

You'd hung up the phone because it was the only way you thought would protect him. It would almost be funny; the prospect of you protecting him now when he clearly did not need it

Peter says your name but you do nothing. He says it again, sitting up straighter and speaking with a little more desperation, “Look at me.” He takes your cheek in his palm and moves your head so you’re staring directly into his eyes. He wants to make sure you can see the intensity of what he has to say.

You let him, chewing on your cheek. 

“You don’t need to worry about me. I am not weak. I can take care of myself.” Peter’s voice is steady, confident. Confident in himself, at least, less so spilling his heart out to you again like he had the night of graduation. “Come on,” he smiles somberly, thumb tapping your cheek in the hopes that you would understand that he wasn’t the same uncoordinated kid that used to get his face punched in. 

Okay, so maybe he got his face punched in or worse on the daily, but that was different. 

You tilt your head to the side, both to raise an eyebrow at him and press your cheek further into his palm. His eyebrow raises in challenge since it's clear you don’t quite believe him. 

“I’ve been worried about you since I watched you fall off your skateboard the day I moved in across the street,” you breath out with a watery smile. “I’ve never stopped.”

Peter’s entire chest aches when you reach up to touch his face, knuckle grazing his bottom lip. Not even he could deny the way his body lights up whenever your hands are on him. 

He’s still in love - deeply and thoroughly and undeniably. 

Peter knows he’s in for it if he lets this go on much longer. He doesn’t know if he could resist the urge to kiss you all over again. 

“Well, stop worrying about me,” Peter says before leaning down towards you, your faces only inches away from one another to emphasize his point. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

Some days, you thought that not having him in your life the past eight years could’ve killed you. You didn’t think you’d survive it again. But god… you’d let him kiss you even if he left you again.

The words and your soft, gentle expression makes Peter want to kiss the breath out of you.

“I promise.”

You believe him. Relief floods your body and makes your head hang so it’s resting against his. Peter leans forward too, both of your eyes falling closed and sinking into the touch. 

Deep in thought, Peter considers his options while you focus on the feel. He’s always been a bit impulsive and it’s clear that there’s something he’s dying to say. Peter taps his forehead against yours a few times while he debates speaking. 

“I have something to say.”

When you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you. Something about it makes the both of you break into shy smiles, foreheads pressed together and fingers all tangled. 

“Okay.” Your mouth barely moves but he’s so close that the faint sound easily carries. Your previous need for sleep is gone and you can’t imagine wanting to move. 

“I've always loved you,” Peter says without hesitation. It's a simple truth; one he's never been confused by.

Love, in him, has always been inevitable.

It’s easier to put out there since he’d come to terms with it so long ago, it felt as much of a part of him as sticking to the ceiling was. 

You don’t quite expect it and lean back only enough to see his face, blinking in surprise. It’s the abruptness of it that catches you off guard. A part of you isn’t entirely shocked at the admission- you might’ve even known deep down after he kissed you four years ago. 

He goes still too but doesn’t let go of your hands. They tighten faintly like you might slip away now that he’s said it out loud. 

"I don’t remember exactly when. I think I first thought about it when we were twelve and the wood of your trellis snapped when I was sneaking back out and you-”

“Pulled splinters out of your arm for an hour so May wouldn’t know,” you finish for him, swallowing down the urge to cry. “Yeah. I remember.”

Peter nods, slow at first then quickly shaking his head with a determined look. 

“No- well yes, but not only that.” The bed dips under his weight as he shifts closer to look at you better. “It was so dark outside and it knocked the wind out of me. I thought I was dead. I literally thought I had fallen to my death. One second, I totally thought I’d died until you practically jumped out of the window after me. You didn’t even… you didn’t even hesitate.”

The memory makes your frown deepened since you had never been particularly fond of it. It still made you recoil at the thought, even all of these years later. Not for yourself, but for him. 

When you don’t say anything again, he scoots even closer, knees pressing further into your own but you don’t dare move away. His hand cups your face, his thumb feeling for every inch of skin it can reach. 

“And then- yeah, fine. Then you did pull splinters out of my arm for two hours but that wasn’t when I knew. It was when you nearly jumped out your window after me.”

Something about that makes your smile watery, which in turn, makes him choke out a laugh. If you speak, well you’re not entirely sure what words or sounds would come out of your mouth. 

“But I think it was really the summer before freshman year when I realized it.  When that kid two years older than us shoved me on the subway and broke my science fair project. Remember?” He continues hopefully. You can easily nod that you do remember. Peter slips his fingers from your hold to card through your hair, forcing you to fidget with the seam of his sweats from where your hands rest in his lap. 

“And right before the doors closed, you yanked off his hat and yanked me off the train- god, when the doors closed and he realized what you did- that was when I knew. I knew it. You looked like you felt bad about it but you did it anyway and you did it for me and right then I knew that I was in love with you.”

What happened next suddenly clicks.

“And then high school started,” you sigh disappointedly. Peter almost wonders if he said the wrong thing when you look away to stare out the window. 

High school started and you joined cheerleading and you had less time and he felt left behind. More and more and more seemed to wedge itself between you two. That resentment he carried, how his usual go-with-the-flow attitude he normally had with everything else seemed to sour when you needed to reschedule. How he’d get all quiet when a guy approached you at your locker. He’d even been on better terms with Flash at the end of high school and he’d seemed to warm up to him more than he had to you. 

Each second of silence piles up on his chest to suffocate him. His fingers twitch like he’s going to pull away but you place your own hand on his, turning your face back into his palm. His eyes study the little furrow in your brows, knitted and giving away to the depth of your thoughts. 

It's your turn to beat yourself senseless inside your own mind.

“Thought you hated me.” The words are barely out of your mouth before he’s shaking his head, so vehemently that your head moves with him, like it will prove his point. 

“Never,” he assures. “Never once. Not a single second.”

You’re so flooded by emotions that you have to just sit there to keep yourself from crying. That admittance is harder than believing he did. Hatred was a much easier emotion to stomach than heartbreak. It's just as hard to stomach his presence, how easily he has slipped back into your life, making you aware that nothing you’d ever done had actually filled that hole. 

But he’s here now; your hatred for Wilson Fisk maybe only goes so deep.

“Mine was this past Thanksgiving when you were in Gwen’s car in front of our mailboxes and I couldn’t convince myself to walk outside to return a package.”

Peter feels all the air being knocked out of him when you blurt that out, but his only reaction is his eyebrows rising closer to his hairline. 

If you couldn’t face him before, it’s worse now so you rush to fill the silence. 

“You guys were just sitting there talking, laughing about whatever it was you guys talked about and I didn’t want to walk out there. So I tried waiting for you to go back inside because if I didn’t mail those ugly pants that day, I wouldn’t get a refund. I was already running late to get to Katie’s but I just couldn’t get out the door. Then I realized that if I waited, I’d have to know what you guys were doing and I didn’t want to know that.”

His brows pinch together as he tries to think back to the memory. He remembers being in Gwen’s car, rain blurring the outside world as they caught up while she was in town for the holiday. 

“I just…” you start again, a little slower and less rushed, “I didn’t want to know that she went inside or that you two left together or… I just didn’t want to know. So I went to Katies and couldn’t figure out why it bothered me so much.”

You’re not sure that it even makes sense, making you groan silently in frustration. At least Peter seems to be somewhat following but you’re more thankful for his patience in the quiet of your bedroom. You aren’t sure what else to say, so you come right out with it.

“But I didn’t know until that it was… probably love… last week when I woke up in your bed. It was why I ran. Running seemed easier.”

He’s quiet for only a few seconds, “Was it easier?”

You think about that question for a long moment when you realize you don’t exactly know the answer. Was running easier? Sure. Maybe. 

Trouble seemed to follow Peter like a shadow, falling into his hands like it was an old friend. But you were an old friend. So maybe you, Peter, and trouble went hand in hand. 

You shrug, “Probably not.” The answer seems to disappoint you more than it disappoints him. His shoulders don't sag as he continues to hold and touch your face, head cocked to the side to watch you intently. 

“That answer sucked,” Peter snorts. 

Whipping your head to look at him, your mouth drops open so you can scowl, his dumbass ruining the moment. 

“You suck.”

Peter throws his head back and groans with the same dramatics that he harbored as a kid. 

“Oh my god, shut up.” Peter can’t help it - he leans down, his hands slipping into your hair and his mouth claiming your lips as if he would die if he didn’t act on that impulse.

This is the fifth time you’ve kissed Peter Parker. 

It’s the first time you know it won't be the last. 

Your eyes flutter shut at the feel of his lips but it takes you to catch up to the moment. It’s slow and deep; the way your mouth slides over his in happy reciprocation of the kiss. 

Finding a place to put your casted hand is tricky until you manage to rest it against his chest, fingers twisting into the collar of his shirt as an invitation for him to lean further into you. Nothing about the way he holds you, cupping your face and settling on your side, feels fleeting. 

You kiss him until you’re nearly dizzy, knowing you could keep going until you were sick. What a nice thought, being able to kiss him so much that it somehow lost its novelty and became ubiquitous. 

More time passes but you can’t seem to keep track of it, the only tell being the slowing velocity of your mouths. Peter reluctantly pulls away first when he manages to remember that you need rest from how much you're leaning on him. 

“You’re in my head…” Peter mutters to you after taking a second to catch his breath. “You have been ever since we were kids.”

Your quiet laugh hums against his mouth as you drop your forehead against his, telling yourself it’s not because you’re too tired to hold your head up. 

 “And now I’m in your hands,” you hum, finding peace in the giddy exhaustion making you buzz and droop. 

This time you both laugh, giggling softly like little kids and then laughing even harder at a crack of lighting that makes you both jump. 

“Let me just… let me.”

With his super strength, you practically weigh nothing in his arms as he picks you up, kneeling on the bed to pull back your covers. He helps you crawl in, always there, always touching you; a hand on your back, gently shifting you by the waist. 

You practically melt into the pillows, body aching and sore as it welcomes the comfort. There are so many things that still need to be sorted out and talked about before anything can become permanent. 

But all of that seems like something for later. 

“Sleep; you need it,” he says softly from where he’s sitting beside you, brushing a few strands of hair off your face and behind your ear.  

“Stay; I need that too.” Peter twists his mouth up in that little way he always does when he’s trying really, really hard not to smile as he climbs in next to you.

[maybe-moonchild]

NEW CHAPTER OF TEMPEST IM SO EXCITED!! Biggest fan and supporter I’m so excited I’m reading this on my lunch break IMMEDIATELY <333

<3 <3 omg thank you sm! I hope you enjoy as I try and write the final chapter of this series and put it out later this week!

[maybe-moonchild]

11/25/2018

WC: 1.5k

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘

“So did you return it or not?” Katie sighed from where she was lounging on the couch, flipping to the next page of her magazine with an air of indifference. Her dark hair fell perfectly around her shoulders in a blowout that only a salon could achieve. 

“Nope.”

Katie sounded flatly disappointed, “Oh great, so now you have a pair of ugly pants.” You picked your head up from where it was shoved into the cushions so you could glare at her.

Flash made a face, still not quite understanding the problem. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, back up. If the pants are ugly, why are you keeping them?”

“Because,” you groaned, flopping over onto your back. You narrowly avoided crushing Katie’s magazine before she plucked it out of the way. “Like I said, they were parked right outside the mailbox and I was going to be late if I didn’t leave at that exact moment.” 

Flash’s brows furrowed even more and he was quiet for a beat as he tried to figure out what the issue was. 

He’d been paying attention to the story you’d been relaying once you arrived; he just lacked the overwhelming perception that your other friend managed to have. If Katie could always seek and find lines to read between when they were invisible to the human eye, Flash could barely read. 

Well, it just took him a little longer with a little help. 

The two of them were your people, making up the other two wheels on your tricycle. The three of you complimented each other in all the right ways, thorny where the others were soft and sweet where the others were sour. 

Which was why it was no surprise that you and Katie found yourselves hosting a wine night at the apartment you shared prior to Flash’s return to South Dakota. 

“Like they were blocking the mailbox?”

At his continued confusion, Katie snapped her magazine shut, sitting up straight so she could deter the attention to herself. It wasn’t in the vain way that she liked to pretend it was. Instead, she did it to give you a moment to take a breath or you’d start to get snappy. 

You always got snappy when this topic came up. 

“No Flash.” Even though she was speaking to him, it was obvious that it was directed at you. “Gwen’s car was parked right next to the mailboxes which meant she would’ve had to walk right in front of it to put said package in the mailbox.”

A handful of popcorn hit you in the face when you opened your mouth to interject. Kernels fell down into your shirt, distracting you so you could fish them out while she continued. 

“Which is why she has opted to throw money in the garbage for a pair of pants that look like they were cut out of a gap catalog.” Her head turned in your direction, delivering you a smug smile which you returned with a glare. “Because for someone who claims not to care about Peter Parker, you certainly do plenty of backflips to avoid him.”

You chucked a pillow at her but she ducked out of the way. 

“Oh, this again?” Flash sighed, propping his cheek in his hand in boredom of the topic. “I thought maybe something actually happened.”

That makes you do a double take at him, his hands and eyebrows raising in surrender. 

“Something did happen. Peter and Gwen were sitting in her car on my street.” 

How you’d peeked out your window prior to heading to the mailbox, only to find Gwen Stacy’s car parked right outside the Parker residence with Peter sitting in the front seat. You only watched for a few moments in the hope that they would leave but- why was he laughing so much? Nothing could seriously be funny enough that he had to keep throwing his head back with his stupid, lopsided smile-

They did not leave. In fact, they seemed more than content to chat and laugh and joke. Gwen wouldn’t even still be in town if the stupid storm plaguing the skies of the UK hadn’t delayed her flight an extra few days over Thanksgiving Break. 

It wasn’t like you actually had anything against her; quite the opposite actually, considering she was one of the most lovely people to walk the planet. 

Which just made you feel guilty at the odd, prickling resentment that prickled along your skin anytime you thought about her. 

So you decided that, instead of going out, crossing the street and walking right in front of their windshield to toss your package in the mailbox, you decided to keep the ugly pants. 

Neither of them said anything, making you question your own sanity. 

“So I couldn't put the package in the mailbox. So, yes, something certainly did happen.”

Your brows pinched together, like you were offended at the idea that it was nothing- was he not just listening? Did he not just hear about how Peter and Gwen had been flaunting themselves (inside the privacy of her car without the knowledge that you were home) like they owned the stupid spot on the road right in front of his house…

Okay so… maybe there was a hint of truth to what your friends were saying.

“It did!” You stand up abruptly to pad into the kitchen, just so you can hide the way your face screws up at the implication. Absent-mindedly searching through the cabinets for snacks gives you the time to pout without being teased.

“So? It’s winter break. They were probably just hanging out while she’s back in town before she goes back to Oxford.” With another sigh, Katie flopped back on the couch. Her tone is light in the hopes to distract you from the topic and move on to things like where the three of you should go for your last spring break or how Ned Leeds offered to carry her books around campus, again.

Flash shut his laptop and slid it away, tucking it safely in the middle of the floor where it would likely be drunkenly stepped on. This was clearly going to acquire everyone’s full attention. 

As you padded back to the living room shared by you and Katie, bottle of wine in hand, you were ready to drown in your non-existent sorrows.

“Or they were probably banging one out…” Flash snorts. That’s enough to send the remaining heads in the room whipping in his direction.

“Flash!” Katie scolded sharply and he threw his hands up in response. It’s your voice, equally loud and sharp, that makes both of your friends wince with how appalled you sound. 

“Banging?”

The wide eyed look you wore made you appear like a child discovering that Santa wasn’t real. 

Katie shot Flash a dirty look before running a hand down her face which made him cringe, shooting you an apologetic look for his bluntness. She attempted to console you with a stiff pat on your shoulder. 

“No. Not banging.” She was trying to shut that idea down before you spiraled down a rabbit hole.  Still, not even she could help but cringing herself. “... Probably not.”

“That hardly sounds reassuring!” You slumped down onto the couch, trying to sink into the cushions with a pout. 

Flash and Katie exchanged another look, expressions flat and emitting a sigh that screamed ‘here we go again’.

It’s Katie that tried to comfort you first, even if this conversation had happened a million times before and always ended the same way. 

“Here’s a thought,” she said tentatively, scooting a little closer to where you were the personification of grumbling in the corner of the couch. “Why do you care so much?”

You scowled, “I don’t.”

Flash just let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah right! Every Time you see that Gwen's liked one of his aunts' facebook posts, it ruins your whole week- OW!” He rubbed at the spot on his shin that Katie had kicked in an attempt to get him to shut up. 

“What he means,” she interjected, drawing out the words in an attempt to draw your attention back to her, “is that you do tend to… get grumpy… when Parker comes up-”

The implication made your jaw hang open almost comically. 

“I do not!”

“Do too,” your friends deadpanned at the same time. 

Clearly this had become somewhat of a routine to them since they did not pay your pouting any mind. Katie smoothed her shirt and stood, picking up the sparkling five-buck-chuck and inspecting the label like one would inspect a thousand dollar bottle of hundred year old champagne. 

“Face it babe,” She sighed, passing the bottle to Flash, who made quick work at peeling off the foil to uncork it, still sprawled out on the carpet. “Peter Parker might have been out of your life the past seven years, but he has never left your head.”

“That’s not true,” you grumble, but the sound is covered by the pop of the cork and a cheer from your friends. Their attempt to move the conversation along to something more upbeat works, shifting the atmosphere to something lighter as Katie fills three wine glasses.  

It’s like you hadn’t even denied it all.

[maybe-moonchild]

I just wanted to say I love you TASM!peter series Tempest so so so much!!!! The writing is amazing and I love how you’ve perfectly captured Andrew Garfield’s Peter so well and have all the little mannerisms down so well. I love the series and your writing so so much and I think it’s criminally underrated and deserves so much more than just my love and appreciation for it, and I’m so excited for when the next chapters come out!! sending love and support <3333

This literally was the most amazing message ever thank you. Hearing that I’m appropriately capturing things like his mannerism and little details is so very important to me. I try really hard to put all of those things from the movies into my writing.

Writing this was totally spur of the moment even if I’ve been so tiring on the story itself forever.

I’ve been STRUGGLING with my writing recently so this makes me so very happy :) I love feedback and responses thank you sm <3

[maybe-moonchild]

CHAPTER 5

summary: in which the last person you expect to show up and save the day… shows up and saves the day. WC: 5.2

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ

Scar Guy roughly hoists you up from the ground, dropping you back into the chair and no one seems to pay you any mind at all. You think they might be getting into position- at least that’s what you assume the three thugs are doing. Fisk is more focused on checking his own cell phone which is fine by you.  

So you just sit there, trying to make yourself comfortable to pass the time.

Inhale for five, hold for three, and exhale in the hopes of chasing away the trepidation that is consuming you.

You keep your arm cradled to your chest, the tiniest movement sending a stabbing pain firing through your neurons. The sensation radiates deep into the bones of your upper arm and down into your fingertips. With a sniffle, you carefully wipe your tears on your shoulder without looking up, hoping no one sees how scared you are.

You know it's obvious through your tear stained cheeks and the hunch of your shoulders but, hey, you’re trying to save face.

You really want to go home. You really want to break down into tears. You really want Peter.

More so, you really don’t want him to get hurt. 

Suddenly, the last eight years of distance between the two of you feels so stupid. So incredibly stupid and such a waste of time. Even stupider is the fact you’d spent the past week hiding away from him since the kiss the two of you shared terrified you too. 

Scared and alone, yet again. 

“Look at you,” Fisk ridicules, your head turning away in shame. “I knew he’d come just from hearing your voice. So predictable but, hey,” he shrugs, “that was what I was counting on.” 

You still don’t speak or look up, not even when the tops of his shiny, black shoes become visible in the top of your vision. The crime boss is patient for a moment. When you still don’t give him some sort of reaction, he lets out a sigh, sounding disappointed since he’d just been so kind and graced you with another moment of patience. 

Fisk’s hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist and forcing you to face him. His fingers feel like they’re digging into the hairline fracture of your bone and widening the crevice, the pain so sharp and blinding that you can’t keep from crying out this time. Clearly, he doesn’t really care that your eyes are screwed shut and not actually looking at him since he has your attention. 

“Any second now,” Fisk says, leaning down so his face is inches from yours, “You want to walk out of here, you’re going to stay right here.”

“Okay!” You choke the words out, face twisted in agony. “Yes- Okay! Okay!”

“No more funny business, got it?You stay right there and don’t say a word unless I tell you to. Another stunt like what you pulled earlier and the next bone I snap will be your neck, got it?” 

“Yes!”

Seemingly satisfied, Fisk drops your arm, letting you slump over on yourself.

 He’s gotten his point across. You just don’t know what that point is. 

You don’t know the rules of the game. You don’t know how to play. You don’t know anything.

Cradling your arm to your chest doesn’t provide much relief but you’re not sure how else to immobilize it. You bite your lip so hard to keep quiet that you draw blood. Hair hangs in front of your face like a curtain that you are happy to hide behind if it means you can have a moment to yourself. 

Fisk and his men chat quietly amongst themselves as minutes drag on. Well, mainly Tattooed Thug and Red Hat Goon crack a few jokes, some at your expense but you don’t really care.

Scar Guy is the only one that seems like a professional criminal; all gruff and irritable like he has more important crimes to commit than this. 

You inhale slowly through your nose to calm down, to pull your thoughts together and think of a plan to get out of here. It’s just so hard to think straight when your mind feels jumbled. It feels like someone opened your skull, removed your brain, and scribbled inside with a pencil. Thoughts and emotions too crammed in the empty spaces that you can’t quite sort through. 

Fisk doesn’t seem like a second chance kinda guy which makes you blink back another wave of tears. 

Luckily, you don’t have to think much longer when one of the goons cries out in surprise. Everyone's heads snap in the direction of the sound, just in time to see that it’s Red Hat Guy.

 One minute, he’s standing there with his gun aimed at the floor; the next, he’s suddenly hoisted up by webbing coming out of thin air. The gun he’d been leisurely holding clatters against the ground as he disappears into the ether of the rafters above.

You jump in your seat when his body drops, covered in webbing and landing in an unconscious heap on the ground. Somehow, the quiet that follows seems even louder than the sound of his head connecting with the cement.

Considering this asshole had specifically been the one with a gun to your head last week, you can’t bring yourself to feel bad. 

Unease spreads quickly through the air, almost palpable in the look Scar Guy and Fisk exchange in a single glance. 

Fisk seems aggravated, his teeth clenched while the other two thugs in the room seem confused. Their guns aim towards the ceiling, eyes scanning the dark for any sign of the newest guest to arrive to the party. 

Spider-Man.

Not even you can help looking up into the dark rafters for a glimpse of the friendly neighborhood hero. You’d clearly expected Peter to show up and you’re not sure how a superhero got the memo but you are certainly not complaining.

It’s better this way, you tell yourself, safer for Peter. Keeping him out of the danger he brought on himself.

Well, also on you. 

But you don’t understand why Spider-Man has shown up. Does his arrival signify your death since Peter didn’t follow the rules? Does he not know that your life is at stake- does he not care? You would never, not for a single moment, think that he would do something so reckless as to involve a superhero when it certainly wouldn’t end well for you. 

All you can feel is confusion clouding your thoughts. You can’t catch up. Everytime you take one step forward, you realize that it was in the wrong direction and you can’t figure out where you’re supposed to get the answers. 

There’s a harsh grip in your hair, forcing you to your feet with a stumble, narrowly avoiding tripping over the chair leg. You whimper at the pain on your scalp, biting down on your lip again when your arm gets jerked around.

Something cold digs into your temple and the familiar feeling is enough for your heart to skip a beat.

A gun… again. 

You already planned on complying but… sure, you really would comply now. 

You know that Fisk was clearly expecting Peter to show up. Not a real threat, like Spider-Man, who could send both his empire of Fisk Industries and his lesser known, criminal empire crumbling to dust. You think that maybe Peter finally realized he was in over his head and called for super powered intervention. 

Fisk, who’s a bit more in the loop than you are regarding secret identities and spider bites, also had been anticipating Peter's arrival.

That was supposed to be the plan. Of course Peter was supposed to show up as himself, mask free and overly cautious about revealing his secret to you; allowing Fisk to keep control of the situation. 

Now some of that control was in Peters hands, settled right next to the triggers of his web shooters. 

“Alright, now. I think we should be able to chat like adults about this,” Fisk calls out towards the shadowed high ceilings of the warehouse. His voice makes you flinch and confirms the identity of who is behind you, holding the gun.

You're just thankful that Fisk is not actually pulling your hair off your scalp, just using it to hold you in front of him like a shield. 

It’s a statement. Take Fisk down and he might just pull the trigger, bringing you down with him. 

After a long moment of silence, Spider-man doesn’t reveal himself. Instead, he sends a rapid succession of webs towards Tattooed Thug, the momentum and webs adhering him to the wall. 

Your shoulders heave up and down, desperately chasing for a breath that you can't quite catch. This has to be the smallest you have ever felt in your life but you just wish you were smaller so you’d disappear entirely. 

Scar Guy’s gun whips in the direction of the hero the moment he drops to the ground. He doesn’t even flinch at being a target whereas you’re horrified. You’d only ever caught a glimpse of him from hundreds of feet away when you happened to be on the same street he was swinging through. 

Right now, Spider-Man hardly looks friendly. His hands shake, voice clear and threatening through the mask as he takes a few steps closer. It’s not close enough to comfort you. 

“Let her go or I’ll kill you.”

That’s it. That’s the threat.

Peter will make good on it.

So now Fisk has got to improvise which means applying a bit more pressure on you. 

“Give me the files and she’s all yours,” Fisk says with a nonchalance that feels sardonic given the circumstances. 

You’re too busy staring at the red and blue spandex clad figure standing ten feet away. 

Because you know that voice. 

You Know that voice because, before eight years ago, you had heard it everyday since you were nine. Which is impossible because that would mean that Spider-Man is…

“Peter?” 

His name falls from your lips so quietly, it’s practically just a breath, barely audible over the deafening silence ringing in your ears.

You realize who he is. Who he’s been this whole time and yet, you’ve never once made the connection. 

Some of the tension slips from his rigid stance at the sound of his name coming from your mouth, so softly you’re surprised he hears it. His eyes turn to you, or at least what would be his eyes behind the white lenses of the mask.

It’s clear from the wide eyed look on your face, lips parted and unmoving without the ability to formulate any words that you know. He’s okay with that, deep down; he knew you’d know but the way you’re looking at him… fuck, he somehow feels like a liar.

Peter has to clench his teeth hard enough to hurt when he takes note of the state you’re in. 

You're bleeding. There’s a scrape on your cheek and matching ones on both of your skinned knees. The back of your head has finally stopped bleeding, Fisk’s hand showing off the congealed blood in your hair at the base of your skull.

“You’re gonna be okay- alright? Everything’s going to be fine,” Peter forces out, praying it sounds reassuring.

It does. It’s enough to make your eyes well with tears, like the clouds outside that are fat with rain, waiting and waiting until they can’t hold off on letting them drop.

Now it all makes sense. 

Why he’d stolen it in the first place. How he’d refused to tell you anything more than that he did it to help people. What he was trying to say earlier when he came over before he had to rush off. 

That Peter Parker, your childhood best friend, was freaking Spider-Man. 

And clearly, Fisk does not care that you are making a life altering revelation that your childhood best friend is the one behind the mask of NYC’s most infamous hero. He gives your head a tug, pressing the barrel of the gun deeper into your temple so you flinch.

“The files Parker. Now,” Fisk grits out in warning that his patience is wavering. 

Peter’s face hardens into anger again. 

“Alright then- let her go,” Peter barks and the sharpness of his voice echoes around the eerie quiet of the warehouse. His emotions are evident in his body language along; his rage that someone laid a hand on you in his clenched fists, fear in the tautness of each muscle, and the urge to jump into action clear by the way he stands on the balls of his feet. 

The gun cocks for emphasis.

You flinch, squeezing your eyes shut like you're bracing yourself for what could happen next. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of a building blindfolded, teetering both directions without knowing if your misstep will send you tumbling to the roof or right to your death.

Peter tenses and a moment passes… 

“Peter, Peter,” Fisk tsks, like he is somehow disappointed that things had to come to this. That somehow it's Fisk’s arm that’s been twisted into breaking your arm and holding the gun to your head. “Please. I don’t want to hurt her. So just slide over the files and everyone wins.”

“Let her go first.”

“Do you look like you’re in a position to negotiate?” the crime boss chuckles. “Let me see the files and she walks out of here without a scratch.”

Peter stares back. He’s so still, he doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. Maybe he isn’t. You can’t really tell if you are either.

“I’ll give you the files, but if you come near her again, I’ll rip both you and these thugs apart without a second thought. That’s the deal.”

Fisk takes a moment to pretend to think like he’s just trying to draw out the moment.

“Deal.” He smiles and gives your head a little shake. “And if you ever take what belongs to me again, I’ll pay someone to rip her apart without a second thought.”

The manilla folder slides across the floor, slowing to a stop halfway between you and Peter. Kingpin doesn’t even need to pick it up himself.; not when Scar Guy is already moving for him so you can continue to be used as leverage. It’s the only way to keep the four criminals from immediately getting their asses pummeled into the cement. 

Scar Guy inspects the folder, thumbing through the file and checking that everything they were after is accounted for. You can’t help but hold your breath in the few moments it takes for him to look up and give Fisk a nod. That’s the signal for them to be done here. 

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Parker.”

Clearly, he and Peter have some sort of deal in place that keeps their anonymity. They both know what kinds of secret activities the other is involved in their free time and could easily expose the other. It just meant that the other would be exposed in the process.

Mutual black mail apparently keeps secret identities. 

Scar Guy speaks up from where he stands a few feet away, “What about them?” With a jerk of his head, he gestures to Red Hat and Tattooed Thug, both unconscious and incapacitated. 

“We’ll send someone to collect them later,” Fisk says without an air of concern. There’s nothing warm about the smile he gives Peter before adding, “Hurry up with your little reunion here. I’ll make sure that my men shoot first, ask questions later if there's anyone in here when they show.”

You gasp when Fisk drags you back a few steps, you feel lagging before they can comply. It’s only far enough so Scar Guy can place himself as a barrier between the hero and the villain so they can back towards the door. When your importance as a hostage and human shield has come to an end, Fisk drops you without a second thought. 

You manage to catch yourself on your hands and knees before you can collapse completely. Unfortunately, the reminder that your bone is broken comes as a blinding pain that shoots through your arm, making it crumple. It doesn’t take long for the rest of your body to follow until you’ve collapsed on your side. 

Fisk and Scar Guy are out of the warehouse without another word or glance behind them. They have what they came for. 

Peter doesn’t care about prolonging Kingpin’s presence. He’s rushing forward in an instant, dropping to his knees beside you. He doesn’t think twice about ripping off his mask and letting it fall to the floor. Not when he’s too busy slipping his arms under you to help you up so he can cradle your face in his hands. 

“Hey, hey,” he coos, his voice shaking and thumbs brushing away your tears that you just can’t hold in anymore. “You’re alright! Look at you. You’re okay. It’s done now.”  

You lean into his palms in the hope of overwhelming all of your senses with his touch. It sounds like he's trying to convince himself that you’re some semblance of ‘okay’ more than he’s trying to convince you.

“I’m sorry. I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid,” Peter repeats over and over. He smooths your hair from your face, inspecting the cut and bruise on your cheek. 

With a sniffle, you settle back into his arm wrapped around your waist because you don’t think you can keep yourself seated upright on your own. Every shift is agony before you manage to find some way to sit with your arm protectively cradled to your chest. 

It’s too quiet now, every tiny sound amplified and echoing through the too large space. Rain pelts against the roof and all you can smell is The Hudson and fresh earth. 

“I wanna go home,” you whimper, resting your forehead against his shoulder as he tries to soothe you.

You want to pretend none of this is real. That Peter isn’t actually Spider-Man, your arm wasn’t broken and the scariest thing that could ever happen, didn’t just happen. 

Peter nods instantly, like he’s just glad to finally hear your voice. You’re alive. Shaken and terrified and hurt, sure. 

But breathing and heart pumping? Absolutely. 

“We’re going to go home,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head so he can mumble into your hair. “And maybe never leave the house again? How does that sound?” 

Despite the fact that you’re crying, you almost laugh at that. 

Never leaving the house again sounds wonderful, even if impractical. 

“Can I take a look at your wrist?” 

As much as you don’t want to, you lift your head up while relying on the arm he has wrapped around you as support. You pry your own arm away from your chest, sniffling again when your face screws up in pain. Peter is intentionally delicate when he slowly pulls up your sleeve with one hand, the other holding your arm as lightly as possible.

Purple and blue blotch the circumference of your forearm, a pattern of Fisk’s fingerprints splayed on your skin.

Maybe you don’t know much about broken bones, but you and Peter had managed to break a few of them during your childhoods. Back then, they had been the result of stupid skateboard tricks or a mutual decision to hop the fence to Midtown Public Pool at midnight.

Tonight? Nothing about that felt childish.  

“Oh, god.” Peter’s breath catches in his throat. “I am so… so sorry, okay? This was never- this was never supposed to happen.”

 His thumb barely brushes against the irritated red encircling your wrist from the duct tape as he comes to the realization that you are actually injured. Gone is the irrational fear that would sometimes creep into the dark corners of his mind, filling it with fictitious ideas of something bad happening to you. 

It’s no longer fictitious or irrational, it’s him and it’s real. He’s the bad that happened to you. 

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ

The trip to the hospital? It sucked. 

You’d never had a particularly strong interest in being a passenger to Spider-Man and his web swinging. Flash, who was a pretty big fan of the friendly neighborhood hero, had led many debates on the topic; he thought it was awesome, Katie was afraid of heights, and you had no reason to want to be in a situation you needed rescuing from. 

So having to do so with a broken arm and bloody skull was particularly awful. 

You’re sure you would enjoy it more if you weren’t in excruciating pain.

Rain seeped into your clothes, plastering your wind whipped hair on your face that you kept buried in the crook of his neck.

Sure, maybe you like breathing in the smell of him too… and maybe you liked the warmth radiating from under his suit. 

Somehow you had managed to tell him to set you down outside the hospital and leave you there. He tried to shut it down instantly until coming to his senses. The last thing either of you needed was someone figuring out that the awkward guy that showed up after Spider-Man dropped you off at the nearest ED had the exact same voice and height.

It takes him longer than you expected to run off, change out of his suit, and return to the hospital. By the time he arrives, you’re tucked into the hospital bed, wet dress exchanged for a stiff hospital gown. Cold had seeped so deeply into your bones that the heated blanket was practically a gift from god, thawing the fear away. 

The nurse holds the door open for him, saying something that sounds too far away for you to grasp. She gestures for him to enter with a waive of her hand, his head dipping in thanks as she leaves. There's a quiet click as the door shuts but he doesn’t move closer. 

He takes a moment to rock back and forth on his feet, hands shoved deeply into his pockets. His uncertainty on how to proceed is evident from the corner of your eye.

“They said it might be an hour for an X-ray,” you mumble distractedly, too busy watching some rich house wife yell at another about sleeping with her husband on the TV. The quiet hum of the show, the scratchy sheets that are pulled up to your chin and your damp hair seeping into the pillows under your head are vague sensations.

Peter leans against the doorframe and watches you silently. The million emotions creating turmoil in his mind are summarized by a simple frown. Your injured arm is stabilized in some sort of temporary splint, keeping it immobilized until you can get down to radiology for an X-Ray. 

The sight of you safely tucked into the bed, your face somewhat cleaner and no danger pressing into your temple almost makes him laugh from how hard relief slams into him. 

Slowly, he lowers himself down on the edge of your bed once he’s made sure your legs are out of the way so he can be near you. You don’t flinch when he gently brushes your hair off your face so he lets his hand linger.

Not long, just enough to feel your life on your cheek so he can be sure you’re really there.  

“How are you holding up?” Peter whispers, his head tilting to the side. You can feel him studying you, looking for a single reason to panic or call for a nurse. Looking for something he can fix. 

“Honest answer?” you draw out, pausing to search for the answer. You scratch at your nose with your good arm, careful not to tug at the IV pumping you full of a steady stream of medications and fluids. 

“I think I’m in denial about the whole thing… plus, I think I’m super high.”

Your slurred words almost make him smile. Almost. Then the memory of your tear stained face and the panic in your eyes plagues his brain, making it slip right off his face. He might never find anything funny again after now that he’s seen that. He certainly won't ever forget it. 

“I’m pretty sure those painkillers are supposed to make you high, so you’re doing it right,” Peter whispers, still staring at you, his bottom lip nearly chewed to the point of bleeding. 

You just hum in response. Light from the TV flickers the shadows across your face, stretching the shapes around the room. The rain, steady beeping of the machines, and the quiet drone of the shitty reality TV show playing were eerily comforting. 

He lets out a long sigh while his hands fidget in his lap.

“I’m so damn sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry.” Looking at the ugly pattern of the hospital floor is easier than stomaching the sight of the little bandage on your cheek. The whole situation was so horrible earlier that he couldn’t help but be angry. 

Angry that you were put in this situation in the first place. Angry that someone used you to get to him.

Angry for the kiss he still can’t stop thinking about. Angry that you’re hurt.

Now that anger had soothed into a throbbing guilt, the kind that is so overwhelming, it feels like someone is sitting on his chest and suffocating him with a pillow.

You, on the other hand, are feeling pretty solid- or quite the opposite given the floating feeling in your extremities. The pain meds coursing through your system have dulled the throb in the back of your skull that’s been cleaned and sewed with two little sutures.

“I should have been there- should have never let this happen to you,” he adds, his voice cracking. His mouth snaps closed in an attempt to swallow down the guilt.

This finally makes you pull your eyes from the TV, the sound becoming background noise. Your head lulls to the side on the pillow, damp hair tickling your cheek so you can look at his side profile. 

For a long moment, you just mull over his apology. 

You know he’s sorry. How could he not be when you and his second and third interactions in the past eight years were being used as leverage by a criminal to get to him. But it’s more that you just know that his guilt is eating him alive without him even saying it.

Peter being the one behind Spider-Man's mask is another thing you can’t quite fit in the jumbled mess of your brain at this moment. 

“You kept digging then.” It’s not exactly a question or a statement, but it’s still a disappointment. “Fisks files… you gave them back but you’d already made copies-”

“I always make copies,” Peter mumbles sheepishly, slumping back in his chair but you continue a little sharper. 

“-so you could keep digging on whatever it is he’s doing even when he already made it clear for you to stop.”

All of the air rushes from his cheeks before he’s able to pick his eyes up from the tiled floor. Slowly, he nods because he has no right to defend himself. 

“Yeah- I was- I was trying to tell you. Tell you everything. I did,” he confirms. “After last week I realized just how important it was that I got them back…” Peter pauses, unsure how to continue.  “I needed them. So much is at stake.”

Your tired face twists up in a scowl and you’re unable to stop yourself from muttering,“Oh, really? So much is at stake? Never would've guessed.”

Peter presses his lips into a thin line but decides to let you have that given the circumstances. 

A quiet falls over the room, quietly accompanied by the petty problems of pretty people with too much money fighting on TV. Neither of you say anything for a long moment which gives you the chance to actually try and think. When you turn to actually look at him through tired eyes, he can’t help but look down, chewing on the inside of his cheek and waiting for your verdict. 

The fact he would put himself through so much danger, face down the most powerful and terrifying criminals and villains of all time to keep the world safe, all to protect people like you… that’s the problem. 

At least when he got his ass kicked by Flash, it was because Peter Parker was standing up for someone that needed it. Now, he hid behind some mask and was reduced to nothing more than spandex.

All of New York loved Spider-Man and would never want to see him hurt but… if the hero died, they’d get over it. 

If something happened to Peter Parker, you’d die. 

Spider-Man was for everyone, Peter was only for you. 

“You’ve always been like,” you murmur and look back to the TV so you can get comfortable.  “You’ve always been the one to stand up for people. Always getting yourself hurt to help others.”

The thick fog in your brain made your thoughts too sluggish to grasp. You are not going to be able to begin to unpack the events of the night when you feel like you’re floating above the hospital bed. Hell, you might never be able to unpack the fact that Peter was Spider-Man, even when you were sober and gone to therapy.

Peter practically holds his breath when you seem to sink deeper into the blankets and pillows. 

“Can we talk about it all later?” You sound more defeated than upset. 

A part of him really wants to argue but the sight of your bruised face sticking out from the scratchy sheets and your eyes falling closed stops him. Peter sighs, but relents, sinking back into the chair in both surrender and similar defeat. 

Something akin to peace settles over the space of the hospital room. 

Not for Peter, though, who can’t stop anxiously bouncing his leg up and down, shifting in his seat or finding a new position to worry his hands.

His guilt is nearly palpable and it’s stressing you out, even if he’s only visible on the edge of your peripheral. The cheap hospital chair is pulled up to the side of your bed so he can pretend to watch the TV, even when he’s only pretending so he can glance at you.

Just because it’s his fault doesn’t mean you want him to eat himself alive. 

He straightens when you jerkily try to tug your good arm out from under the covers, like he’s ready to jump in and help the second he notices a single sign you're in pain. You extend it to him, letting it hover weakly in the space between the two of you. His frown deepens before he understands, his face softening. 

An olive branch. 

You still haven't looked in his direction but he doesn’t seem to mind when it’s obvious you’re struggling to remain conscious. Peter scoots his chair towards your bed, leaning on the edge with his forearms and collecting your hand in his. 

His palm is warm in yours, shaky and gentle. When you give him a faint squeeze, he returns it wholeheartedly. 

Eventually, you fall asleep. 

Eventually, he does too.

[maybe-moonchild]

5/29/2014

WC: 5.3k

Strawberry vodka lemonade was your liquid courage. 

It was what drove you to excuse yourself from under Trent Warren's arm that was thrown over your shoulders. Your friends boo’d you from across the pong table, but you were already slipping away. 

Flash’s living room was stuffy, the entirety of Midtown High’s senior class packed inside, bodies spilling into the backyard. It had been your requirement that all seniors be invited to the party. No one left out, no hurt feelings, or unwelcome to the celebration. 

After all, you had all graduated today. 

Peter’s head was easy to spot as he pushed through the crowd and towards the back door. He’d always been tall and lanky but, sometime during high school, he’d filled out. It wasn’t weird that you’d noticed. Everyone had noticed. Come on… how could you not?

Your grip on your solo cup tightened as you maneuvered through party goers that were too drunk to notice where you were going. Maybe no one cared anymore. Now that everyone was graduating and moving on to what was hoped to be bigger and better. 

Who peaked in high school wouldn’t matter. Who dated who, slept behind their friends' ex was no longer important. Who punched who in the face over a rumor that someone started would be forgotten and replaced with newer and shinier memories.

You just knew that you would never be able to forget Peter Parker. 

Thinking was easier once you’d stepped outside. Without the overwhelming stimulation, your eyes and ears adjusted to the quiet and lack of flashing lights. You searched every face, standing on your toes and straining to catch him before he was gone for good. You managed to get a glimpse of the back of his head before he disappeared around the side of the house. 

You called out,  “Hey!”

Grass tickled the soles of your feet as you jogged to catch up. Your sandals had been forgotten somewhere in Flash’s room from when you’d helped set up his place to host the party. What was more important was that you managed to catch him. 

Peter was right at your fingertips. 

At the sound of your voice, Peter hesitated. Like he was debating whether he should stop and turn around or just keep going all the way home. But he stopped. 

It took him even longer to actually turn around. 

Neither of you said anything for a few long seconds. You were nervous- the most nervous you had felt in a long time now that you were standing closer to him than you had in longer than you could remember. More nervous than cheerleading tryouts freshman year when Nancy Lewis, the captain, had it out for you but you made the team anyway. More nervous than when you clicked submit on your NYU application 7 months ago. 

You gave him a timid smile, “Hey.” That one word dripped with everything and nothing all at the same time. Years of dependency and avoidance all rolled into one. 

His teeth chewed at the inside of his lip and he paused long enough to make your smile falter.

“Hi.”

It was awkward; the kind of quiet that no one is sure how to fill. Clearing your throat and squaring your shoulders, you relied on the strawberry vodka to carry you through.

“I didn’t know you were coming tonight. I mean, I didn’t think you would.” you practically blurted the words out just so you wouldn’t lose your nerve. Shaking your head, you try to relax. “Not in a bad way. Just… you usually don’t, but I’m glad you did-”

“I didn’t plan on coming.

That time, your smile really faltered. His eyes were hard but the second he saw your expression, he felt guilty and quickly looked away. It was harder for you to recover this time. 

“I’m glad you did.” The strawberry vodka coated the words and stung your tongue. At least taking a sip of your drink gave you something to do as you thought. 

You took a breath and tried again. 

“We haven’t… Well, we haven’t really talked in a while. So… I was- well I was hoping to run into you again. Since we graduated and all,” you stumbled through. Even if you sounded awkward, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

You just wanted to try.

Peter didn’t know what to say to that. He was trying really hard to be nice but, god, it was harder than he’d thought it would be. It wasn’t like he was a mean person. It wasn’t even that he wanted to be mean to you but something about your unsure smile made him want to tear it down. 

He can’t exactly say, ‘I don’t want to look at you’ or ‘I was hoping to have evaded you entirely, gone off to school and tried to forget your existence that always seems to be pressing on the back of my skull even when you’re nowhere near’. 

So he settled for something neutral, a little vague.

“Yeah.” 

He swallowed, nodding slowly before tearing his eyes from the ground and finally meeting your gaze. A nervous tic took hold of his forehead and he rubbed it idly like he could somehow rub away the scowl threatening to slip through. He fought the urge to run by shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“I didn’t know you wanted to run into me,” he muttered and you just shrugged lamely. If you talked right now, your voice might’ve cracked. Yet again, you focussed your tipsy brain on keeping the smile up. 

Peter couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t help but shove his hands into his front pockets and add, “Considering you didn’t want anything to do with me for the past four years.”

The smile fell off your face. It didn’t come back. 

His words did what he intended: hurt you. 

You pressed your lips together to keep down the scoff burning in your throat.

“That’s not true and you know it,” you argued.  “I never replaced you. I might have made other friends but that didn’t mean I just cut you out.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he muttered, an edge creeping into his tone as he stared at you intensely. He wanted to see you hurt but the only reaction you gave was the twitch of a muscle in your neck.

Peter was pissed off.  He was pissed off that he wasn’t good enough. That you chose others over him. That he’d  never been enough. That maybe he never would be. 

Peter did a bad job at feigning indifference. The jerky movements and harshness of his voice gave away that he wasn’t all that detached like he was trying to seem. You could tell considering you still knew his mannerisms like you had four years ago. 

When you said nothing, he couldn’t help but keep going. Alcohol didn’t have the same effect on him ever since he got bit by that spider two years ago. Not like he’d been a big drinker before then anyway; Peter wasn’t exactly making it to the top of the guest lists. Booze metabolized too quickly in his system for it to do anything besides give him a brief buzz and a three minute hangover. 

But when Ned had begged and pleaded (like literally on his knees and gripping the bottom of Peter’s shirt because ‘it was the last high school party he could attend to try and woo Katie into elopement), Peter couldn't say no. So he really tried to keep as heavy a buzz going as humanly possible.

It worked. Maybe a bit too well. 

Which was why he was drunk and wouldn’t shut up.

“You always had plans with other people, always busy with cheerleading or making rounds to different tables at lunch after sitting with me for five minutes. I’d be lucky if I got to walk to a class with you.”

“That’s not how it went and you know it,” you countered with a step forward. 

“Just admit you traded up. That you got exactly what you wanted.”

You stopped short, the close proximity between you two feeling like two opposite ends of magnets.Your breathing was a little rapid, pink flushing your cheeks from the alcohol. Or it could just be the blood rushing to your face from anger because, yeah… you were mad. 

“And what would that be? What exactly was it that I wanted, Peter?”

It was the booze, that’s what you both told yourselves. That the bottle of rum you’d giggled into with Flash and Katie as people started arriving was finally hitting you full force. That the beers he’d choked down just so he had something to occupy his mouth with instead of talking during the party had him chatty now.

Alcohol seeped beneath the hard exterior of everything you’d been sitting on for the past four years as it all bubbled to the surface. 

“Really?” He leaned in closer, the citrusy vodka strong on his breath. Peter's eyes flickered around your face like he was looking for the truth. “Who was the one that always said it would be you and I against the world? How many nights did I crawl in your window when you were too scared to be home alone and your parents were at a conference?”

When you didn’t have the answer, Peter leaned a little closer.

“How many times did you show up late to the movies an hour late because practice ran long?  How many times did you invite a new friend along to our plans that only acknowledged my existence because you made them? How many times did I help you with your homework because you let some moron quarterback keep you up all night and you forgot?”

“Are you serious right now?” It was the most you’d raised your voice the entire conversation. 

“I’m just saying,” Peter shrugged. He raised his hands in surrender, nothing sincere about the action. 

“Just saying what? That I’m a whore?”

Peter's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. His scowl dropped to shock. “No!” That was certainly not what he was saying. Not ever!

“Well, that’s kinda what it’s sounding like,” you snapped. 

“Well, that's not what I- I’m not saying that. I’d never say that-” he cuts himself off with a huff. “I’m just saying that- I was there. For you. I was there for you.”

The hole he was digging himself in just kept getting bigger and bigger. If he was lucky, he could crawl inside and bury himself in it like a grave. Lay to rest all the thoughts of you that had been sitting in his head so long they’d practically atrophied into his brain tissue. 

The statement made you feel defensive, arms folding over your chest like you could protect yourself from his words. Scowling, your fingers flexed on the half filled solo cup, the plastic crinkling under your fingers. Even though it was late May

“What has that even got to do with anything,” you cried out in frustration. Even though it was just the two of you out in the open yard, it felt harder to breathe out there compared to the cramped party inside. 

You still didn’t get it. The realization was agonizing, that you just didn’t understand what that had to do with everything. 

He stopped thinking entirely. 

So without  thought, he stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands and towering over you. 

“Because I was jealous, you idiot.” 

There's a deafening quiet once those words are out into the world. He could never take them back. You could never truly pretend you’d never heard them.

His eyes bored into yours, big and brown as their intensity slipped to distress, his breath rushing over your mouth. You were so still that you weren’t sure your heart was beating. If you really thought about it, you would easily be able to put together why he would be jealous of some football player having your attention for a week or two before you got bored. 

If you actually thought it through, you would have to accept that he didn’t just feel resentment for you. 

Suddenly, the hum of anger that had been buzzing in your body is replaced by something else entirely. Something you cant quite place or name or- fuck, you dont even know if you want to know what it is.

Peter's whole body wanted to sag, to sink down into your touch and just give himself a moment to simply be. To just be with you without the entire weight of the world weighing down his shoulders, without having an explosion hanging between you two like a cloud. 

His heart was racing in his chest, thudding so hard it hurts as it slams against his ribs. Peter stared at you with disbelief, the booze having stunted his own thinking. 

You were so beautiful, so damn beautiful with your cheeks flushed pink and your parted lips. Your eyes wide and bright as they remain locked with his own because neither of you could seem to look at anything else. Maybe there was nothing else worth looking at. 

His thumb stroked your cheek, his voice faltering as he leaned closer, 

“This,” he says and pulls your face closer.

You went  rigid for barely a second when his lips pressed against yours. It wasn’t like it was the first time you’d ever kissed him either; in fact, it was the third time. 

You had just never thought you would do it again. It was why you didn’t think, you just moved. 

Kissing Peter was almost instinctive. 

Your eyes fell shut but it didn’t make you any less aware of every single detail about him. The solidness of his forearms that your fingers were curled around as you leaned into him. How 

Strawberry vodka and Peter Parker had to be the best thing you’d ever tasted. 

If you thought you were drunk before, you might as well have blacked out now. You were even drunker on the feel of his hands moving to tangle in your hair, the swipe of his tongue on your lips. When he deepened the kiss, it made you stumble back in the grass. He kept you upright, going until he had your back pressed against the siding Flash’s house. 

If you were able to think, you’d think this was stupid. 

Not thinking sounded a fuck lot better than acknowledging that. 

A sound of protest died in the back of your throat when he removed his hands before they’re back on you. They found their way under your thighs in an instant, hiking them around his waist like you weighed nothing. It surprised you enough that you gasped into his mouth. You looped your arms around his neck for both support- but also so your fingers can twist and tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

How long had Peter wanted this? 

When he was nine, he wanted to hold your hand, to sit pressed up against you when you watched cartoons or link arms as he pulled you around the street on his skateboard. After he kissed you the summer before sixth grade, he wanted to do it again. Nothing more than pressing his lips to yours and pulling away after a second. At fourteen, he still didn’t really get the whole kissing thing. 

Then he dated Gwen Stacy all of junior year and half of senior year. Gwen was amazing. She was kind and brilliant, her spot at the top of the class securing her spot in Oxford which meant she would be moving to another country at the start of fall. When he acceptance letter came, Gwen and Peter’s breakup was amicable and they’d spent the last few months easily falling into friendship. 

So maybe it was around then that he was able to put a name to what he thought about when you crossed his mind. Of kissing you with everything in him, burying his face into your neck, holding you the same way you held him when Ben died. 

You deepened the kiss when he groaned, fingers pressing harder into the flesh of your thighs and you nipped at his bottom lip in response. It was hard to focus once he’d moved his hands when they were touching anywhere they could. 

Cupping your face, gripping your waist, tangling in your hair, resting on your neck. You could barely keep up but he didn’t care when he finally got to feel you. 

It was a stupid night, a stupid moment, a stupid everything.  Neither of you cared.  

The two of you pulled each other close and closer, the heat of the moment drowning out the voices of reason in your head.  

It felt so right. Nothing but your lips on his in the night and the sound of the party a million miles away.

Over your high school career, you’d been on some dates, had some flings with different variances of the same kind of asshole. The ones you’d kiss, or more, were nothing like this. 

 Not even kissing Trent Warren felt like this- Fuck. 

Why did you have to think?

“Oh my god,” you breathed out once you managed to pull away. Your hands flew to cover your swollen lips, eyes wide and frantic. Peter let you pull away even if it hurt him. 

Confused, he gently set you on the ground once you unlocked your legs from around his middle. Your shaky hands shoved the hair out of your face, pressing a palm against your forehead in shock. 

It wasn’t like you were dating Trent. That was never going to happen, you were satisfied with the little fling the two of you were likely going to carry out for some of the summer before he left for college. 

You didn’t even freaking like him that much so it didn’t even have anything to do with the star of the soccer team at all. 

But this? It felt like you were taking advantage of Peter- not because of your mutual intoxication but because…

You weren’t sure, okay? All you knew was that there was a reason, so deep down into your brain, that you couldn’t grasp it. 

This was all wrong. You were both drunk. Tensions were high. Neither of you were thinking clearly. Both of you made mistakes that you will regret the moment your hangover hits in the morning. 

Just like that. His heart fell to his stomach as he watched you look around, searching for anyone that might’ve seen the two of you tangled together.  He didn’t know what to say, what to do. Everything was happening so fast.

Swallowing, he said your name so softly it was almost hidden by the loud shriek and splash in the pool around the side of the house. Neither you or Peter even flinched at the sound. When you didn’t speak, the backs of his fingers found your chin, gently lifting your eyes to his. 

“Leave him.”

“What?” You practically blurted the word out. If you didn’t think your eyes could get wider, you’d be wrong. Your hands fell to your sides to hang limply and useless and the abruptness almost made you reel back. It feels like he’s just said something absolutely preposterous, like he’s Spiderman or something. 

"Leave him," Peter repeats. Pleading, his eyes searching yours. “you’re too good for him. You always have been.”

It’s so stupid but Peter’s heart had always known. He had always wanted you. He has just never been dumb enough to do anything about.

Until now, he guessed.

You leaned away from his hand to make space as you slipped around him. His body turned with yours but you weren’t doing it to get away. You just couldn’t stand being stuck between him and the wall you’d just been pressed up against. You paced, shaky hands pressing against the heat on your face. 

“We’re drunk,” you tried to rationalize with a wave of your hands. “Neither of us knows what we’re doing… or saying.”

His heart sank even further with each word. 

Peter nodded curtly in agreement, “We are drunk.”

But deep down he knows better.

He wanted this. Always. 

He wanted you. Always. 

“But I still mean it.”

You halted to a stop so fast that you nearly tripped on your own feet. Peter knows he's pushing the line, doing something they can't come back from but he has to know. There was no sign that this was all a joke. 

“Peter,” your voice was thick with desperation. “You can’t mean it.”

“Yeah, I can.”

“No. You can’t.”

His eyes met yours, determination unwavering. He wanted you too much for his own sanity. “You can’t kiss me like that and say it doesn’t mean anything.” Because it did. It meant something to him.

The only reason you bit down on your lip was because he was right. You couldn’t say it didn’t mean anything. Not when you kissed him back the way you did. You twisted your shaky hands into the fabric of your dress like it would somehow give you some semblance of control over the way your head feels like it was going to explode. 

“Pete.” The nickname fell from your lips like it had millions of times. You don’t know what to tell him. You didn’t think there was anything you could say to fix things like you’d hoped to when you chased him down. Not when his expression was so desperate to hear what he wanted. 

“You were my best friend-” you started in the hopes of explaining but just shook his head and laughed. The sharp and bitter sound was enough for you to cut yourself off. 

“Right, right, of course.” He looked away, staring off into the dark yard. You looked as hopeless as you felt. 

"Can you just..." you stepped forward, barely moving closer but trying nonetheless. "I didn't... I wanted to fix things. I wanted to make things better."

The sound of your voice cracking at the end made his heart lurch. Peter actually managed to peeked up at you from the corner of his eyes because. Looking at you directly would burn like looking directly at the sun. The sound of your voice broke at the end, the crack making his heart lurch.

“Make what better? I thought you were perfect,” Peter snapped quietly. His head turned away from you again so he didn’t have to see the damage of his words. 

That hurt, cut through your chest and forced you to inhale sharply. It just made the lump in your throat so much worse. 

You focused on anything else as you blinked hard. Fresh cut grass, the sugary vodka still clouding your senses, and whatever floral Bath&BodyWorks perfume Katie had doused you both in earlier. All too overwhelming and not overwhelming enough. 

"You know it's never been like that." Squaring your shoulders, you triked again. "It's never... You know I never wanted you out of my life. That it was never about  picking you or them. I tried to do both. You're the one that pulled away."

Peter just scoffed again, shaking his head like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Your mouth snapped shut in, trembling lips pressed tightly together. 

“Maybe I was sick of waiting for you to remember the loser across the street that used to be your friend.” 

Your jaw practically dropped at the implication that you would ever think that. Something about the way he said it made it feel like it had come from your own mouth. You clenched your hands into fists at your sides. 

“I never thought that,” you shot back, mouth still hung open in disbelief. “You were the one that pulled away when I had more than just you in my life.”

Peter scoffed but you keep going. 

“I invited you to games so that you would watch me cheer and you made it clear you would rather die than go. If I tried to stop by at your place after practice, you would tell May to pretend you weren’t home.”

Peter had never been all that great at sharing you. 

Before you moved in across the street, he’d started approaching that age where he realized that he didn’t have all that many friends. Aunt May was always hinting at him to invite kids in his grade over after school and Uncle Ben didn’t understand why Peter wouldn’t, at the very least, try a sport for a single week. 

Then you moved in across the street and he had a best friend that he could do everything with. Even when you played with other kids, you always came skipping back over to his house the second you got home. Sometimes you even dragged him along with you. 

When high school approached, he’d been more concerned with getting lost or failing his classes. 

You were more concerned with being singled out as a target or being lost on the outside. 

Everything was fine between you two until the second week of school. Wait, that wasn’t true. You hadn’t actually done anything wrong but when he walked into school that morning, expecting you to be waiting at his locker for his arrival, you weren’t. Instead, you were on the other side of the hall, chatting excitedly with two girls on your cheer team. 

Deep down, he had known you were talking to them to pass the time while you waited for him to arrive. 

But when you didn’t notice his presence the entire time it took for Peter to open his locker, exchange his things, and walk towards his class, he’d held it against you. Just like he held it against you when asked if your weekly movie night could be rescheduled to Thursdays because Fridays were gamedays. Or how, you were okay when some of your other friends joined the two of you at lunch. 

Peter just couldn’t stop. 

Anytime you apologetically told him you had plans, it was another tally accumulating how many times he’d been scorned. Even if the next words out of your mouth were asking if he was free the day after, it didn’t change anything. The cycle didn’t stop until November of freshman year. 

That was when you’d stopped trying to chase him down. Decided to not call him on the phone just to hear it ring twice before he sent you to voicemail.

“So I was supposed to sit alone on the bleachers while you cheered for a bunch of assholes that shoved my face into a locker freshman year?” His head cocked to the side but, hey, at least he’s actually looking at you. “Drag me around behind you like some kind of pet?”

“No!”

“So I could’ve stood alone in the corner at a party? Still making sure you got home safe? Wait on the sidelines until all the cool people were busy and I got called off the bench? Be there to comfort you when you picked, yet another, asshole that broke your heart just to break mine again and again?”

You couldn’t blink because if you do, the tears that had welled up in your eyes were going to start to fall. Those words make the lump in your throat so big that you can barely swallow it down.

“That what you wanted?” He asks and throws up his hands.

You told yourself you were both just drunk. Peter didn’t actually mean it. You told yourself that over and over again, the tension in the air was so heavy that it practically crushed you from the weight. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it… The mantra repeated in your head like a prayer in the hope you’d believe it. 

You couldn’t convince yourself that it wasn’t the truth. 

When you didn't answer, he stepped closer. Your voice cracked but you managed to force out, “No.” Peter couldn’t help it, a cold and bitter chuckle slipped past his lips. He was pissed off, that much was clear. 

“No?” he asked. He was close now, his chest brushed yours with every breath. It was so far from what you ever wanted but you could barely shake your head no, your hair shifting along your shoulders. “I think you did, whether you realize it or not.”

Even though his voice has dropped, he might as well have screamed it at you. It didn’t make it any less deafening to hear. 

“Anything else you want to say?” You were quiet too, the words felt like glass in your throat. So you swallowed down the shards, finding that glass would hurt a lot less than having to stand here and listen to him much longer. 

He ran his hands through his hair and paced a few steps away from you while wiped at your face. It only took him a few moments to turn back a second later and step back up to you. There was barely an arm's length between you two but it still felt like you were on opposite sides of the solar system.

"You want to know what I think? What I really think?"

You had to grit your teeth just to keep your bottom lip from trembling. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “I really do.”

He stared down at you, his breathing still ragged. He wanted to say things, terrible, awful things. He wanted to cut you deep - to hurt you like you hurt him. 

Instead, he stepped closer. Close enough that he was in your space, his chest practically brushing against yours. 

And then he was talking, the words falling from his lips before he could stop himself.

"I think,” he murmured, wetting his lips before continuing. “I think that letting you patch me up when I fell off my skateboard nine years ago was the biggest mistake of my life."

For a long moment, you said nothing. You didn’t move, you didn't blink, you didn't breathe. If you didn’t take a few seconds to calm yourself, you were going to start bawling before you could make it to the safety of Flash’s bathroom. 

With a shaky breath, you stepped back, forcing your trembling lips into a tightlipped smile. A part of you wanted to mean it, like it could somehow reassure him.  So you sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hands. Peter just frowned and waited because he couldn’t do anything more. 

Your laugh was pathetic and watery. Nothing was funny. 

Aside from you because you just felt like a joke. 

You gave him a curt nod and stood straightened. “Okay.” It’s all you could get out. 

So, with one last look, you bent down to pick up the discarded solo cup. You’d never be able to drink strawberry lemonade vodka again after tonight. All you’d ever taste is him. 

He watched you carefully, the anger leaving his body in waves and dissipating into the night. Every time you took a step away from him, he felt more and more like a jerk. 

You don’t turn back around as you slip back around the side of the house. 

It was that look on your face, like he broke you with his words. The look on your face that cut through every last bit of anger and resentment to get at what lay underneath. 

Love.

And it kills him. 

It kills you too. 

The next time you see him again, you’ve both graduated from college; celebrating in some divey bar where you accidentally spill your drink on him.

[maybe-moonchild]

CHAPTER 4

summary: in which Peter can't stay away but he can't stay either. WC: 5.8k

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ

Congratulations, you have successfully managed to avoid Peter Parker for six whole days. 

Not like it’s all that hard considering that the two of you had managed to avoid each other all of high school and college. 

It didn’t stop him from plaguing your thoughts each day. 

The feel of his hand on your hip, fingers tightening when you’d tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck. The groans in the back of his throat you’d managed to coax out when your hand, with a mind of its own, slipped up the hem of his t-shirt. His toned abdomen, rigid under your fingertips like it was made by god himself-

With a loud groan, you slump forward so your head bangs against your dining room table.

It’s raining again, the steady hum ambient as you try to work on your upcoming calendar. You’d opted to put off starting your new job until the end of June. That way, you would have a five week long break from the end of undergrad until the start of full time employment. 

Some pop song played behind Katie’s door as she got ready for her night. You were spending Friday night safely tucked in at home. After how disastrous last weekend had gone, you wanted no excitement. Flash and Katie had been bummed about your refusal to join them at some club, but you were content to have a quiet night.

Your friends had taken notice of your slightly odd behavior but they didn’t pry. They chalked it up to an embarrassing one night stand that you didn’t want to relive. 

Oh, how you fucking wish it was that simple. 

It takes you a few moments to realize that the tapping on the window is far too loud and inconsistent compared to the droplets exploding on the glass. You glance up, doing a double take at Peter’s figure crouching on the fire escape. The grin he shoots you looks more like a grimace when you scramble up from your chair.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” you hiss, flinging it open to be met with the smell of petrichor and mist hitting your cheeks. “What are you- Did you climb up my fire escape? It’s eleven stories!”

Dark hair is plastered to his forehead, his gray sweatshirt nearly black with how much water it’s sucked up. Peter grips the window sill, leaning his inside so you can hear him better. 

“Yes. I need to talk to you.”

“You climbed up eleven stories? Up an old fire escape? In the rain… Just so you could talk to me?”

He nods once without hesitation, eyes wide as he hovers half in and half out. “Yes, yes, and yes.” Once he’s sure that you aren’t going to send him away, he pulls himself inside with ease. “But that’s not the point. The point is, I need to talk to you.”

You’re not quite sure you’re hearing him right. You have to be, because here he is, a puddle of water forming under his high tops and raindrops clinging to his cheeks. 

“So, you climbed-”

“Yes,” he interrupts quietly, eyes determined and stepping closer so you have to look up. “I couldn’t think of another way to see you. I needed to see you. Badly.”

Your mouth falls open to object but you can’t quite figure out what you would be objecting. What were you supposed to do? Send him back out in the rain to trek back down eleven stories and take the humid subway home? You weren’t heartless. 

And it wasn’t like you didn’t want to see him… at least a little bit. 

“Alright, alright,” you concede. As you hurry to the bathroom to get him a towel, you call over your shoulder, “Couldn’t you have- oh, I don’t know… Called?” Peter catches the towel with ease when you return, using it to dry his hair. You drop the other onto the floor and use your foot to soak up the water collecting under him before he stands on top of it. 

He rubs the back of his neck and shoots you a crooked smile. “Sorry.” When he folds over to pull off his sneakers, you nearly flinch at his proximity. At least you manage to hide the action by standing back up and grabbing his shoes. 

“It’s okay,” you sigh softly. It is okay. Just scared you half to death.

Peter slips off his wet hoodie and you take it from him so you can hang it on the shower to dry. His shoes find themselves where they belong on the welcome mat in the entryway. From his spot in the middle of the living room, he inspects your apartment like you had studied his. 

“Nice place,” he says offhandedly as he tries to determine which parts are you and which parts are Katie’s. It’s obvious to him. Anything new and expensive, that’s Katie’s. The furniture that looks a little more used like it was in good condition on facebook marketplace, that’s all you. It’s more than that too. Clearly you both agreed on the eclectic, mid century modern look you’ve managed to cultivate but the things like ‘stacks of books that also act as decor’ scream you. 

You open your mouth to thank him but he clearly isn’t there to discuss the furnishing of your apartment since he cuts you off. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, eyes burning into yours as you come to a stop. “I just… I needed to see you.”

“It’s okay. What did you, uh, want to talk about?”

Be cool. Be fucking cool or youre gonna look like a total dork in front of him. 

Peter shifts from foot to foot, the words on the tip of his tongue, ready to fall. You come to stop in front of him that still allows for a good amount of space between you. 

“I need to explain. About the other night. And that night, senior year. And eight years ago…” It feels like all of your lives are crammed into the past week. There so much to explain, still fresh even if it all happened so long ago that it should feel like fading scars. 

Your brows furrow but you nod for him to continue. Peter nods back, trying to be less awkward than he normally is when he can’t hide behind a mask. 

“Why is Peter Parker here and why is he drenched?” Katie asks from her bedroom doorway. 

You and Peter’s heads snap in her direction, both of you taking a step away from the other. It certainly doesn’t help either of you seem like you’re not guilty of something. Even if you’re really only talking.

She raises an eyebrow at you when you don’t immediately answer. Thankfully she was less standoffish than she had been in high school since she got to the real world. 

“Because…” you say slowly, glancing at Peter who is no help by the wide eyed look on his face. “He is…”

“Bringing her something… from her moms,” Peter adds, peeking out from behind your shoulder to give her a wave. “Uh, hey Katie.”

Her perfectly manicured brow only raises higher, filled with skepticism. “And it has to be done at ten at night, because you have no free time during the day?”

Peter shifts in place, uncomfortable. Jesus, he was always the worst liar in the entire world. His eyes find the ceiling while his hands bury themselves deep into his front pockets. 

“Yes.” Scowling, or at least attempting to, you grab Peter's arm to drag him down the hall and towards your bedroom. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we will be in here,” you call over your shoulder with a smug look in her direction. Once you practically shove him through the door and out of her sight, you peek your head out the doorway. 

Peter lets himself get pulled and pushed along, awkwardly following his own thoughts. He has a plan; things to say- no. Things to tell you! Important things he has to tell you!

Katie’s eyes drift from you, towards his shoes and jacket that somehow needed to be removed while dropping off something from your mom’. Pink flushes your face and her face only grows smugger while you hiss at her to shut up. 

It’s not that you’re embarrassed to be seen with him in your apartment. You never had been embarrassed by him even though Peter was so sure of it in high school. What embarrassed you was when you’d call out his name in a busy hall and he would give you a tight lipped smile, curt wave, and continue walking. That. That was mortifying. More to yourself than others. 

Katie will tell Flash tonight. Tomorrow morning, they’ll sing-song about you having a crush on him and wondering what time Peter actually left the night before. Your friends will unintentionally make you chase him off before he even has the chance to come back to you.

If… that’s… even what he wants… considering you up and bailed last sunday morning with a stupid note. 

Even after you slam your door, her laughter is loud as she retreats to her room to finish getting ready to meet Flash at the bar. Now, the two of you are alone. His presence is so strong at your back before you slowly turn around. 

“Wait, I’m getting water everywhere,” he says stupidly, stepping off of the rug so he can balance on one foot on the wood floor. While the entirety of what he is wearing is soaked through from his swing here, it's the water coming off the bottom of his pants and his socks that make a mess. 

“Oh shit,” you grimace, rushing to grab something he can change into. It takes some digging but you manage to find a pair of sweats and a shirt that Flash left here from a past movie night. “Here. It’s fine. Really. No harm.” 

The few minutes alone you both have allows you to try and get the panic out of your system. While he tries to remember his little speech, he has to try and pull off the wet fabric sticking to his skin in your bathroom. You pace. Your hands move from shoving your hair off your forehead to running up your face as you try to collect yourself. 

By the time he opens your bedroom door a little too abruptly, you're halting to a stop and trying to look casual. 

When he gets back, hair shoved out of his face with lashes that are still wet, arms looking far too good to belong to the lanky kid he was-

So not the fucking time. Are you insane?

“Sorry about the water. I- I didn’t realize how wet I was,” he says sheepishly and shutting it behind him silently. “Thank you for the clothes. Probably should’ve thought about that before running here in a downpour.”

Suddenly, the sound of silence is just as loud as the rain outside.

Clearing your throat, you cross the room to take his wet clothes from his hands. You toss them in your laundry so you can, at the very least, throw them in your dryer before he leaves. At the very most, you could wash… and dry them… if he intends on staying long enough. “It’s okay- really. It’s water. It’s not a big deal,” you reassure, hoping you sound less dorky than you think you do. 

Guess what, you sound just as dorky as you think you do. 

Peter stands there, unsure of what to say next. He’d come all this way and he wouldn’t let it be for nothing. Forcing down the nerves with a deep breath, he steps closer, his face determined like it had been when he showed up on your fire escape. His fists clench and unclench on his sides so he stops bouncing on his feet. 

“Yeah, I know. I just- well I need to talk to you. Sorry about showing up out of nowhere. I didn’t really…” think through any of my actions and just scaled your apartment building at ten o'clock at night and gave you a heart attack.

“It’s okay.”

You clear your throat again and try to relax. No more apologizing. “What did you want to talk about?” You try to sound casual as you fold your arms over your chest. No, actually you wrap your arms around yourself.

God damn it. He’s doing that thing- not puppy dog eyes exactly, but doe eyes. Big and brown, full of a million questions as he presses his lips into a tight line. You hate when he does that thing. You just hate it because as the two of you got older, anytime he’d done it, it made your face feel hot. 

Peter’s a grown man and he has no clue why the hell he’s still acting like a nervous school boy in front of the girl he likes. 

“I- uhm, I know that I haven’t been there for you at all these last few years– I haven’t been there for you since we were fourteen,” he admits, “and I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

The apology catches you off guard. The shock shows on your face and he rubs the back of his neck. 

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he argues almost instantly, his brow furrowing as he stares down at you. 

When he opens his mouth to continue, his phone goes off. He reaches into his pocket and glances at it. He stares at that screen, for a little longer than is probably normal, and then looks back up at you with a grimace. 

“That was work. Um. It can wait.” he says awkwardly. Lie. Crime alert at the docks. It can wait. At least a bit. 

You nod slowly and can’t help the confused frown that won’t seem to go away. Work? Why would The Bugle be texting him on a friday night. Well, maybe they do and that isn’t actually a strange event for him. 

Peter’s phone returns to his pocket and he starts over with a long inhale. 

“Would you… would you like to sit? I have things I need to tell you.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” you say and gesture to the edge of your bed. He nods slightly, sinking down on the bed next to you. The mattress dips under both of your weight and you angle your body to face him.

Peter says your name, opening his mouth to start his long speech he’d been working on for the past six days since he woke up alone. He’d had so many thoughts eating his brain since he found his bed colt and empty. A beep from his phone makes him lose his train of thought. He ignores it with a shake of his head, turning to face you. 

“I want to be honest with you. About everything that’s been going on the last few years. What I’ve been doing- and why. But I understand if you don’t trust me,” he continues. “But everything feels different this time. Maybe just because we’re both older now.”

“Okay…” you breathe out slowly. When you shift in your spot and clasp your hands together in your lap, he does the same. 

“But it’s a lot of things. From eight years ago, and four years ago. Also from last week. About Fisk and why I took those files, all of it. I owe you answers and- I want to tell you everything.”

Another beep. 

It throws him off his disaster of a speech. Peter shakes his head like he can shake away the part of him swinging around New York. He’s here, not out there. This is where he wants to be.

“I need to tell you the truth,” Peter says. He scoots a little closer to you, reaching for your hands then second guessing himself and letting them card through his hair. “This is going to sound really crazy but I-”

Another beep. He sighs and pulls his phone out, glancing at it quickly. 

Apartment fire over in Brooklyn. Fuck.

“Really have to go.”

He’s already standing and looking for his bag by the time you realize what he’s saying. Your face falls which just makes the guilty look he’s wearing more prominent. “Oh. Right.”

Peter opens his mouth to say something before deciding against it. He can’t just blurt it out and leave. So he decides that he just has to do the leaving part now and the explaining part later. You follow behind him into your living room so he can collect his shoes and bag sitting by the front door. You’ll worry about getting the clothes he borrowed another time when he isn’t itching to get out of here. 

The idea that he’s itching to get away from you makes you chew on the inside of your cheek. 

“I… I really do have to go,” Peter says apologetically, “I mean it. I’m serious. I’ll make it up to you.” You nod slowly and lean against the wall beside him. The reassuring look you give him when he peaks up from tying his sneakers is uncertain. 

“But I promise, I’m going to explain it all. Tomorrow. I promise.”

He’s already backing up towards the window to your fire escape, but you nod. For some reason, it seems like an empty promise. 

“Tomorrow. Yeah.” You hope the words sound more light than they feel getting stuck in your throat. 

You don’t want him to leave. 

Not when something about it feels so final. 

Sounds of rain slamming against the metal stairs and the streets of Manhattan fill the apartment when he opens the window. His backpack is slung over one shoulder, one leg swinging outside. He waits for you to return the tight lipped smile he shoots you before he actually slips outside. 

It isn’t until the window is shut behind him that you realize he chose the fire escape over the elevator… again…

Shaking it off, you chalk it up to whatever in his life that is going on. Not like you know anymore. Not like he actually managed to give you anything but more questions tonight. 

For a long moment you wonder, like you have the past week, if he really is the Peter Parker you once knew. 

Or if Fisk was right. 

If he was someone else entirely. 

⋆ °｡˚🕷˚⋆｡°⋆

summary: oh, yeah. Shit hits the fan again.

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ

For a second, you’re sure you’re going to throw up. Your head is spinning and there is a pounding so deep in your skull, it makes you forget who you are. It takes a second to blink the black spots from your vision. It takes another second for you to manage to lift your head up. 

It takes even less time for you to realize that you’re completely fucked. 

There are only a few blurry figures hanging around the abandoned warehouse. Fisk is there, standing off to the side with his back to you. The top of Scar Guy's head is visible over Fisk’s shoulder as they chat. You think it’s Red Hat Goon and the Tattooed Thug from last week smoking cigarettes near a few rows of overturned shelves. 

No one seems to have realized you’re conscious yet. 

Or that you’re at least somewhat conscious and trying to pull yourself the rest of the way there. 

You squeeze your eyes shut again, which helps chase away some of the nausea. At least adrenaline is kicking in quickly, working to ease your headache so you can think. Your wrists are duct taped tightly to the arms of the chair, nearly cutting off the circulation to your fingers and bruising the skin underneath. 

What did you do? What were you doing- bar. You were going to the bar. After Peter bailed, you accepted Flash and Katie's offer to meet them at the bar. It wasn’t like you had other plans anyway. You’d hurried to get ready, changing into a nice outfit, throwing on some makeup, and fixing your hair. Then you were hurrying to the subway… then there was a guy? No. There were two guys- Scar Guy. He showed up. Then a slamming pain on the back of your head and then…

Now you really wanted to throw up.

Scar Guy glances at you, noticing your open eyes and jerking his head in your direction. Fisk turns around with an amused smile. Smoke billows from the cigar in his fingers as he steps into the light.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Fisk says loudly. The other two thugs perk up, now paying attention rather than gossiping or whatever else criminals chat about. You tense in your spot, muscles rigid when Fisk comes to a halt in front of you.

“Pleasure to see you again. Shame it's so soon after our meeting last week.”

The most you can manage is to keep your head hung slightly, looking up at him through your lashes. You give your wrists an experimental tug and wince when the tape cuts into your skin. 

“Why am I here?” Your voice shakes more than you had hoped it would. 

Fisk just shrugs and takes a drag of his cigar, “Oh, a few reasons.” He exhales as he crouches down in front of you. It’s harder to hide your face now and even harder to hide the way your hands shake. 

This clearly isn’t his first rodeo because he knows the exact amount of time to let the silence hang in the air that it becomes suffocating. 

“You see,” Fisk continues with a sigh, “I’d hoped there wouldn’t need to be a repeat of this type of thing again- really, I didn’t. But now, Peter has proven himself to be an issue. I wanted a little reassurance in case he slipped up.”

Your bottom lip trembles and it’s really hard not to cry. At least in the limo last week, you’d had Peter by your side for the most of it, so you managed to keep it together. Right now, you were alone and very, very scared.

“And now here we are,” he says and leans down to blow smoke in your face. Tobacco stings your eyes and you turn your head. It manages to make Red Hat Thug chuckle and nudge Scar Guy who just scowls at him. 

An issue? Did he steal something else? Do something that yet again got him on Fisk’s radar and- fuck. Put you on Fisk’s radar now. 

Not just his radar. Put you in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair, and bleeding out of the back of your head. 

“Look, I don’t-“ you start but your voice cracks. You take a shaky breath and start again. “I don’t know anything about this. Whatever he did… I’m sure it was a misunderstanding-”

“Oh, it’s no misunderstanding. Peter stole something very personal of mine. Something I’m unwilling to part with.” Even though his voice is amused, his gaze is cold as he drags the cigar between his lips and stands up to his full height. 

“And in order to… motivate him to return it,” Fisk pauses and lets out another cloud of smoke towards you. “He needs something to protect. Or someone.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Your heart drops all the way into your stomach at the knowledge that he stole something… again. Panic is pressing down on your lungs, filling your mouth and throat. It flows through your veins and is mixed with the congealed blood in your hair at the back of your head. 

You take a few shaky breaths, urging yourself to stay calm. To think. To adapt. 

“But he gave the files back to you.”

The crime boss smirks and the smoke from his cigar fills the space between your face and his. Fisk leans closer, you lean back and duck your head.  “He gave me copies.” He pulls away and his expression is hard and unreadable. 

“So, I’ve taken you as an insurance policy. To prove my point. If he wants to keep stealing my toys, I’ll take his and break them.” Fisk stares at you a long moment before he laughs, “I’d say your life is in Peter’s hands. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Suddenly, you don’t feel brave at all. Quite the opposite. You feel helpless and angry and stupid. Most of all, you’re scared. 

Horribly scared. 

It could be worse- in fact, it could be a lot fucking worse and you don’t doubt that it will be. 

Your eyes well up with tears because you really can’t help it. They follow Fisk as he approaches Scar Guy. There’s a gun tucked in the front of the thugs waistband but there is clearly no concern that he even needs to keep it out. Instead, he digs through your purse. 

“Please. Don’t do this,” you breath out, pressing your lips into a thin line as they tremble. Your eyes are pleading but you manage to keep some semblance of dignity since you’re not begging and crying. 

Fisk cocks his head towards you and raises an eyebrow. “Let me be clear, I’m not here to hurt you. If anything, I’m going to let you go as soon as I have those files. Don’t you worry about that.” 

“Of course, we don’t have the files yet. So if you’re not very cooperative,” Scar Guy grumbles, more distracted with digging out my cell phone, “who knows what could happen.”

You stare at the dirty floor. Hanging your head letting the cement blur in your vision. It doesn’t stop the panic from creeping in. One one hand, you’re panicked for yourself but, you’re also panicked for what’s going to happen when Peter shows up. 

If you try to speak, you think you might actually throw up.

Fisk's thick fingers close around your phone and he seems oddly interested in it as he scrolls through your notifications. 

“Well, look at that,” Fisk chuckles. “A missed call. From Peter. Imagine that, I’m impressed. It’s like he has a sense for this sort of thing.”

Red Hat guy drags a chair over, the sound of the legs scraping against the floor, echoing around the warehouse. With how hard rain is pelting against the metal roof, you know that if you screamed, not a soul would hear it. 

Fisk waves a hand towards you and Scar Guy advances. You flinch when he reaches for your arm but it’s not like you can actually move away. When he pulls out a pocket knife, you don’t care that you're stuck in your spot, lurching in your spot anyway. 

But all he does is cut the tape from your wrists. 

That’s when you finally realize that hurting you isn’t the plan. Not that Fisk won’t. He definitely will. 

But he is here to hurt Peter, and it makes the blood rush in your ears. 

You rub at your wrists, the skin red and faintly purple as you fold in on yourself in the chair. Fisk doesn’t even look up as he sits down a foot away. The only time he does is when he holds up your phone for you to unlock. With a glance between him and Scar Guy, neither of them even look slightly conflicted at the scene playing out like it was straight out of a mafia movie. 

So you comply because you’re helpless. 

That’s the point. 

You’re playing bait. 

“But he’ll definitely come when you call. So, unless you want things to get messy, you’ll let him know you’re in trouble.” Fisk gives you a cold smile and makes a show of pressing the call button. God, why didn’t you just delete his number eight years ago? Why did you put it into your contacts four years ago when you got a new phone but never intended on calling him?

Each ring makes you wince. The sound cuts through the quiet of the warehouse, shrill in your ears as you pray to a god you don’t believe in that Peter won’t pick up. Of course this is all Peter’s fault. None of this would be happening if he stopped managing to steal from Manhattan's biggest crime lords. You’re really mad at him for lying- omitting the truth or whatever he would try and call it. 

Was that what he was going to tell you tonight?

There’s only a few rings before Peter picks up, his voice coming through the speaker phone and making your eyes well with tears. Just the sound of the voice of the dorky kid from across the street makes your shoulders sag in relief  

”Hey,” Peter says breathlessly, the smile evident in his voice. “I was just about to call you. My uh, work thing just ended so… Well,  I didn’t know if you wanted to talk tonight. I said tomorrow- I promised tomorrow but I’m free now. If you are. If you’re free and want to talk.”

The urge to cry grows even stronger when you realize he wants to figure things out. That he still has your phone number or took the time to find it. Somehow, you manage to swallow even though your throat is painfully tight. 

Fisk’s hand clamps down on your shoulder, warning you to play your part. To play the helpless bait, begging for Peter to show up here and save the day. So he will fall right into Fisk’s hands along with the files.

Even though you are feeling more helpless and terrified than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, hearing Peter Parker's voice coming from your cell phone gives you a surge of bravery. When Fisk adds enough pressure on your shoulder to make you wince, you clench your teeth and glare up at him. 

A moment passes, and then another. 

Then, Fisk clicks his tongue. 

“Well,” Fisk chuckles, “I guess I have the wrong number. I hope I didn’t disturb you. If you’re doing something, I’m sure we can talk later.”

The silence fills the space between Peter and Fisk as your heart races. 

“Or we can talk now,” Fisk sighs, delighted in the weighted silence coming from Peter's end. “Probably better turn out for your little friend if we talk now.”

Peter grits out Fisk’s name so quietly that you almost don’t hear it. You probably wouldn’t have if your phone wasn’t being held right in front of you. 

“Let’s cut to the chase. I’ve got your friend but she doesn’t seem to want to talk. How about you come down here and you can ask her yourself how she is doing. I’m sure she’ll have a lot to say if you show up. Maybe she just gets nervous in front of an audience.” Peter goes silent and Fisk’s eyes burn into you, his cruel smile never wavering.

Just then he hears the faint sound of a click. 

You hung up the phone. 

The crime boss’s brow furrows in confusion at the line going dead, Peter’s name disappearing off the screen. Scar Guy makes a face, almost like he’s impressed at the balls you have in a situation like this. Even when you’re sitting there curled in on yourself with your watery eyes glaring at Fisk. 

You are not going to willingly play victim to put Peter in danger. 

“You did something stupid,” Fisk grits out through a sneer. The anger is practically palpable in the air, radiating off of him and white hot. You don’t look away even though his stare makes you want to squirm in your seat. 

Peter's name appears on your phone within seconds. He didn’t hesitate in calling back and he’s probably ready to reach through the speaker and kill Fisk. 

The crime boss inhales slowly through his nose and forces a smile, so tense, it might snap right off his face. “Sorry about that Mr. Parker,” Fisk chuckles as he collects himself. He stares at you for a long moment before turning to Scar Guy and giving him a nod. 

“I swear to god. if you hurt her in any way I will not even flinch as I-“ Peter growls into the phone before Fisk cuts him off. 

“She really is a fiery one, huh? Brave and strong. Refusing to say a word to get you here.”

You barely keep in a yelp when Scar Guy pulls you from the chair by your upper arms. You struggle in his hold, his arm looping around your neck as he easily shoves you down so you're kneeling. The cement skins your knees, stinging and embedding gravel and glass into your skin.

“I’ve got to say,” Fisk continues with an air of nonchalance that’s ironic compared to your fighting. “All she was supposed to do was shed some tears, tell you to get here and she’d remain unharmed.”

You know you brought this- whatever is going to happen- on yourself, but you desperately try to fight anyway.

Your arm is forced into Fisk's hand, the one not occupied by your cell phone. Fisk doesn’t even flinch when you try to wrench it out of his grasp. Scar Guys hold on your shoulders from where he stands at your back, keeping you in your spot. 

“Wanna know how she sounds when I break her arm?” Fisk muses. 

You barely have time to grasp what he’s said when Fisk squeezes; hard. The pain is instant, excruciating under his palm and radiating through your bone. You cry out. The sound is strangled from your lips, eyes squeezed shut long after Fisk lets up some of the pressure. 

Peter goes quiet. He’s frozen at the other end of the line as he listens to you in pain over the phone. There’s silence on the other end until finally, all Peter can manage is calling out your name. 

“Now, are you going to join us, or should we break her other arm too,” Fisk sighs like he’s now only inconvenienced. It seems he just needed to get the anger out of his system to remain collected. 

Then finally, after what seems like a lifetime, Peter speaks clearly, a new emotion in his tone. Rage. 

“Where the fuck are you?” he spits into the phone.

Vaguely, you think you think you can hear Fisk telling Peter where you are. You don’t know, it’s hard to hear over the sound of the blood pounding in the back of your skull in sync with the throbbing in your arm.

“We’re waiting,” Fisk says, and hangs up. 

“He’s coming, isn’t he?” Scar Guy asks like he's bored, his voice is deep and raspy. 

“He’s coming.” Fisk replies. The phone falls to the ground before you do.

[maybe-moonchild]

11/9/2012

WC: 1.4k

Red and blue spots danced in front of your vision long after the cop cars had pulled away from the Parker residence.

Something bad; that was all you dad had said when you’d gotten back from some cheerleading team bonding thing. You’d parked yourself in front of the living room window, head in your arms and watching for a sign of what was going on.

News spread fast the next day at school. Ben was dead, shot in front of a corner store while Peter had to watch. You weren’t surprised when you didn’t see him at school the next day.

You helped your mom make dinner that night but opted not to go over with her to deliver it to May. The last thing you wanted to do was invade his space at a time like this. 

It hadn’t rained that week but the skies had been so overcast that you almost wished it just would. At least then it would feel like the universe was also mourning the loss of Ben Parker. 

When Peter still hadn’t showed up at school on the third day, you couldn't let it go.

You thought you would have felt stupider climbing out your own window once your parents had gone to bed. Mist whipped your hair around your head as you wrapped your arms a bit tighter around yourself, hustling across the street. In different circumstances, you would’ve felt stupid climbing up the side of his house, pulling yourself onto the roof. 

It was like muscle memory. How many times had you done this when you were half your size and much weaker? Thank god for cheerleading because you easily crawled up to his window. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You waited. 

Each passing second just made you feel stupider. The last person Peter would want to see at a time like this was you.

The last interaction the two of you had was last month in chemistry, where he sat in the desk to the left and behind you. Flash had stolen his lab report to obnoxiously flip through it and try to sound out the words of the chemicals.

You didn’t even take your eyes off your phone from where you were texting Katie, playfully shoving Flash’s head and taking the opportunity to grab the report from his hands and toss it onto Peter’s desk. So yeah, that was the right thing to do… but you didn’t even look back at him when Peter muttered out a thanks. You didn’t even scold Flash when he’d continued to joke about it. 

So the fact he slid open the window was enough for your breath to catch in your throat. 

Peter looked horrible. Dark bags made the skin under his eyes almost translucent. Somehow, his hair was messier than usual, like he’d gone between tugging at it and laying in bed. He’d practically chewed his bottom lip to hell, cracked and scabbed from anxiety. 

You stopped studying him to stare up at his face. He only managed to hold your gaze for maybe a second before his eyes dropped to the floor. It was clear he was debating whether or not to slam the window shut in your face. If it made him feel better, you’d let him shove you right off the roof. 

With a slump of his shoulders, he stepped back, allowing you the space to come in. You did so with tentative movements like you were trying not to scare a shy animal. Your feet quietly lowered to the floor without ever taking your eyes off of him. 

Another round of silence. 

Another moment where he chose to look at anything that wasn’t you. 

Another slow breath that you hoped would give you the courage to say a single word. 

In the past two years, he hadn’t changed his room much. Could you even remember the last time you’d been in here? Maybe. Actually, yes, you could.

It was the third weekend of September freshman year. You hadn’t been able to go with him to five dollar Tuesdays at the little theater that only showed old films. Cheer practice had run late and by the time you’d been able to call his new flip phone from your new flip phone, he hadn’t answered. So when you finally had enough after he’d been dodging you Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, you practically broke his window down Saturday morning. 

The two of you had spent Saturday afternoon trying to pretend that the lulls in the conversation were intentional and there was no awkwardness hanging in the air. 

Things only got worse. Clearly. 

So maybe this had been a horribly stupid idea. You were starting to regret coming here only because he might’ve only let you in because he was in a vulnerable state. Fuck. Were you taking advantage of that? Did that count as taking advantage if you just wanted to check on him?

That you were somehow trying to play your own version of hero to someone that no longer wanted your help. Suddenly, you felt like you were invading a version of him that you weren’t supposed to see anymore. 

You tilted your head to the side, trying to catch his eye. It was futile considering Peter kept his head turned as far away from you as possible. You should say something, you thought, no, you have to say something. Thinking of a plan before enacting on your spur of the moment idea might have been smart. 

Sorry for your loss? How are you? Are you okay? Your uncle was a great person and deserved better? Is there anything I can do? I’m here for you?

You didn’t get the chance to say any of those things before he was pulling you to his chest in a bone crushing hug. It actually kinda hurt… like it hurt enough that you couldn’t breathe. Peter realized that quickly enough and adjusted his hold.

His arms looped around your neck and his face buried in your hair. You were already wrapping your arms around his waist and hugging him back before your brain caught up with what was happening. That was enough to tell you how he was doing.

Tears seeped into your hair. 

You held him a little tighter. 

You and Peter stood like that for a long time. His shoulders shook with silent sobs and you carded through his hair. Neither of you spoke, the only sounds in the now too empty feeling house were his sniffles, your shushing, and the sound of May walking past his bedroom door without ever stepping inside. 

She knew you were there, you could tell in the few second long pause she took before continuing downstairs. 

Eventually, you managed to move both of you to the bed where you could perch on the edge. Then you stayed like that for a long time too. 

Somehow the both of you made it under the sheets, you still in your jeans from school but he certainly didn’t care. His head found your chest, arms looped around your middle from where he was tucked against your side. Peter seemed so small like this. Your hands continued to run through his hair, your cheek pressed against his temple so he didn’t actually have to look at you as he drifted off. 

Light peaked over the horizon and seeped in through his open window, right into your eyes and pulling you out of sleep. You hadn’t even been aware you’d fallen asleep at some point in the night. Peter’s shoulders rose and fell from where they were pressed against your chest, your arm thrown over his waist. 

He barely stirred when you untangled yourself from him. 

Peter didn’t return to school the next day, but you returned to his window the next night. You tapped against the glass, he let you in, and you wordlessly followed him to his bed. He found his way back into your arms, staring off into the distance or keeping his face hidden in your neck. 

That continued for six nights. 

Night seven, Peter didn’t open the window. 

Night nine, you left him alone for good. 

A week later, he started dating Gwen Stacy.

[maybe-moonchild]

CHAPTER 3

summary: in which there is a sleepover and you learn that adrenaline really clouds your judgment. WC: 4.4k

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ

Neither of you move for a really long time. Maybe it isn’t all that long, you can’t really tell as you stand on the corner in silence until Fisk’s limo is long gone. Neither of you can figure out the right thing to say at a time like this. 

Peter finally settles on, “Are you alright?” 

You can’t quite tell what you are feeling right now. 

No. Really. You really have no idea. 

Are you mad? Okay, a little bit. It wasn’t like you had a blast, but, you’re also not dead. Then you remember that there was a gun pressed to your temple so maybe you are actually mad. Is it at him? Not quite. Peter hadn’t been the one to do it but it was his fault that it all happened. Except… he didn’t know this was going to happen the one night in eight years that you’re around. You know that you both haven’t been friends in a long time but your mouth still tastes sour at the thought of why he would get involved in the first place. And now, a crime lord knows your face and you name-

“Fine,” you breathe out once you manage to snap yourself out of your spiraling thoughts. You study the shallow puddles of rain that have congregated between the cracks in the sidewalk. Tension and the recent rain makes the air thick, filling your lungs and both alleviating and suffocating you. 

“Are you sure?”

He’s doing it again, stepping closer, tilting his head to try and catch your eye. He just wants to see you. He just wants you to look at him so he stops holding his breath.

You comply, peeking up at him through the corner of your eye. “I’m sure.” To emphasize your point, you try to give him a smile. It is pathetically awful, but he finally inhales. “I’m okay. A bit shaken up, but…”

Terrified? Frustrated? Livid? Hurt?

“Fine,” you shrug, finding that the word accurately describes how you are feeling. Not good, not bad; not injured, not… not shaken up. Just… fine.

He hums as he considers your answer, eyes flicking around your face and deciding if he believes you ornot. His proximity makes you want to step back if it means that he’ll stop scrutinizing you. 

At least you weren’t the only one unsure of what to say; choking on words that so desperately wanted to claw their way out of your throat. You swallow, forcing them back down where they will hopefully remain for another eight years. He seems to be considering something as you both stare at his shoe, scuffing the cement. 

“You can stay here tonight,” he offers quietly. Peter’s hands are shoved so deep in his pockets that it makes his shoulders hover by his ears. You shake your head even if it does sound like an inviting option. The alternative was trekking all the way back to your apartment at 2 in the morning and praying that Katie wasn’t still up, or god forbid, hosting an after party with Flash. 

“I really ought to head back.” Peter deflates even more when you step back. Space is good. Space between you two was good. It was normal. Having an unspoken distance wedged between Peter and you was your normal for the past eight years. 

“Oh.”

Do not look at him. If you have to see his kicked puppy look, you’ll cave. You always fucking caved when he pulled that out, intentional or not. It wasn’t like you were turning him down because you were mad- or maybe you were; you didn’t know anymore. 

“I should get going.” You attempt another pathetic excuse of a smile in the hopes to reassure him that you are perfectly fine. “I think I just really need to shower and sleep…” When the first rain drop pelts against your forehead, you trail off. You reach up, swipe at it and frown at the moisture on your fingertips. Within a matter of moments, it’s down pouring. Fat drops of water exploding on both of your heads and clothes, threatening to soak through your shoes and drenching your hair. 

“Oh come the fuck on,” you curse under your breath, throwing up a hand to shield your eyes. You glare up at the sky and think profanities at the universe for, somehow, making this worse.

Peter stays quiet as he watches you, squinting and ducking his head even though you are both getting drenched. He wants you to come to your senses and agree to at least come inside so you can call a cab from there. 

When it becomes clear you have no intention of being reasonable, he decides to give in. “Let’s go,” he sighs incredulously, hand wrapping around the crook of your elbow to gently tug you along. You don’t put up a fight and the both of you pick up the pace until you’re running to the front doors. 

Neither of you really says anything as you follow him through his apartment complex. Water drips from your hair and clothes, shoes squeaking against the old, cracked tile. There is a musty smell in the hallway that just intensifies the old age of the building. 

At least his actual unit has been renovated in the past 5 decades. 

Peter and Ned’s shared apartment is one of the better ‘guy’ apartments you have been in. It’s relatively clean; floors and surfaces devoid of garbage and a few dishes in the sink that are likely from only earlier today. There's a few posters on the walls, protected by cheap, simple frames but are actually quite cool looking overall. The plants clearly belong to Ned because Peter had been a notorious plant killer as a child; always forgetting about their existence until the leaves were long brown. 

You stand awkwardly by the front door as he ushers you in, his wet hightops landing on the doormat. Your fingers twist and pull at the hem of your dress in the attempt to give yourself something to do as you look around. It’s easier to see more details after he flips on a lamp, dim light stretching the shadows peaking around furniture. 

You should be crying, you think. You should be freaking out, panicking because you’d had a gun to your head and Wilson Fisk knows your name. 

Instead, you’re too busy wondering if there is a single photo of you hung up in this apartment amongst the others. 

Probably not. 

“I just uh… couldn’t leave you out there,” Peter sighs, “Do you need anything? Something to drink? Eat?”. He runs his hands through his damp hair once he’s discarded his wet jacket on the dining room chair. At least he’s no longer watching you. Instead, he gracefully slips into the kitchen and reaches for two glasses hidden in the cabinet. His back is towards you, muscles tight under his shirt-

You clear your throat and look away when your face burns. “Uh, no. I'm good.”

Peter glances over his shoulder at where you are still tensely standing in his entry way. You’re too distracted by his apartment to do anything more than try and look for glimpses of the boy you once knew. 

When you don’t move any closer, he slowly comes to you. Each hand is adorned with a glass of tap water. You do look up at him this time, fingers still twisting nervously in the bottom of your dress which easily gives away how uncomfortable you feel. Both of you are too worried about the other not wanting to be here. 

“Are you warm enough?” Somehow, his voice is even softer, tentative and gentle like he’s expecting you to suddenly freak out. Hell, you still might. “You should change. I can grab you something?”

Peter raises an eyebrow at you and extends the glass. It’s so stupidly cliche that you nearly flinch when your cold fingers brush his and you want to beat yourself up. You take it in your hands but don’t actually think you can drink it because of how unsettled your stomach feels. 

It’s funny how similar and different he manages to look at the same time. Same messy brown hair that he never cared to brush, same big brown doe eyes, and same awkward but witty demeanor. 

How much do you really know about Peter Parker?

Shaking the thought from your head, you finally find the ability to speak. “Yeah. That’d be great. Thanks.” Your smile is still half hearted but it's what you can manage at the moment.

By the time you step out of his bathroom, donning a pair of his sweatpants that bunch up around your ankles and an old Midtown High School T-Shirt, you feel a little better. Not much, but it’s a start. Anything is better than your damp dress and jacket. Plus, his clothes smell like him-

Not like that matters. 

You find Peter sitting on the couch. He’s wearing his own dry clothes, elbows resting on his knees while his leg bounces anxiously. The second he hears you approach, his head snaps up and his eyes find yours. 

“Thanks,” you murmur. You decide to slowly lower yourself onto the opposite of the couch before glancing at him. He gives you a timid smile that seems more hopeful than forced. Peter just can’t stop shifting in his spot like he can’t make himself comfortable. It’s probably because of the eight years of history hanging over your heads. 

He breaks the silence first. “It’s almost three in the morning. We should both probably get some rest-”

“Why did you steal the files?”

If the question surprises him, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he looks more disappointed than anything, like he’d been hoping that you would have let it go until at least the morning. But no, because here you are, staring down at the floor and chewing on the inside of your cheek in the hopes that you don’t fill the silence. Your eyes remain on the floor, boring holes into the faded wood like you’d somehow find the answers you were looking for in the cracks

The Peter Parker you knew didn’t steal. Didn’t steal candy bars from bodegas or lunch money from weaker kids. 

The one sitting beside you, so close that you could touch him if you raised your hand. That Peter Parker, stole files from Manhattan crime lords and didn’t flinch when someone waved a gun around or forced him into a limo. 

Hanging his head is a good way to hide his guilty expression. He mirrors you in looking for an answer hidden in the floor. Jokes on him, it’s not there.

“Because it was the right thing to do. People would benefit from that information being out in the open rather than in the hands of a criminal.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” you snap back. This time you actually do turn to face him but he won’t look up. Not when he can barely handle the feel of your stare.

You continue after running a hand through your damp hair. “I mean why? What on earth were you doing that put you in the position in the first place to take it? And why did Fisk talk to you like he knew you? And why were you not freaking out?” “I was too freaking out-” “Oh please, you barely even flinched the entire time there was a gun being pointed at you.”

Peter wants to protest but quickly snaps his mouth closed. You’re right. Having a gun trained on him was pretty much a weekly (probably more) occurrence. Having a gun trained on you? Oh, yeah. That easily makes the top five worst moments of his life. 

His leg hasn’t stopped bouncing up and down, teeth chewing at his lip like he's chewing on what to say. What kind of lie can he come up with when you have to be the hardest person to lie to. Part because he feels bad but also because you can always know when he does. 

“I was just being nosy… and I wanted to see what he had.” Peter shrugs dismissively. The second he manages to look up, the glare you're fixing him with makes him immediately jerk his head away. 

Right there. 

Right there, you have your answer. 

That he is never going to give you one. Not something that is the truth. Nothing that gives you any insight into why anything that happened tonight happened. 

Disappointment slams into you so hard that you want to choke on it. You can’t even bring yourself to look at him. The same way you felt at the age of fourteen, back when you’d try and approach him in the hall between classes. How he’d blow off your attempts at making conversation with one word answers before hurrying away. 

Blowing you off, again. Yeah, this felt a lot like that. 

You drop your head into your hands which catches his attention. As the adrenaline continues to wear off, you can't tell if you want to cry, scream, or all the above. 

“Peter,” you say slowly, the drawn out words quiet and strained. “I had a gun to my head.”

That reminder is enough to make him wince. The last thing he wants to do is brush over the severity of what happened. He leans forward, staring at you when he hears the pleading in your voice. All he wants to do is lean forward and grab your hand but he doesn’t. 

It feels wrong at this point. He’d hurt you enough tonight.

“I know.”  Another apology almost falls from his mouth until he decides to suck in a shaky breath instead. “I know that and I’m so… I am so sorry.”

What do you really know about Peter Parker?

“I know that,” you sigh in defeat and sit up. You know how sorry he is. That he’s only begun to beat himself up over it. Whether or not he was sorry about the whole thing was never a question.

You and Peter were clearly exhausted and tensions were running high. Even if he was used to the whole Spider-Man thing where he swung around New York, saving the day and finding himself in copious amounts of dangerous situations, he wasn’t used to you. Having your presence back in his life would take some getting used to. 

If you even were back in his life after how tonight went. 

“You have always been the guy that stands up for what’s right.” There’s only a few inches between your fingertips and his. While you stare at the floor, he’s staring at your hand. “And no matter how hard you got knocked down, you always got back up. It was something I've always loved about you but… stealing from a guy like Fisk? Putting yourself in harm's way like that?”

You can’t even think about it. 

“I’ve gotten a lot of knocks,” he says with a solemn chuckle that he doesn’t feel. “A lot.” It was an attempt to lighten the mood but it just makes you suck in a breath. The smile falls right off Peter’s face, not like he would even call it a smile. 

After a long moment, he tries again. “I’m still the same. I promise.” He’s not sure if he really believes it himself. His thumb brushes your knuckle and you pull your hand away to shove your damp head off your forehead. 

“You are but you aren’t.” There’s too  much exhaustion coursing through your veins for you to be angry any longer. Now that the adrenaline is gone, it's impossible to be mad but that doesn’t mean you won’t be in a matter of hours. 

It’s at this moment that you realize that he didn’t even consider calling the cops tonight. Worse, neither have you, until now. Why did calling the cops not cross your mind until now? That should've been the first thing- That’s a stupid bullshit problem for tomorrow because your head might explode.

“Look, it’s late and- can we just go to sleep? I still have to meet my parents in the morning.” Peter nods at your request and pushes up from his seat. “I’ll just sleep here on the couch. I can just head out in the morning.”

Peter shakes his head vehemently. “No. I’ll sleep on the couch. I took you away from that party and put you in danger. Just let me have this.”

Normally, you would have at least argued to prolong the inevitability of giving in and letting him take his own couch. You just can’t tonight. An exhausted sound falls from your mouth, knuckles digging into your eye sockets as you stand. 

Both of you are relieved when you follow him to his room. 

Once he flips on the little lamp, you're able to take in the space. The bedroom screams Peter Parker. You can pretty much take inventory of all of the things you’d seen in his room at May’s. Your eyes find the collections of photos on the walls and, again, you wonder if your face is hidden up there. 

“Are you sure?” you ask from the doorway. He glances back at you, his face brightening ever so slightly. 

“Yes.” He replieds quietly, sitting on the edge of his bed so he can pull back a corner for you to climb in. It takes you another long shared look before you give in for good. You take his spot as he stands, climbing onto the sheets before he tugs the blankets over your legs. 

Neither of you can think of something more to say. The rain is still coming down hard, rattling the window pane in his old apartment. He reaches over to the bedside table and presses a button and the light turns off. In the dark, he feels a bit more secure. 

“Try and sleep.” Peter whispers, though it feels too much like a plea for him to feel good about. He didn’t deserve you.

He’s going to leave. You don’t actually want him to go.

You grab his forearm before you even realize what you're doing, his muscles solid under your palm. For a long moment, it’s painfully quiet. So painfully quiet and you know you have to say something. He’s waiting for you to say something. 

“Can you just-” you start, hesitating and letting out a huff. The words feel stuck in your throat. Once you say them, you can never take them back. “Can you just stay? Like when we were kids.”

Peter blinks. It’s the most simple thing you could ask. You’re not asking him to tell you what he’s been up to. 

You’re not asking for answers.

You’re just asking him to stay. 

All he wants to do is to stay. He doesn’t need any more prompts than that. 

“Yes,” he whispers softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “I can do that.” Your head hangs in relief before you scoot over to make room for him. The bed dips under his weight as you both settle onto your sides, covers tucked up under your chins. Flashes of lightning illuminate his face and you half expect him to suddenly be nine years old again, soaking wet, and missing a tooth. 

Just like as kids, when you’d sneak in each other's windows when you couldn’t sleep. 

“Thank you.” 

A soft breeze blows in the window in the dead of night, and Peter doesn’t stop you as you shift closer and he smells you. You smell like that shampoo you used to use on his hair when you were twelve. When he showed up at your window with a pout, streaked with dirt, and burrs tangled in his hair because he fell out of tree. 

Your head is facing his way, and the soft exhale of thanks you murmur catches his breath in his throat. He didn’t realize just how much he missed the feeling of laying next to you. 

A flash of lightning makes him blink, as if to convince himself that he’s really here and not dreaming. 

“Like we were kids?” he asks hesitantly, laying on his back and lifting up his arm. You nod and decide that nothing needs to be worried about until tomorrow morning. Clearly, you’re traumatized from tonight and cannot be held accountable for your actions. Scooting closer, you tuck yourself against his side. Your head finds his chest and he doesn’t hesitate to pull you closer. 

Peter knows you belong there. 

Just him and you. 

For the first time tonight, you finally feel warm after being caught in the downpour. There’s only a few inches of bare skin shared between you two from where his arm is wrapped around you. Your hair tickles his cheek and he rests his chin on the top of your head. It’s the most comfortable either of you have felt in a very long time. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

You nod, his heartbeat palpable under your head. It’s you that moves first, reaching up to trace the seam of the collar of his shirt. That seems to give him the courage to let his hand trail up to the back of your head. His other hand rests limply on his stomach, fingers resting so close to your own that he was itching to close the distance.

His thumb traces the nape of your neck, his heart rate picking up with each second. 

This was always how it went with you. So subtle, so quick, but you always noticed it. 

And now, as he thinks back on your shared life in those quiet few moments, he regrets every moment he’s spent away from you in the last eight years. 

But you’re different now; the years apart have changed you. Just like they’d changed him too. 

“Do you remember when-” Peter pauses, his fingers still playing with your hair in the dark. He’s never been so thankful for invisibility than this moment. “When we were seniors… In Flash’s yard at that party he had for graduation-”

“Why are you asking this,” you breath out so sharply that it cuts through his words. When he goes quiet, you can feel him still from where you’re still tucked against his side. Your head lifts up off his chest to look at him, unflinching when you're both nose to nose. 

You can’t, for the life of you, figure out why he would want to bring this up. Why would either one of you want to relive that moment?

You hate this moment.

You hate this moment so much that just the mention of it is like a slap to the face. 

Peter was a teenager. So were you. Neither of you had spoken- really spoken, since freshman year. You shoving through Midtown High’s senior class, all crammed in Flash’s house, trying to catch up as he slipped outside. You were trying and he was shutting you down. Things just kept escalating. The solo cup spilling strawberry vodka and sprite on the grass because your hands are occupied with clinging onto his shoulders. Your back pressing into the siding, legs looped around his waist and his tongue swiping against your bottom lip-

“Because I…” he pauses, unsure of the words that need to come out. They’re on his tongue, but he’s not sure he can actually speak them. “I just…”

Because I want to kiss you right now.

It’s too dark for you to make out much of his expression even that close up. Yours is hurt, you can feel the emotion settling on your face like a stupid, fucking billboard with your thoughts. Even in the dark, he can read you better than anyone else. 

“You just…”

A flash of lightning illuminates the room  momentarily, leaving you to wonder if this moment is just a figment of your imagination. It can’t be; you just might die if this wasn’t really happening. You don’t pull away from the intensity of it like you should before he can catch up to the moment. 

He could probably lean down right now, and you’d pull him in.

So, he does just that.

This is the third time you’ve kissed Peter. 

It’s nothing like the first time, when you were both eleven and didn’t even know what kissing even was.. All chaste and sudden, nervous giggles and never spoken about again. 

Or when you were thirteen. Awkward and in front of too many of your classmates at the hands of spin the bottle on a dirty hotel floor. 

This? This is just the two of you. You and him and the dark. The rain drumming against the window muffles the world around you to the point that you aren’t quite sure that anything else exists. It doesn’t need to.

One of Peter’s hands tangles in your hair, tipping your head back to deepen the kiss. The other makes a home on your waist. You cup his jaw, pulling him closer and kissing him harder. If you think, you’ll stop. God. You really don’t want to stop. 

He kisses you with every ounce or emotion he can manage to pack into him. He kisses you like he’s known you his whole life, but never actually touched you before. He kisses you with all the missed years, the tears and the loneliness, the guilt, the regret, and the love. 

And as he kisses you, his hand snakes down your body and he pulls you closer. 

Everything is silent, save for the rain tapping on the windows and your ragged breaths together.

You and Peter fall asleep that way, pressed together and tangled in the sheets. At some point, your kisses turn slow and tired, eyes closed from exhaustion even if you really didn’t care about seeing. Neither of you attempted to move away as you happily accepted unconsciousness with your limbs intertwined. 

Peter had always been a heavy sleeper. 

It’s what makes it so easy to sneak out of his apartment the next morning without waking him. But… maybe, you  also did it because then you would have to acknowledge... You didn’t know what you should have been acknowledging. 

So you slip out the door, leaving nothing behind but his folded clothes, a note thanking him for not letting you get killed, and the smell of your shampoo on his pillows.

[maybe-moonchild]

9/27/2011

WC: 2.4k

Students cheered and shouted as they gathered across the quad, whatever had caught their attention obscured by the circle of bodies . When you looked up from your book, you wished you were more surprised at the sight of Flash’s first slamming into the side of Peter’s face. He went down hard but you were barely watching, already rushing to shove your things into your bag. 

You managed to shove your way to the front of the circle just as Peter shoved himself up off the cement. His eyes met yours and his face hardened immediately . The distraction cost him, preventing him from noticing that Flash was lunging forward for a body slam. 

There was a murmur of ‘Oohs’ from the crowd as they both wrestled on the pavement. Even at 15 years old, Flash Thompson was a force. His extracurricular activities included basketball, football, and beating up classmates. Some days it was really hard to justify being his friend. 

Today was one of those days.

“Alright, Flash! That’s enough,” you called out over the chanting. Before you could stop yourself, you shoved through the crowd to grab his arm. Flash managed to land another blow to Peter’s face before he stopped mid-reel.

“Knock it off!”

The sharp look on your face was enough for him to let out a groan at your intervention. He flashed you a sheepish grin, waving you off and rolling off of Peter. Katie smacked the back of his head before Flash could fully dust himself off. Not like she really cared about what he just did; she didn’t like when his stupid antics drew the attention of the entire school. 

“What?” Flash asked innocently as the crowd started to dissipate. The lunchtime show was over and would be forgotten by tomorrow morning.

Katie just rolled her eyes, likely having found the whole situation to be a waste of time. “You’re such a moron.” 

No one paid any mind to Peter who winced as he sat up. 

Flash noticed the dirty look you sent him. As Katie started to drag him back towards your usual table, he shrugged. “Sorry. Just having some fun.” 

Your face flushed from second hand embarrassment because of your friends. You knew what Peter thought about them even if he’d never actually said it outloud. You knew even more what he thought about you without ever speaking it outloud. 

He hadn’t needed to. 

Not when him pulling away at the beginning of last year said more than enough. 

When you’d started high school last fall, you’d told yourself that you would join at least one club and one sport. Even if you sucked at it, you wanted to be involved with the rest of your class. You just didn’t realize that cheerleading…  Well, you were pretty freaking great at it. With the gift of yellow and blue pom poms came the gift of attention, of eyes on you. You didn’t exactly mind it. 

It also came with the gift of Katie Douglas. Even in fourth grade, Katie’s face was always one of distaste, boredom, or a glare. If anyone thought her completely vapid, they were wrong. She was a natural born genius at anything to do with engineering. So when you both managed to snag spots next to each other on the bleachers the first day of cheer tryouts. Katie was gripping the seat so tightly you were shocked she didn’t crack a nail. You made a joke.

It wasn’t a funny one. 

But she laughed. 

When you both made the team, she invited you to the mall. 

With Katie came Flash Thompson.

Flash was lucky if he had three brain cells on a given day and he always used his fists before thinking. Befriending him was never intentional. When you got invited to an upperclassman Halloween party, Peter skirted around your extended invitation. He’d been pulling away for weeks but you tried to push through because you were trying to balance him, home, cheerleading, and new friends without letting any of them get dropped 

If Peter had been at that party, then there was a good chance that the senior dressed as someone from Jersey Shore wouldn’t have approached you. He wouldn’t have tried to coerce you into taking a shot while invading your space. But he did. It was Flash that shoved him back, towered over him and scared him off. He had a lot of moments like that where he was painfully kind… only for him to do something painfully stupid and barbaric the second after.

But they were your friends now.

Peter was the one that stopped answering your calls or you would catch him peeking out from his bedroom window after May had just told you he wasn’t home. 

Peter glanced at the hand you extended towards him, your eyes apologetic and hopeful that he would accept it. He didn’t take your hand. Instead, he opted to haul himself to his feet on his own and wipe the blood on his lip with the sleeve of his sweater. 

“Why’d you stop him?” He didn’t look up at you as he pretended to brush dirt off his jeans. He wasn’t going to thank you for stepping in.

You stiffened at the sharpness of the words. So sharp you couldn’t seem to look at him, jaw clenched so tight to hold in a scoff. He’d gotten taller since last year, the sleeves of his sweater just an inch too short from where they should have ended on his wrists. 

“Oh. Sorry,” you draw out sarcastically, your hip jutting out and your hand settling on it. “I didn’t realize I was just supposed to let him keep punching you in the face.”

“What? Did you want me to thank you?” Peter asked with equal sarcasm. 

Your face fell. You didn’t know why you expected some sort of banter that maybe bordered on bickering. No, this was anger, directed at you and you alone.

“No, I don’t,” you admitted, kicking at a pebble and trying to force down the white hot shame eating you alive. 

Someone called your name but you both turned toward the sound. It was Flash, his arms waving in the air to get your attention from the other side of the Quad. Katie sat perched beside him on the lunch table, giving you a look that clearly translated to ‘why are you still talking to Peter Parker… in public?’.

You shake your head to tell them to leave you alone but the damage is surely done. Peter just scoffs. That sound makes you feel even worse. He won’t even look at you, instead inspecting his camera to ensure it isn’t damaged. 

If it is, you won’t forgive yourself. Not when that was his prized possession, a memento from his dad. Relief slammed into at the same time it slammed into him when he confirmed that it was not broken from the fight. 

“You okay?” You tried to meet his eye and took half a step closer. His guard was up, blood accumulating in the cut in his lip and purple blooming on his cheekbone. “I uh… can walk you to the nurse.”

Peter raised an eyebrow at your offer, his expression cold and his lips pulled into a thin line. His thoughts and emotions were always so clearly plastered on his face. It's clear from his expression that he was not interested in your offer. Before he could get a word out, Flash interrupted again, calling out to you from his spot standing on one of the tables benches. 

You turned around and waved a hand dismissively in their direction. Some of the other kids you usually sat with looked like they were getting ready to go dick around off campus. Flash and Katie seemed determined to wait for you. They always did. It was why their faces scrunched up in confusion when you turned back around. 

“You sure you don’t wanna go to the nurse?” You kept your tone and face soft to avoid setting him off. “Might wanna put an icepack on your cheek.”

Peter looked like he was about to say something, but then decided not to with a shake of his head. 

“I'll be fine. You shouldn’t be seen talking to me anyway.” It stung and you hoped that it at least made him feel better. “See ya around or whatever.”

You swallowed a million things you wanted to say as you watched him collect his discarded backpack from the cement. The dig did what he’d hoped. To remind you that you had shitty friends that beat him up or made faces when you talked to people that weren’t deemed cool enough. 

Peter was already stalking off towards the school before you could respond. Fuck it. With a scoff, you decided to go after him. 

“Hold on a second!” You called out, jogging to catch up until you were hurrying beside him. “First of all, I talk to whoever I want. Second of all, I’m trying to make sure you’re okay after getting pummeled into the ground.”

“I’m not your problem. You should go be with your friends,” Peter shot back, head staring straight ahead in the hopes that he didn’t have to look at you. He hated looking at you now.

“Well I'm not. I'm right here talking to you.”

“So are you here to make yourself feel good? Trying to be all friendly and help me out so, at the end of the day, you can tell yourself that you’re not like them?” He let out a scoff, shouldering open the door without holding it for you but you managed to slip right in behind him. 

Those words made your face scrunch up in offense but you swallow it down. You have to. A part of him is right. Not because you were doing this to make yourself feel better but because you did tell yourself that. 

“Hey-”

Peter kept going without a glance in your direction. “I’m fine. Would hate to harm your important reputation.” His pace didn’t slow in the hope that he could leave you far, far behind. 

“Can you just stop for a second?” You reached out, hand hooking around his arm in the hopes that he would just listen. You were surprised when he actually slowed to a stop without turning around. A muscle in your jaw ticked at the sight of the back of his head, silence hanging in the air as you collected yourself. 

“I’m not doing this to make myself feel better,” you said tensely, dropping your voice to keep anyone wandering the halls from overhearing your conversation. It had nothing to do with not wanting to be seen with him. You’d never cared about that. You just didn’t need people to know you chased after him because he refused to speak to you. 

Maybe that was a shallow thought. You did have some semblance for your reputation. Thoughts like those had been ingrained in you. 

“I’m doing this because I care and I want to make sure you’re okay.”

It’s clear that he didn’t really have a response to that, the frown on his face said it all. Peter looked down at your hand on his arm, but didn’t make a move to yank away. 

“If you actually cared you would have talked to me all this time,” Peter muttered under his breath. His bitter attitude just made you throw up your free hand in exasperation. 

“I have tried to talk to you,” you reminded him, a sharpness in your voice and the grip on his arm forgotten. “You’re the one that will barely look at me or say more than a word without bolting.”

It wasn’t like you just decided you were too cool during freshman year and threw him to the curb. 

“Why would you want to be seen with me anyway?” Peter mutters, clearly agitated and a little annoyed. He pulled his arm away from you to shove his hands into his back pockets. 

You didn’t reach out to touch him again, instead letting your arms fall to your side. This time when you looked away and pressed your lips together, he actually looked at you. 

“I don’t care about that stuff,” you said quietly, face screwed up in hurt. “I don’t care about what they say because I think it’s all stupid.”

You wanted to say that you cared about him. That you never stopped caring about him. 

Peter narrowed his eyes at you before letting out a scoff. Sure, maybe a part of him wanted to believe it but he wouldn’t let himself be hurt by you again. Not when it had always been you and him against the world. Then, the start of high school filled your schedule with things that weren’t just him.

You were busy Monday through Friday from after school until six at night- and if there was a football game, then you were gone until almost midnight. He didn’t go to the games to watch you cheer and he certainly did not go to the after parties you invited him to. Newer and cooler classmates asked you to sit with them at lunch. He turned that down too and opted to spend that time in the darkroom. There were only a few times that you forgot about your plans with him only to call later that day and apologize religiously. It didn’t matter, after the first time, he avoided you for a week. 

Then the next week. 

Then the next.

He spent the entire ninth grade dodging you. 

And then all of tenth grade so far doing the same thing. 

“So you don’t care about what other people think?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s a load of bullshit. Isn’t that what you’re all about? Being liked? Being friends with the right people?”

That hurt. That hurt so badly you had to step back and you really couldn’t seem to pull your eyes away from the floor. You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, willing your mouth to move and disagree with him. 

But you kinda deserved it.

“Right, sorry,” you breathed out after a long moment. The tight lipped smile you gave him barely even resembled a smile from how forced it was. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Whatever.” He was already turning around and slipping down the hall before you had finished speaking.

[maybe-moonchild]

CHAPTER 2

summary: in which shit hits the fan and you are not thrilled. WC: 6.8k ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ

“I know who I am,” Peter shoots back cooly even if he’s clenching his jaw. Taking down these bozo’s would be a piece of cake… if not for you right there. Protecting you is a given. If he can do so without revealing a certain secret… then he would prefer that. 

You suck in a breath, your hands on his arm tightening as you press yourself into his back. You can’t really help it. Not when he has his arm thrown in front of you to make sure he is at the head of it all. 

Oh. Also, these goons are looking for him! Not you!

“Oh Good,” the man continues, pretending like he’s trying to make the presence of the gun in his hand inconspicuous. It’s not. Not when you can see the outline of it in the dim light each time he makes sure to flash a glimpse of it. Peter doesn’t flinch which only makes your panic rise.

Your eyes flick between all three men. There's Scar Guy up ahead, a line of jagged skin cutting through his eyebrow and continuing down his cheek. The guy standing at the edge of the sidewalk near the road is littered with tattoos that crawl up his neck and down into his hands. Lastly is the man at your backs who has a red beanie tugged over his long hair. 

“Wanted to make sure we had the right guy. Don’t think Wilson Fisk would be too happy if we didn’t.”

A flicker of recognition makes Peter tense at the realization of the situation. He holds your arm a little tighter, trying to position you even more behind him in case anything happens. 

You also recognize the name from the few times you vaguely remember reading it in the paper or hearing it on the news. He’s a businessman or something. You've never really cared enough to pay that much attention. 

“The file,” Scar Guy sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “He knows you took it. He wants it back. Return it and we won’t hurt your friend here.”

Those words make you go cold because you know that he means it. Peter knows he means it too, his eyes narrowing as the pieces start to click together. 

The file he’d managed to find the other day while snooping around those not-so-abandoned warehouses that he happily took home. He’d hoped it would give him a leg up on Fisk ever since the crime lord figured out his identity a few weeks ago and Peter had been waiting for him to do something about it. 

The file Fisk now knew he had… Shit.

This was so not how tonight was supposed to go. 

“Listen, I don’t know what youre talking about.” He tries to seem calm, to play innocent even though his hopes are low. “So I don’t know what file you’re looking for but you have the wrong guy.”

Scar Guy just rolls his eyes like he’s already over the whole thing. With a nod to Red Hat behind you, he scratches the side of his head with his gun. “Come on kid. Just give us the file.”

Peter doesn’t know how he doesn’t see it coming and he’s never hated himself more. He's so overwhelmed with trying to figure out what he can do that will keep you safe that he completely misses Red Hat guy advancing on you from behind. 

A large hand finds its way around your upper arm and roughly jerks you backwards. Peter calls out your name but when he reaches for you, you’re too far out of grasps. You fall back into Red Hat’s chest and his arm snakes around your neck. 

“Okay, okay, just let her go and I’ll go get the file,” he urges, head whipping between the three goons. His hands are clenched so tightly at his sides that he’s surprised his nails haven’t broken through skin. 

Now, Peter is starting to panic. 

“Stop squirming,” Red Hat guy mutters as his grip around your neck tightens. You try to pull away in the hopes that you can get back towards Peter. When you don’t immediately listen, he puts enough pressure on your windpipe to emphasize his order. A whimper lodges itself in your throat as you still before the thug lets up enough for you to inhale.

“Or,” the tattooed one draws out and leans back against the random car parked along the street. “You go get it and we’ll keep her until you get it back.”

And to further emphasize their point, Red Hat leans closer to smell your hair. You jerk your head away, the thought of being left alone with a single one of these assholes making you try and twist out of his hold again. 

“Fine. I’ll go get it. Just let go of my friend.”

If you weren’t so busy with trying to lean away from the foul smelling breath and escape the headlock you’re in, you would have been taken aback that Peter Parker just called you his friend. 

“File first, then we’ll let her go,” Scar Guy sneers, no room for debate in his tone. From the angry look on Peter’s face, there was no chance in hell he was leaving you with these assholes.

Peter scoffs, “That doesn’t work for me. So you can either let her go and I’ll get you the file or we can do this the hard way.”

He can get you out of this mess. He has to get you out of this mess. 

A horrible ache of guilt stabs his chest when he looks at you. You always pretended to never be scared- ever since you were kids, you’d square your shoulders and do your best at hiding your fear. 

But your wide eyes, tousled hair, and the way you struggle to stand on your toes to try and lessen some of the force against your neck are all dead giveaways that you’re terrified. 

“How about this,” Scar Guy starts again, signaling to Red Hat with a nod of his head. “We all take a little field trip to get the file from wherever you stashed it away and we don't have to do this the hard way.”

You go rigid the second you feel it. The cool of the metal pressing against your temple and the deafening click that follows. It’s not hard to realize that whatever Peter has been up to some serious shit the past four years. Flinching, you turn your head and squeeze your eyes shut in the hopes you can put some distance between your head and the barrel of the gun. 

Peter doesn’t move either. He inhales so sharply through clenched teeth and forces down the urge to lose it. His muscles are painfully tense with the urge to leap into action, fingers twitching towards his web shooters. But he doesn’t.

And it almost kills him.

“It’s not on me, okay? I don’t have it,” he snaps. In surrender, he raises his hands in the hopes to be allowed to take a step forward. The second he tries to take a step, the barrel digs a little harder into your temple which has him freezing in his tracks.

Tears prick at your eyes. You can’t help it even if you wish you could. There's a gun to your head and the feel of the thug pressing up against your back and his cheek against your hair is enough to make you feel sick. Your fingers dig into his thick arm still thrown around your neck but you've stopped trying to fight and get away.

When he’s met with silence, Peter forces himself to tear his eyes away from your terrified form and settle back on Scar Guy. He’d clearly been waiting for Peter’s attention so he could continue. 

“Here’s how this is going to work, Mr. Parker,” Scar Guy says like he’s talking to a child. “We’re going to take a little field trip to your apartment. Then, you’re gonna go in, get it, and bring it out to us. We’ll bring your little girlfriend too just in case. That way, if you decide to try anything…” he shrugs and makes a face. “Do you really need me to say it?”

“No.” Peter practically cuts him off with how fast he answers. 

Satisfied, the thug shrugs again and you feel the pressure against your head lessen. Some of the rigidity in your muscles eases as you slowly open your eyes to immediately find Peter’s. It’s easier to look at him. He tries to apologize without actually saying a word. Giving you an apologetic look that he wished conveyed the millions of apologies he was thinking.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “But I swear to god if you lay a single finger on her, you’re going to have a lot more to worry about than a stupid file.”

For some reason, the threat doesn’t seem to be laughed off by the men around. It almost seems like they consider it.

Scar Guy digs his phone out of his pocket and shoots off a text message. The street is painfully quiet aside from the distant sound of traffic from a few blocks away. You wish someone would drive by, that one person would peek out their apartment window and look down at the scene below. 

Hell, you wish Spider-Man would swing by at this very moment. 

Peter wants to tear all three of  these assholes apart with his bare hands. Doing so would only put a target on your back now that they had seen your face and know more than just his name. 

A sleek black limo without its headlights on slowly rolls to a stop at the curb. The windows are so tinted that the glass practically looks like a mirror. You wouldn’t be surprised if the thing had just left a car wash.

“After you,” Scar Guy grunts with a dramatic wave of his arm. For a long moment, Peter just glares at him while the goon with the tattoos  opens the door. 

You can breathe. You know that- deep down, somewhere in your brain- you are well aware that your air flow is not being restricted. That the arm around your neck is not enough to stop oxygen from traveling to your lungs, through your arteries, and to your brain before turning into CO2 that you exhale. 

Remembering that is difficult with the realization that you were now playing tag along as a hostage. 

Peter grits his teeth, glancing between you and the open door. He’s weighing his options. Oblige or defy. Kick all three of these guys asses and reveal his secret or let you be in prolonged danger. 

He crosses the distance and hovers in the doorway. “Come on. You can let her go now.” If looks could kill, Scar Guy would be six feet under. “She doesn’t even know what the file is about. She has nothing to do with any of this. She doesn’t even know me anymore!”

It almost stings.

You don’t know him anymore. You hadn’t spoken in four years aside from small talk that is so forced it’s painful. The only things you know about him are the things you see on May’s facebook before you can scroll away. What you do know is that your dorky neighbor would never get involved with something like this. 

Scar Guy and Red Hat share a look. For a second, you almost think they might agree and toss you aside on the sidewalk. Instead, Red Hat shoves you roughly towards the door of the limo. Your eyes go wide and Peters do the same as you stumble. He manages to catch you before you can fully sprawl  out onto his lap. 

“Easy,” Peter grunts in Scar Guys direction but Scar Guy is too busy shooting off another text. Your hands move to grip his arms while he stabilizes you, one hand on your waist and the other on your shoulder. Once he’s balanced you out, he slowly helps you settle back into the seat beside him. 

Neither of you let go. You don’t think you could let go of him if you wanted to. 

“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay- everything’s fine, right?”

You nod blindly. Maybe if you believe it, you will be. At least that was all it seemed you could do as you try to catch your breath and catch a single thought swirling around your brain. His hands cup your face and angle it in his direction. There is the faintest bruise forming on your temple from the barrel of thr gun and Peter’s thumb finds it with a frown. 

“Alright, good. We’ll be fine- as soon as I get the file, they’ll let us go and nothing like this will ever happen again- god. I am so, so sorry.” The worry is evident in his face from the crease between his brows and how he chews on his bottom lip. Soothingly, he smooths your hair from your face. 

Scar guy climbs into the back of the limo before the door shuts behind him. His gun doesn’t leave his hand but you’re thankful that it's hanging limply at his side rather than being trained in your direction. You and Peter watch him from the corner of your eyes as Scar Guy settles in the opposite seats. He’s more preoccupied with rattling off texts on his blackberry. 

You try to comprehend the situation you find yourself in- scratch that. The situation Peter finds himself in is that he has managed to drag you into eight years after the demise of your friendship.

“Are you kidding me,” you hiss. “Kingpin? You stole a file from a crime lord?”

“Okay, okay. I can explain.” Even as Peter raises a hand in surrender, the other rests where your neck meets your shoulder. “It wasn’t like that-” Your glare intensifies and he grimaces. “Okay… yeah… it was like that.”

“Oh? And pray tell, Parker, what was it like?”

There is a long moment of silence as he tries to grasp for the least stupid answer he can find. After far too long, he throws his head back and groans. 

“Look, I didn’t even think he would know I took it! It was just there and I saw it and I thought that– well I thought that maybe it would be of use to someone- the only reason I even thought about it was because-”

“Because you always get in over your head Peter Parker.”

Letting out a huff, you sink back into your seat without letting go of one of his arms. Just being able to hold onto him gives you some bit of comfort. Your glare moves to your feet because it is a hell of a lot easier to look down than at him at the moment. With a quiet hum of the engine, the limo pulls out from the street and onto the road. 

Probably taking you to your impending doom, you think. 

“Why can’t you ever stand down?” Your voice comes out softer and his shoulders seem to sag. “Why do you always have to try and play hero when it just puts you in danger?”

Even without looking up at him, you can practically feel his guilt. Can practically see his furrowed brows and the way he keeps his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. The same look you had seen hundred of times as children. Back when you were both young and the most trouble he would get in was Aunt May grounding him for a night or the black eye he’d get from Flash. 

“Because someone has to,” he sighs, finally giving up trying to catch your eye to turn forward in his seat. “I’m tired of people not being able to walk the streets and having to look over their shoulder for…”

Your face softens more at the realization that a part of him is probably doing this because of Ben. Maybe even for him- who knew anymore? Certainly not you anymore. 

“Okay, look,” Peter starts again, turning back to face you with pleading eyes. He doesn't even know what he’s pleading for at this point. “I know I shouldn’t have gotten myself involved with this. I get in over my head a lot but… someone needs to.”

“Someone does. Someone does do that. The difference is that they have superpowers and you should let them handle it.”

That someone has superpowers. That someone wears a mask that keeps this from happening.

Before he can respond, the limo slows to a stop and cuts the conversation short. You both look up and out the windows, studying the quiet street you’ve arrived on. Peters hand tenses on your arm as he sits up a little straighter. Scar guy gets out of the limo, exchanging quiet conversation with someone on the sidewalk that we can’t see.

Peter tenses before Wilson Fisk even enters the back of the limo. 

Fisk is the first crime boss you have ever laid eyes on in real life. Not that that’s much of a surprise considering you don't make it a habit to associate yourself with Manhattan's very own Kingpin. Clad in a suit that you are sure, at minimum, costs twice your monthly rent, he moves to occupy the seat opposite of us with such ease that it makes you more on edge. 

Like he belongs here; in his element.

Panic starts to creep back up your spine but you manage to press yourself a little closer to Peter's side. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he stares down Fisk who seems to be more occupied with getting comfortable. Scar Guy resumes his position at his side, his gun resuming its position and resting in his lap. 

For a long moment, the silence is so deafening, the only thing you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears. At least the sound of the limo pulling off onto the street offers very little sound.

“Mr. Parker,” Fisk greets with amused indifference, his voice demanding authority. “I’m glad we caught you at this time. Happy that you and your friend can join us.”

His attention moves to you and Peter and I both tense at the same time. It’s like being scrutinized under a microscope. Your skin crawls and you force yourself to not shift in your seat but you can’t actually get yourself to hold his gaze.

“How rude of me. Wilson Fisk.” Hesitantly, you manage to squeak out your name as he extends his hand to you across the small space.

You barely have time to consider your next course of action before Peter has moved forward in his seat to throw an arm across your body. Something about it is only more amusing to Fisk. He doesn’t look remotely offended and drops his hand to return to the top of his cane. 

“Fine. Let's cut to the chase. The file- my file. My file that you stole. I’m done playing games with Mr. Parker. I want it back and I want it back now.”

Peter doesn’t flinch. “I will happily give it back to you. Just let her go and I’ll go get it.” His defiance is emphasized by his flat stare and arms folded over his chest. Scar Guy just rolls his eyes again. 

It’s clear Peter isn’t going to hand it over until you’re out of the line of fire. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t do that,” Fisk sighs with mock sympathy. Your fingers wrap themselves around Peter’s wrist from where his hand is splayed on the seat beside you. Fisk chuckles. It’s a cold humorless sound that makes you stiffen and Peter’s other hand moves to rest on your knee. 

Whereas Peter is good at playing this game, you are not. You can’t hide your fear and play it cool like he can. 

The way Fisk is looking at you is calculated, like he’s trying to determine how much damage he can do to you if it will get Peter to fold. 

Peter seems to sense that and his face hardens. “Do. Not. Touch. Her.”

“Ah, Peter, you can’t tell me what to do. 

“She has nothing to do with this, Fisk. She doesn’t even know anything,” Peter grits out. “I should be the only one here right now. Not her.”

The crime boss wants his stuff back and he doesn’t care who he has to hurt to get it. 

Right now… that person is you. 

As the limo turns a corner, it causes the both of you to lean to the side. His arm pressed against your chest keeps you from lurching out of your seat before you both fall back into place. Each slam of your heart against your ribs is palpable in his arm but the steadiness seems to keep him grounded.

“I’m not leaving.”

All three men in the car are caught off guard by the sound of you speaking up. Peter's head whips in your direction so fast he could have given himself whiplash. 

For the love of god. 

Could you ever not be scared? Be too fearful and run when you should? Granted, this was all of his fault, but he was trying to get you out of the mess he’d dragged you into.

Fisk raises an eyebrow. “Oh, this one is feisty,” he chuckles in his low, rumbling voice. 

“Uh, yes,” Peter hisses under his breath as you stare straight ahead. “You are.” His fingers on your knee flex in warning which only makes you scowl. 

You can’t tell if you’re proud of yourself for not wanting to run or if you’re just as much of a stubborn idiot as he is. 

Maybe both.

“Uh, yes. I am,” you say slowly and glance in his direction before speaking to Fisk. “If you’re taking him somewhere, I’m going too.” You square your shoulders in the hopes of looking as confident as you can manage given the fear. Peter, ever the drama queen, throws his hands up in disbelief before tugging at his hair. 

“We have a reason for you not to be involved here! You don’t even know what it is so let me handle this. You don’t need to be here.”

“Yeah well, neither should you.” This time you do finally turn fully in your seat to fully address him. “If you had grown up at all in the last eight years and stopped getting yourself into trouble, neither of us would be here!”

Peter does that thing. He does what he always does when he gets frustrated. Where his eyes get wide and his mouth falls open to blurt out something defensive. Then he thinks better of it and snaps his mouth shut, throws his hands up, and turns away with a huff. 

“It’s different,” he grumbles. “I’m the one who had the file so I’m the one who has to fix this mess. You shouldn’t be here. This is not where you belong.”

This has got to be the worst time for the two of you to bicker. It’s not like either of you can help the way you so easily fall back into the natural ease of how things used to be. The kind of petty arguing that sounds childish and is forgotten moments after the conversation ends. 

Your glare at him. It’s the first time in four years that you’ve been this close to him and you hate that there is a brief moment that you wish the lighting in here was better so you could study every detail. 

“I was looking to have this handled but… it seems you two have some unresolved issues,” Fisk snorts and Scar Guy just raises his eyebrows at the scene. 

“One second.” You hold up a hand in Fisks direction without looking at him. Peter’s eyes go wide because you did not seriously tell a freaking crime boss to give you a moment when you're playing hostage. He yanks your hand down because you very much did and- are you out of your mind?

“How is this any different?” you continue without missing a beat. “Because your knack for trouble has just seemed to grow with you.”

“Because it is not your problem,” Peter replies sharply as he drops your hand back into your lap. “Because I created this mess. Now it’s my job to fix it. Your job is to get out of here.”

Peter isn’t going to admit it but you’re completely right- that he’s still the same person who got into trouble almost every day as a child.

He’s just grown up a little so his problems aren’t as childish anymore. That’s all.

“See! This is exactly what I expected.”

“Would you two shut up?” Scar Guy groans while his head tips back on the seat. 

Aside from a quiet scoff from Peter, you comply. You both turn back around in your seat, neither of you looking at each other and instead choosing to find anywhere else in the leather interior of the car more interesting. 

“Is this how things usually go,” Fisk asks with a chuckle even if he finds the outburst to be more of a nuisance. “You two bickering like this?”

“No!” 

Neither of you miss a beat, snapping out your answer at the same time. You can’t help being mad at him for trying to shove you out of his life the second it feels like maybe you're slightly closer to being let in. Despite the current situation, you’d had fun earlier getting pizza and joking back and forth. 

“Fine. You want to be a part of this mess so badly? Go ahead,” Peter scoffs as he turns to face you again. “But the minute that shit hits the fan, I won’t hesitate to say I told you so.”

You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest without looking at him. “Fine.”

“Are you two finished squabbling like children?” Fisk is fed up and it’s clear by the sharpness in his tone. There's a threat hidden somewhere in his words. 

You’re too busy trying not to grumble under your breath and he’s too busy scowling for either of you to realize that the limo has come to a stop in front of his apartment. 

The second he turns back to look out of the tinted windows, the building that you’re parked outside of looks all too familiar. Peter’s apartment is in a relatively fine part of Hell’s Kitchen and could be a lot worse. The area is mostly apartment buildings, though there are a handful of bodegas and restaurants peppered in between. 

“Go ahead. Get it. Bring it to me.”

Stiffening in his seat, Peter stares back at Fisk, eyes cold and jaw tense. You can’t seem to hold yourself as he can. You feel small and scared as the weight of the situation returns to you full force with such an intensity that you have to clasp your hands together in your lap so they don’t shake. 

“She’s coming with me. I’m not leaving her here alone with you.”

“Girl stays with me,” Fisk sighs boredly. He pays more attention to the cigar he pulls from his pocket as he inspects it in his stubby fingers. Scar Guy gets out on Peter’s side, standing by the door and waiting for him to follow. 

Now you’re really starting to panic and Peter is really starting to get pissed off. Your nails dig into your skin, leaving little half moons in their wake. Peter places his hand on yours without even glancing in your direction to try and reassure you in any way he can. 

“You go get the files, bring them back here, and we’ll call it a day,” Fisk mumbles around the cigar dangling in his lips as he lights it. The smell of tobacco is overwhelming and he takes a long drag that makes the embers crackle. “Try to run off, I’ll kill her.”

Those words hit Peter hard enough that he might as well have gotten punched. 

He opens his mouth to protest until he’s blue in the face. Over his dead body is he going to leave you, terrified and completely normal, in a situation like this ALONE. Even if it is only for a minute.

As much as you hate the idea as much as he does, you gently squeeze his wrist. It shuts off the stream of profanities ready to start spilling from his mouth and he turns his attention to you. You give him the faintest nod, telling him it’s okay. That the quicker he gets this done, the quicker everything will be over. 

“Do not touch her, not even a hair on her head. Are we clear?” Peter grits the words out through clenched teeth. You inhale slowly through your nose just so you remember to keep breathing. It’s clear Peter doesn’t want to leave you alone in the car with Fisk but… it’s clear he doesn’t really have a choice. 

Forcing his face to soften into anything that is not a look of dread is difficult but he manages. He turns to look at you and you meet his eyes without hesitation. Your eyes are wide and scared which just makes him feel even worse than he currently does. He reaches forward to brush a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Right back, okay? Everything’s fine. You are going to be perfectly fine.” Peter says it like it's something he’s sure of. He has to be sure of it or he is going to lose it before he can get through the doors of the lobby. 

Your grip on his hand tightens at the prospect of having to let go but you make yourself nod and swallow thickly. His eyes flicker around your face and he almost looks like he’s trying to smile in the hopes to soothe some of your rising panic. 

A part of him hates that he has to comply with this but he also knows he has to see it out if he wants a chance at making sure you’re safe.

With one last caress of your cheek, he untangles his hand from yours and climbs out of the car. Scar Guy shuts the door behind them and the sound makes you flinch. 

If there is one thing you are absolutely certain of, it’s that Peter won’t run off. 

Fisk lets out another quiet chuckle around the drag of the cigar. A cloud of smoke drifts slowly from his mouth and through the dimmed interior of the limo. It fills your lungs when you suck in a breath and makes you cough. At least he cracks the window. He studies you carefully like he’s trying to put something together. 

Like he’s looking for an answer to a question he can’t quite place. 

“Let me ask you something,” the sound of his voice demands your full attention. You peek up at him because you can’t seem to look at him head on. You keep your face as stoic as you can even if your skin is too hot and cold at the same time. “What is your relationship with Peter Parker? He seems to care about you.”

“We’re friends,” you murmur although you’re not entirely sure anymore considering you two hadn’t been friends in eight years. 

“Ah. Friends.” The word sounds condescending in his mouth but he slowly nods like he’s considering that as an answer. “Friends.” A small smirk makes the corner of his lips curl around the cigar. “Well, that’s definitely a nice way of saying it. Something was going on there. Wasn’t it?”

You slowly shake your head. It’s easier than trying to open your mouth to speak.

Fisk hums like he doesn’t quite believe me, “Friends? Nothing more?”

You keep your hands clasped together in your lap. His scrutinizing gaze makes you want to squirm in your spot, the overwhelming urge to flee making your muscles twitch. At least Fisk isn’t creepy in a pervy way. Just terrifying in the ‘so rich and connected to anyone that he could hunt someone down in an hour’ kind of way.

When you don’t say anything, the crime boss doesn’t seem particularly bothered. Instead, he busies himself with tapping the cigar on the window pane, the butt falling onto the street. Rain taps against the glass, each drop quiet in the background of your racing heart.

“Seems to care about you quite a bit. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him get that bent out of shape for a civilian before.”

The second the crease between your brow deepens, Fisk knows he has you. 

“What does that mean?” You're wary of the answer and you sit up a little straighter in your seat. His smile gets a little more smug but he only shrugs and looks away. 

“Let me ask you this,” he sighs, hand flexing around the handle of his cane. “How long have you two been friends- or, not friends? Whatever it is that you two are?”

It’s your turn to shrug. When he doesn’t speak, it’s clear that the answer isn’t good enough. “I don’t know. We haven’t really talked in eight years…”

“Eight years,” he says slowly. “That's a long time not to speak to someone you have so many memories with… I see… And have you kept up with what he’s been up to since then?”

Whatever Wilson Fisk’s game is, you don’t know how to play.

“Not… much… aside from facebook posts, I guess.” The confusion you feel is evident in the frown you can’t seem to shake. You have to swallow again so you can hoarsely ask, “Why?”

Fisk just shrugs again. 

“Nothing… and everything.” His eyes are steady and he takes his time to take another drag of the cigar. He leans forward in his head, head cocking to the side and you inhale sharply through your nose. Each drop of rain feels like the tick of a clock hand that makes time seem like it's moving too slowly. The longer you sit here, the more it feels like Fisk has shoved a meaty fist through your chest and is squeezing your down on your circulatory system. 

“What do you really know about Peter Parker?”

Something in your gut doesn’t like the implication of his question. 

Before eight years ago, you knew everything. You knew that he preferred watermelon flavored candy the most with the generic ‘green’ flavored ones in second place. Even when he stayed quiet, he couldn’t control his facial expression if his life depended on it. He liked sleeping on the side of the bed farthest farthest from the wall. He religiously picked and scratched at scabs or pressed his thumb into his bruises just to know they still hurt. 

Now?

So, you say nothing. You clench your hands together and somehow manage to stare him down even when you're fighting the urge to turn your head. 

A look of mock confusion settles on his face. “You’re not answering my question.”

“I don’t know,” you grit out, your voice and eyes cold. That answer makes you angry. You don’t know Peter Parker anymore. Years ago, you did and now you felt like you were wandering through the dark.

You hate that Fisk knows more about Peter than you do. At least Fisk knows why Peter got involved with files that belonged to himself anyway. 

“Well then,” Fisk draws out as he settles back in his seat and punctuates his pause by flicking his cigar out the cracked open window. The glass slowly rolls closed and the car feels stuffy again. “Do you want to know the reason he took those files?”

This is a trap. You know that and you can see it from a mile away. It’s a game that will only end with everyone else but Fisk losing. Even if he didn’t win, he would never lose. 

As you’re contemplating your answer, the door to your right is yanked open to reveal a pissed off Peter Parker. His harsh stare burns holes into Fisk before he tosses the files onto the floor so they land at Fisk's feet. The action only makes Fisk raise his eyebrows in amusement before he reaches to pick them up. 

“There,” Peter spits out from his spot in the open car door. Scar Guy hovers behind him, bored and ready to move on to whatever their next activity of the night is. “There they are. We’re leaving.” “Why did you steal the file,” you blurt out without taking your eyes off of Fisk who wet his thumb to flip through the papers. You hate that he got to you. That there is a part of you that feels so left behind in the dark that you worry you will never find your way out. You hate that you can’t stop yourself from asking instead of scrambling out of the car and into the safety of Peter's arms. 

But you need to know. 

You need to know how the hell he got involved with someone like Kingpin. Why the hell he found himself in a situation to take the files in the first place. How this all led to a gun pressing into your head before being shoved into a limo with Manhattan's most notorious crime lord and Peter is acting like this is a regular saturday night event. 

You don’t know the rules of the game. You don’t know how to play. You don’t know anything. 

Peter’s look of hatred slips to a frown at your question as he turns to look at you. He’d been expecting you to bolt from the car and right into his arms the moment he returned. The last thing he expects is for you to stubbornly stay rooted in your spot. 

“Later. Come on,” Peter says tensely before leaning inside. His hand finds your shoulder and gives you a gentle tug to try and get you moving. You don’t budge.

This time you do turn to look at him, “No.” It comes out sharper than you mean it to. “I want to know now.”

The look in your eye makes him falter. Peter tenses, his hand falling to hang lamely in the air like he’s suddenly second guessing everything that he is doing. His eyes are big and brown and urging, your name coming out like a plea. Fisk is quick to interrupt him. 

“She’s right Parker. She’s your friend. She deserves to know.”

You don’t think you understand the meaning of the word friend anymore. At least you don’t understand how you and him fit together inside of it. 

Peter says nothing. He holds your gaze, his hand extended in the air as an out to this horrible night. Clearly, he doesn’t know what the hell to say so he says nothing. You don’t think you've ever seen him look so conflicted or at a loss for words before now. The longer the silence stretches on, the larger Fisk’s smile grows. 

“Parker?” Fisk's voice is mocking but it earns a dirty look from him. 

And in his silence, you find your answer. 

At least as much as an answer as you're going to get. That he is never going to tell you anyway. Not the real reason. 

It stings.

It stings like an eight year old scar reopened and your ex-best friend poured antiseptic directly into the wound. 

Sighing in defeat, Peter takes the opportunity to carefully haul you out of the seat. You let him, eyes narrowing at Fisk as you reach out to hold onto Peter's arms. Fisk doesn’t have to say it because you can see the words written all over his face.

‘I told you so.’

You find your footing on the wet pavement but are too scared to let go of him in the fear that your legs are going to give out. It’s stopped raining but the humidity hangs in the air. Breathing is easier without being confined to the small space that reeks of leather and smoke. 

“Pleasure doing business with you Parker. It was a pleasure meeting you too,” Fisk grins, holding up the manilla folder and waving it in the air. “Next time, think twice before you steal from me.”

With the threat hanging in the air, Scar Guy climbs into the back seat with him and the slam of the car door sounds the end of the conversation. The limo pulls away and down the street as the two of you watch until the vehicle disappears around the corner. 

Fisk tosses the file onto the seat beside him, his lips curling into a sinister grin as it all clicks. He’s found the perfect pressure point for Spider-Man.

The one weakness Peter has. The one thing he won't be able to help but give anything to protect. 

You.