Archive of Our Own

By the time Peter Parker was nineteen, he had known Johnny Storm for five years, which was long enough to know three important things.

One: Johnny put hot sauce on food that had no business being near hot sauce.

Two: Johnny had exactly one volume setting, and it was public disturbance.

Three: everyone in their lives was completely and embarrassingly convinced that they were dating.

They were not dating. 

Peter knew this because dating involved things like asking someone out, holding hands on purpose, and having serious conversations about feelings without immediately pretending to choke on a french fry. Peter and Johnny did none of that, they just spent most of their free time together…and most of their not-free time.

And, okay, sometimes Peter slept over at the Baxter Building because it was late and Johnny had insisted it was stupid to take the subway at two in the morning and sometimes Johnny slept over at Peter’s because Aunt May was going to make pancakes in the morning and Johnny had once described them as “life-changing” with the sincerity of a man witnessing a miracle.

That was friendship. Probably.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” Johnny said.

Peter looked down, he was, in fact, wearing Johnny’s hoodie. It was red, soft from too many washes and smelled faintly like smoke and expensive shampoo. “No, I’m not,” 

Johnny stared at him from the other end of the couch. “It has my name on the sleeve.”

Peter looked at the sleeve like this was news to him. STORM was written there in block letters.

He pulled his hands into the cuffs. “Could be anyone’s.”

“Could be anyone named Storm?”

“Common name.”

“It is absolutely not.”

Peter shrugged and sank lower into the couch, his head resting on the armrest as they watched some movie he had stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. He was wearing Johnny’s stolen hoodie and a pair of mismatched socks, his feet were shoved under Johnny’s thigh because Johnny always ran hot and Peter’s toes were cold. Johnny had stopped complaining about that sometime last year, or maybe two years ago?

Peter had lost track.

The important thing was Johnny did not move. 

Johnny sat slouched at the other end of the couch, one hand curled loosely around Peter’s ankle like that was normal. His thumb moved absently against the bone, back and forth, soft enough that Peter probably could pretend not to notice without it being obvious.

Johnny, judging by the way he kept watching the movie they were not watching, was pretending not to notice too and honestly that's how most things worked between them. 

Ben walked past the living room entrance, stopped, and looked at them.

“Don’t,” Johnny said without looking away from the screen.

Ben held up both hands. “I ain’t sayin nothin’.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was just wonderin’ if your boyfriend wanted pizza too.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Johnny said.

At the same time, Peter said, “Pepperoni.”

Johnny turned to him.

Peter blinked back. “What? I’m hungry.”

Ben grinned back at them.

Johnny pointed at him. “Don’t start.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Matchstick.” Ben wandered off, still grinning, while Johnny groaned like the world had personally inconvenienced him.

Peter patted Johnny’s knee with his foot. “There, there.”

Johnny looked down at Peter’s socked foot, then back to his face. “Please don’t comfort me with your foot.”

“My hands are inside your hoodie.”

“So you admit it’s my hoodie.”

Peter froze as Johnny’s grin spread slowly across his face, absolutely delighted.

Peter stared at him. “I admit nothing.”

“You just said your hands are in my hoodie pocket.”

“I said the hoodie pocket, you just heard what you wanted to hear.”

“No, no, no.” Johnny shifted, still keeping Peter’s feet trapped under his thigh. “You said my hoodie. That’s a confession.”

“That would never hold up in court.”

“This isn't a court, this is my couch.”

“Technically Reed’s couch.”

“Don’t bring Reed into this.”

Peter sank lower into the cushions, hands still tucked deep in the front pocket. “I’m just saying, property laws can get complicated when you are a full grown adult living with your sister’s family.”

Johnny’s eyes narrowed, blue and sharp in that way that usually meant he was about to say something either devastatingly clever or deeply stupid, it was usually somehow a mix of both. “You’re so annoying.”

Peter smiled letting his eyes fall shut as he sunk another inch into the couch cushions like he had no intention of ever moving again. “And yet,” he said lazily, “you keep inviting me over.”

“You let yourself in.” Johnny let out a short laugh through his nose.

Peter cracked one eye open, his expression so innocent it should have been illegal. “You gave me a keycard.”

Johnny pointed at him immediately. “That was for emergencies.”

“I was cold.” Peter wriggled his socked feet a little deeper under Johnny’s thigh, stealing more warmth without even pretending otherwise. 

Johnny stared at him, just... stared. Like he was trying to decide if Peter was a real person or some kind of elaborate cosmic punishment designed specifically for him.

After a long moment, he said flatly, “That is not an emergency.”

Peter shrugged, completely unbothered, “Agree to disagree.”

Johnny groaned loudly and tipped his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling trying to act like he absolutely hated the fact that Peter was snuggled up on the couch with him. 

From somewhere down the hall, Ben’s voice carried easily over the TV. “Kid’s got a point, Matchstick.”

“Nobody asked you.” He shot back quicky.

Ben’s laugh rumbled through the hallway a second later, warm and gravelly and far too entertained by all of this.

Five years ago, Peter would not have had a keycard at all. He had known Johnny for a few years at that point and had never been past the Baxter Building lobby, it wasn’t because Johnny didn’t want him there, Johnny wanted Peter everywhere. Movie theaters, diners, rooftops, charity galas he complained about the entire way through, Peter’s tiny bedroom in Queens where Johnny would sprawl across his bed like he paid rent and try to steal Peter’s flannels.

But the Baxter Building was different, it was Reed’s lab, the base of operations for the Fantastic Four which meant that there were probably about twelve federal safety violations happening at any given time. So Reed had rules, and those rules meant there were no casual visitors or new friends. He was very clear that Johnny couldn’t just bring anyone into the building with unstable dimensional equipment just because he thought they were funny.

Peter had understood, mostly, he had only been a little offended. Then he remembered that Reed had no reason to trust him, he didn’t know Peter was Spider-Man, to Reed’s knowledge he could be some sort of Hydra spy sent to infiltrate their home. So he was just a normal amount of offended about it.

When it became clear that they were going to be impossible to separate, Reed had finally handed Peter a temporary visitor pass and said, “Please do not touch anything glowing.”

The first time he came over properly, like actually inside the building, past security, up the elevators and into the penthouse, past that invisible line between Johnny’s public life and private life he had just gotten into a fight with Sandman the previous day. Peter’s knuckles were still scraped a little raw, it was small but when he flexed his hand it would cause the scrape to reopen and a tiny bit of blood would ooze out.

The yellow light above the elevator began to blink lazily as they stepped off.

A soft chime sounded.

HERBIE paused, head swiveling to the alert.  “Minor radiation irregularity detected.”

Peter’s stomach dropped.

Johnny did not even slow down, “Ignore it,” he said, dragging Peter toward his room. “This place does that.”

Peter forced a laugh that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Good to know.”

And that had been it, there wasn’t any sort of lockdown, or blaring alarms, no one turned to look at Peter like he had brought something dangerous into the room. It was just one soft chime in a building that apparently chimed, beeped, flashed, whirred and hissed on a regular basis.

Peter told himself it was a coincidence, then it happened again. A week later, he came over with a split lip he blamed on tripping over a curb.

Minor radiation irregularity detected.

Johnny snorted. “Dude, I think the building hates you.”

Peter forced another smile. “I’m very hateable.”

“You are,” Johnny said, and then tossed an arm around his shoulders so casually Peter forgot how to breathe for half a second. “But in a cute way.”

The next time, it was a scraped palm.

Then a cut near his hairline.

Every time, the alarm was small and every time, Johnny ignored it. Honestly everyone seemed to ignore it, Sue would glance up from her tablet occasionally but mostly just keep doing whatever she was doing. Ben would sometimes mutter about Reed’s experiments messing up the building. And Reed didn’t seem to notice it at all.

Peter let himself believe that the alarms were a coincidence for almost two years, which in retrospect was an extremely stupid assumption. It took him far too long to realize the alarm never went off when he was fine, they never went off for bruises or pulled muscles, or broken bones. It was only blood, exposed blood. 

Peter’s blood.

After that, he made rules for himself. No Baxter Building after patrols, no Baxter Building with open cuts,  No Baxter Building if there was a chance that one of his freshly healed wounds might break open if he moved the wrong way.

In theory it was easy, but in reality it was nothing but. Somehow Johnny had become the person Peter wanted when things hurt and not just physically.

Johnny was who Peter called when the city felt too loud.

Johnny was who texted him three question marks when Peter took too long to answer.

Johnny was who fell asleep on the phone and then denied it the next morning, even when Peter had a recording of him snoring softly into the receiver.

Johnny was the person Peter wanted to go to after bad nights.

So Peter made sure he never did.

Johnny lasted about three weeks before he started showing up at Peter’s house unannounced, it wasn’t constantly and not often enough for Peter to call it a problem without sounding insane.

Just often enough that it started to feel... deliberate.

The first time it happened, Peter had just gotten back from patrol. His bedroom window was still cracked open behind him, letting in the cool Queens night air while the sounds of traffic drifted faintly in from the street below. His mask was tossed somewhere on his desk, one web-shooter sat half-disassembled beside his chemistry notes, and his suit...

His suit was still very much not put away.

Peter was about to step into the hall to go grab the charger he had left on the bathroom counter when he saw him, Johnny was two seconds away from knocking on his door, a paper bag of takeout in one hand and two sodas hooked between his fingers. He smiled the second the door opened, it wasn’t that usual cocky grin, it was soft. 

“Hey.” Johnny said carefully.

Peter stared at him for exactly one second. Then every survival instinct he possessed kicked in at once, and he slammed the bedroom door directly in Johnny’s face. The sound cracked through the second floor hard enough that Peter heard movement downstairs in the kitchen, followed by Aunt May’s voice drifting up the stairs.

“Everything okay up there?”

Peter did not answer, he had already spun around and was staring in absolute horror at the center of his bed.

His Spider-Man suit was sprawled across his sheets.

Not hidden.

Not tucked under the blankets or shoved into his closet like someone with functioning self-preservation might have done.

Just lying there in all its red-and-blue glory, one sleeve hung lazily over the edge of the mattress, swaying slightly in the breeze from the open window like it was actively trying to ruin his life.

Peter made a strangled sound from the back of his throat then launched himself across the room. He hit the bed hard enough to make the frame creak, scooped the suit up in his arms, stuffing it into his laundry hamper beside the desk. He buried it under three shirts, a pair of jeans, and the towel he absolutely should have washed three days ago.

There was a knock on the door. “Peter?”

“One second!”

A beat.

Then Johnny’s voice, muffled through the wood and sounding deeply offended. “Did you just slam the door in my face?”

“No!”

The silence that followed lingered for just a little too long before Johnny spoke again, “I was there.”

Peter ignored him, he kicked the hamper behind his desk, looked wildly around the room again checking for any missed evidence, he spotted the webshooter on the desk.

“Pete.”

“Coming!”

Peter snatched it up, shoved it into his sock drawer, slammed it shut, then stood in the middle of his room breathing hard while he looked around one last time. The room still looked suspicious, actually, it looked incredibly suspicious. His sheets were a mess, for some reason one of his sneakers was on his desk and when he caught a glimpse of himself in his mirror he was flushed, sweaty and his hair was a disaster. 

Definitely not helping.

He ran both hands through his hair, dragged in one steadying breath, then yanked the bedroom door open.

Johnny looked him over slowly.

Peter smiled at him with all the confidence of a man actively sweating through at least six lies.

Johnny’s eyes narrowed almost immediately but then he slowly lifted the paper bag between them. “I brought dumplings.”

Peter nodded way too fast. “Great, that’s awesome, I love that.” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, he crossed his arms across his chest, his hands clamped under his biceps in a way that definitely wasn’t casual.

Johnny definitely noticed.

For one long moment, he just stood there in the hallway, watching Peter with the kind of focus that made Peter’s skin feel too tight, then Johnny’s eyes drifted past him and towards the room.

Peter moved instantly, stepping sideways, bracing one shoulder against the doorframe, blocking as much of the view as humanly possible.

Johnny stopped, his eyes flicked back to Peter.

Peter smiled harder which was absolutely making everything worse.

Johnny’s mouth twitched.

And with sudden, dawning horror, Peter realized Johnny thought he had figured it out. It just... was not what Peter thought he had figured out.

“You have someone in there?” Johnny looked at him with quiet, stunned certainty.

Peter blinked, his brain stalled so hard it might have left skid marks. “What?”

Johnny nodded towards Peter’s room. “You,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have someone in there.”

And suddenly Peter saw exactly what Johnny was seeing.

The slammed door.

The delay.

Peter blocking the doorway with his whole body.

The flushed face.

The messy hair.

The panicked energy.

From literally anyone else’s perspective...

Yeah.

That looked really bad.

Peter could feel his soul leave his body as Johnny stood there in his hallway, takeout bag in hand looking at Peter with an expression he couldn’t quite read, and for one brief, beautiful second Peter was so overwhelmingly relieved because that he could work with. That was manageable. That was infinitely better than surprise, I’m secretly a radioactive vigilante.

“No.”

Johnny stared at him.

Peter heard himself keep talking before his brain caught up. “No one. There is no one. No people. No secret people. Just me. Alone. Normal alone.” The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to launch himself directly into traffic.

That had sounded bad.

That had sounded really bad.

Johnny looked down at the takeout bag in his hand for half a second, then back up at Peter, and when he smiled it was bright enough to fool almost anybody, but Peter wasn’t anybody. “Okay.”

“Johnny.”

“No, yeah.” Johnny nodded once, too quick, too easy. “It’s fine.”

Peter stared at him.

“You don’t have to tell me.” Johnny’s smile stayed perfectly in place. 

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Right.”

“There isn’t.”

“Sure.”

Peter wanted to peel his own skin off, instead, he stepped back from the doorway so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. “Come in.”

Johnny hesitated, just for a second and somehow that made Peter feel even worse. Then Johnny ducked past him into the room, moving with that fake casualness that Peter was starting to realize was a lot more dangerous than actual anger.

His eyes moved over the room quickly, not obviously looking but was still definitely looking. Johnny set the food down on Peter’s desk beside his chemistry textbook and camera parts. “So,” Johnny said after a moment, pulling containers out of the paper bag with slow, deliberate movements. “Homework?”

Peter nodded too quickly and dropped onto the edge of his bed before his legs could give out from nerves. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Johnny popped the lid off one container.

Peter cleared his throat. “I have a paper.”

Johnny nodded. “Cool.”

“And a lab.”

“Busy.”

“Very.” Johnny stabbed a dumpling with a plastic fork and still somehow managed not to look at him.

Peter sat there on the edge of his bed, hands clasped between his knees as he cataloged every single piece of hidden Spider-Man evidence in the room.

Suit in the hamper.

Shooter in the sock drawer.

Mask on his desk shoved under a notebook.

Every secret he had was sitting in the room with them, waiting to ruin him.

Johnny finally spoke again, still not looking at him, voice so casual it immediately made Peter nervous. “You’d tell me, right?”

Peter froze. “Tell you what?”

Johnny kept his eyes fixed very carefully on the sauce packet in his hands. “If you were seeing someone.”

Peter turned to look at him, brows knitting together in concern.

Johnny was focused entirely on peeling the plastic lid off the sauce like he was afraid it would bite him if he didn’t move slowly.

Peter’s chest tightened. “I’m not.”

Johnny’s fingers stilled and for the first time since he walked in, he looked up. “No?”

Peter held his gaze, trying to be completely honest about the one thing he was actually telling the truth about. “There isn’t anyone.”

Johnny watched him for a long moment. “Okay,” Johnny said quietly.

Peter swallowed hard. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Johnny looked back down at the food. “Okay.”

He clearly did not believe him and Peter could not even blame him.

It looked exactly like Peter was hiding a secret boyfriend.

Or girlfriend.

Or anyone.

It did not look like he was hiding a radioactive spider suit under his dirty laundry, which was somehow worse.

Johnny handed him a container of dumplings without meeting his eyes.

Peter took it, their fingers brushed for a moment before Johnny pulled away. Something about that made Peter’s heart clench uncomfortably..

After that, it kept happening. Johnny started appearing in places he had no reason to be, always with an excuse that might have worked if he were not Johnny Storm and therefore completely incapable of subtlety. He showed up outside Peter’s lecture hall with coffee and a pair of way too expensive sunglasses on, as if the sunglasses made him less recognizable.

He waited outside the Bugle one afternoon with a sandwich from the deli around the corner and said he had “been nearby,” which was impressive considering the Baxter Building was on the other side of Manhattan.

He appeared on the front steps of May’s house twice in one week, once with takeout and once with a movie Peter had mentioned wanting to see exactly one time like two years ago.

Peter became jumpy, there really was no other word for it. Every knock on his bedroom door made his heart punch his ribs, the buzz of his phone made him check where his suit was. Every time Johnny’s voice drifted up the stairs, Peter mentally catalogued the room around him: mask hidden, web-shooters hidden, cartridges hidden, bloodied shirt not visible, suit not visible, window closed enough to look normal.

He hated it and he hated the way Johnny’s face changed whenever Peter flinched even more. Johnny had started to look so careful around him, his eyes always searching for something that wasn’t there and had never been there. He could have fixed it, he could have told Johnny that there was no secret person because there was no one he would choose over Johnny but that would lead to more questions that he couldn’t answer. 

So Peter lied by omission until the space between them got crowded with things neither of them knew how to say.

Then came the day that everything changed, Peter was supposed to meet Johnny at seven for a movie night. This was apparently vital because Johnny had sent him no less than four text messages reminding him about it and threatening to come over if Peter dared cancel on him again.

Peter had stared at that last one for a long time with his mask in his hand and a bruise already forming along his jaw, he texted back confirming that he would be there. Which in retrospect was just asking for trouble.

The fight with Scorpion started ugly and just kept getting worse. Peter caught him trying to tear through the reinforced side door of an Oscorp transport truck, tail raised high. The street around him was chaos before Peter even landed. Cars abandoned at crooked angles. People running. Someone screaming from inside a bus shelter that had already been half-crushed.

“Hey, Mac,” Peter called, dropping onto the side of the truck. “Love the new look, very murder-lobster.”

Scorpion turned, his tail moved faster than Peter had expected.

His spider-sense shrieked and he threw himself backward, barely clearing the strike as the blade punched through the metal where his chest had been.

“Okay,” He breathed, landing hard on the asphalt. “Less into the lobster thing now.”

Scorpion laughed and came at him.

Peter was fast, usually he was fast enough at least but he was tired. He had been tired for weeks, stretched thin between classes, patrol, work, May, Johnny, and the growing mess of lies that were getting harder to keep track of.

Scorpion hit him once.

Then again.

Peter slammed into the side of a parked car, rolled over broken glass and came up spitting blood inside his mask. “Okay,” he rasped. “That one seemed personal.”

Scorpion’s tail snapped forward again, Peter dodged left. 

Not far enough.

The blade caught him in the side and for one second, Peter didn’t feel it. It was just a strange pressure, a wrongness that spread through him faster than he knew what to do with.

Then Scorpion ripped the tail back and the pain opened up, his vision blurring for a moment as he staggered, hand flying to his side. 

It came away wet.

“Oh,” Peter said, stupidly, staring down at the rather impressive hole in his suit as Scorpion grinned down at him.

Peter’s knees almost buckled as his spider-sense screamed again and his instinct took over. He shot a web and yanked himself up and over the next strike, hitting Scorpion with everything he had.

The rest of the fight was harder to remember, it was mostly pieces that blurred together like old photographs.

Webbing Scorpion’s tail to a streetlight.

Getting slammed into brick.

Sirens in the distance.

Blood soaking under his suit.

A desperate swing that sent Scorpion crashing into the side of the transport truck hard enough to dent it inward.

More webbing, honestly probably too much webbing.

Scorpion cursed from inside a cocoon of reinforced strands as Peter stumbled backward into an alley before anyone could see him fall.

He made it three blocks before he had to stop, then forced himself to keep going.

Two more.

Then one.

By the time he reached the roof of a closed laundromat, he was shaking so hard he could barely grip the ledge, he dropped behind the air-conditioning unit and peeled his mask off desperately trying to catch his breath as spots swam in his vision.

His phone buzzed, it was Johnny. He didn’t even need to look to know it was Johnny. He was probably pissed at him for being late, for bailing on another hangout, for lying to him again.

Peter pulled out his phone and tried to type a response but  his fingers slipped on the screen, blood streaking against the soft glow.

He swallowed hard and looked down at his side, trying to assess if it was as bad as it felt.

It was worse.

Too deep, too much blood, and not healing fast enough. His body was trying, he could feel it trying, but it was not enough to compensate for the blood loss. He knew he couldn’t go home, May would see. He couldn’t go to the hospital, something about having radioactive blood seemed like it might go over poorly and he really didn’t want to expose anyone who didn’t know how to handle that situation. He definitely could not got to Johnny… He needed Reed. The problem there was that Johnny lived with Reed.

But Reed had containment labs, and radiation protocols. He knew Reed was in reality the only safe option he had to handle this. Peter laughed once, breathless and almost hysterical in that bitter ironic way. Of course the only safe option was the building he had spent three years avoiding while injured.

His phone buzzed again.

Johnny: peter answer me

Peter closed his eyes.

“Yeah,” he whispered to no one. “Working on it.”

Peter forced himself to move, he had an emergency bag webbed under the lip of the laundromat roof, because Peter Parker had learned the hard way that sometimes Spider-Man needed to stop being Spider-Man very quickly.

Usually, changing clothes took him less than a minute. This time, it felt impossible, every movement pulled at the wound at his side. Every breath made something sharp twist under his ribs, his fingers kept slipping, clumsy with blood and shock, as he peeled the suit down and shoved it into the bag.

The shirt he pulled on was gray but it didn’t stay gray for long. Peter pressed one hand hard against his side and bit down hard on his cheek trying to stop the scream that threatened to claw its way out of his throat, and dragged on his jeans with shaking legs.

Normal clothes.

Normal shoes.

Normal Peter Parker.

Except normal Peter Parker was not supposed to be bleeding through his shirt on a rooftop while his phone kept buzzing with messages from the boy he was definitely not in love with.

Peter checked the wound again which was a horrible idea, his head swam with nausea and he had to grab onto the edge of the AC unit to keep himself from falling over. He swallowed hard, shoved the bloodied suit deep into the bag, and zipped it shut.

Then he made his way down to the street, he didn’t swing, he didn’t think he could honestly. Swinging would tear the wound wider. If he got vertigo again he might make a bad turn that sends him straight into traffic or the side of a building and that would be it for Spider-Man he would just be another headline, another stupid vigilante who died over something he really didn’t need to be involved in.

So he walked.

The city moved around him, bright and loud and horribly normal. People brushed past him without giving him a second look, cabs honked, someone was laughing on their phone next to a bodega.

The Baxter Building thankfully wasn’t far, even if it felt like it. He could feel his phone ringing now in his pocket, he didn’t think he could look down to grab it without falling over. He knew who it was anyway, and Johnny would know why he was late to their movie night soon enough.

By the time the Baxter Building came into view, Peter’s knees were shaking. The glass doors reflected him back at himself for one terrible second; pale face, sweat-damp hair, jacket pulled tight, blood darkening the fabric beneath his hand. He considered turning around briefly but then his vision started to fade into darkness at the edges and he pushed himself through the front doors.

For half a second, the lobby was quiet.

Then the building screamed. Red light flooded the walls and a siren tore through the air, Peter flinched so hard his hand slipped against his side. The blood was warm and slick between his fingers and he could feel it making its way down his hip.

“BIOLOGICAL RADIATION HAZARD DETECTED.”

“Yeah,” Peter whispered. “Okay. Fair.”

The containment doors slammed down behind him.

Then over the elevators.

Then across the side halls.

The entire lobby sealed itself shut in heavy metallic bursts.

Peter made it three more steps, gripping at the security desk with a shaking hand, leaving a red smear across the polished surface.

The alarm screamed louder.

“RADIATION CONTAMINATION DETECTED.”

Peter stared at the blood on the desk, his brows pinching together in confusion. He knew he was bleeding but it had started to have that strange out of body feeling like he was watching himself from above instead of actually experiencing it.

“Oh,” he breathed. “That’s bad.”

Footsteps pounded somewhere beyond the sealed hall, fast and heavy.

When The Fantastic Four came in they were ready for a fight, Ben hit the lobby first. His shoulders squared, fists clenched and ready for whatever threat had decided to break into their home. Sue was right behind him, one hand raised, a force field already shimmering faintly at her fingertips.

They were ready for an intruder, some sort of dimensional breach, aliens, unstable glowing monsters trying to eat their mailroom. Instead they found a civilian bleeding in their lobby and for one second no one moved.

Johnny’s fire went out. “Peter?” His voice came out wrong, Peter could hear it. It was small and confused, nothing like his usual tone.

Peter tried to smile but it didn’t work. “Hey,” he said, and then his knees gave out.

Johnny was moving before Peter even hit the floor. 

“Peter!” He bolted across the lobby, all instinct and panic, eyes wide as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. One second he had been ready for a fight, flames already crawling across his skin and the next Peter was bleeding out on the Baxter Building floor.

Reed’s head snapped up. “Sue, field around Peter. Now.”

Sue reacted on instinct, the air around Peter shimmered and snapped into place just as Johnny reached for him. Johnny hit the invisible barrier hard enough to stumble back a step, he just stared at it like his brain hadn’t caught up with what had just happened yet.

Then he slammed both hands against the field. “What the fuck?”

Inside the force field, Peter was on his knees holding himself up with one hand, while the other stayed clamped over his blood soaked side.

“Take it down,” Johnny snapped.

“Johnny, back up,” Reed said.

Johnny rounded on him instantly. “He’s bleeding!”

“I know.”

“Then help him!”

“I am,” Reed said, voice firm and clipped not slowing down for even a second. “The first step is making sure his blood does not contaminate anyone else.”

That stopped Johnny, he looked at Reed in confusion for  a moment before looking back to Peter. He didn’t understand what was happening and it was making his panic even worse.

Peter let out a shaking breath from inside the field, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry.”

Johnny’s face twisted like the apology physically hurt him. “Don’t apologize,” he snapped immediately. “Don’t you dare apologize. Reed should be the on apologizing!”

Reed ignored him completely and stepped up to the edge of Sue’s force field, crouching just enough to look Peter in the eye. “Peter,” he said evenly. “How bad?”

Peter swallowed hard, his fingers slipped once against his shirt before he managed to hook them into the hem and lift it.

The wound underneath was deep, jagged, and still actively bleeding. Peter could hear Sue gasp in the distance and he was pretty sure that Ben had swore but his ears were starting to feel like they were full of cotton.

And Johnny... Johnny went completely silent.

Reed studied it for exactly half a second, then gave one short nod, like it confirmed something he had already expected. “Ben,” he said. “I need you to carry him to Lab Four.”

Ben didn’t hesitate or ask questions, he just stepped forward waiting for the force field to drop.

“HERBIE,” Reed said, already moving. “Open containment route to Lab Four. Begin decontamination protocol for the lobby. Prioritize exposed blood.” Then Reed looked at Sue. “Keep Johnny here.”

Sue hesitated for only a fraction of a second, her eyes searching Reed’s face for just a moment before understanding that whatever this was was much bigger than any questions she had about it. She lifted her other hand and a second force field snapped into place across the hall, sealing herself and Johnny off from the side of the lobby Reed and Ben were on.

She let the force field around Peter fall and Ben moved forward, lifting Peter as carefully as he could manage. Peter still made a strangled broken sound as he collapsed against Ben’s chest breathing hard.Johnny slammed both hands against the new barrier.

“No! What are you doing?”

Reed didn’t stop. “Not now, Johnny.”

“That’s Peter!”

“I’m aware.”

“Then why the hell are you taking him away from me?”

Reed looked at him once. “Because your proximity will not help him survive.” Then he turned and followed Ben down the sealed corridor.

Johnny hit the force field again, uselessly, as they disappeared from sight.

Peter woke slowly, at first all he really registered was the white light overhead, too bright even through his half-closed eyes. White sheets tucked tightly around him. White walls, sterile and polished and almost aggressively clean.

For one disorienting, deeply stupid second, Peter thought hospital.

And then his brain caught up with the rest of reality and he remembered exactly why hospitals were not on his list of places he was allowed to nearly bleed to death in. He turned his head a fraction and found Reed sitting beside the bed in a full containment suit, one gloved hand moving across a tablet while streams of medical data flickered in front of him. The clear faceplate reflected the information, making Reed look somehow even more unreadable than usual.

Peter stared at him for a second.

Reed looked up almost immediately, as though he had been expecting Peter to wake at precisely this moment. “Welcome back.”

Peter swallowed, and instantly regretted it when his throat protested like he had spent the night gargling glass. “Did I die?”

“No.” Reed’s expression did not change.

Peter let his head sink back into the pillow. “Cool.” He closed his eyes again before adding, “Hate when that happens.”

Somewhere near his elbow, one of the monitors let out a soft electronic chirp. Reed glanced at it briefly before setting the tablet aside. “You are stable,” he said, his voice calm in that maddeningly steady Reed way that somehow managed to make life-threatening injuries sound like mild inconveniences. “The wound has closed and your healing factor has already begun repairing the deeper tissue damage. I would, however, strongly advise against unnecessary movement.”

Peter shifted maybe an inch and pain tore through his side so fast it stole the air from his lungs; he froze immediately, jaw clenching. “...Noted,” he wheezed.

Reed gave him a quick look before deciding to move on without mentioning it, he folded his hands neatly over the tablet in his lap. “You lost a significant amount of blood.”

Peter grimaced. “Yeah, I kinda picked up on that when I almost bleed to death in your lobby.”

Reed tilted his head slightly. “You did not almost die.”

Peter slowly turned his head to look at him.

Reed paused for exactly one beat. “Not immediately.”

Peter stared at him, not exactly comforted by the sentiment. 

Reed, incredibly, continued like that had been a perfectly normal exchange. “I administered a transfusion. Your body accepted the donor blood with minimal complications. There was a slight allergic response but it was manageable.”

“...Donor blood?”

“O-negative.”

“My weird spider body just accepted regular human blood?”

“Not perfectly,” Reed said. “But sufficiently.”

“Right…” Peter replied but didn’t fully sound convinced. 

The room hummed quietly around them, all sterile machinery and filtered air and the soft electronic rhythm of monitors doing their jobs. Somewhere beyond the sealed glass walls of containment, Peter could hear the distant mechanical whir of Baxter Building systems moving through their endless routines.

Peter’s eyes drifted to the ceiling for a few moments, staring at the ceiling before asking the one thing that had been sitting like a rock in his chest since he woke up. “How long have you known?”

Reed didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Approximately three years.”

Peter frowned, thinking that over before turning his head just enough to see Reed again. “So you found out I was Spider-Man and just decided...” He made a weak little gesture with one hand. “Eh. Might as well let him into the building?”

For the first time since Peter woke up, Reed’s eyebrows actually moved. “No, when I first allowed you access to the Baxter Building, I did not know you were Spider-Man.”

Peter nodded slightly but didn’t interrupt.

Reed’s voice stayed steady. “I knew you were important to Johnny. I knew you had been a consistent presence in his life for several years and I knew Johnny trusted you.”

Peter looked away at that, something about hearing Reed say it out loud made his chest feel strange.

“I discovered the connection later.” Reed continued.

“The alarms?”

“The alarms,” Reed confirmed. “Initially, I assumed the alerts were caused by one of my own projects. Statistically, that was the most likely explanation.”

Peter looked around the lab with mild interest. “Honestly? Fair.” he replied. 

Reed ignored him completely. “Then I noticed the timing. The alerts were not random, they only occurred, for the most part, when you entered the building.”

“So you were watching me.”

“I was reviewing building data.” Reed adjusted the tablet in his hands. 

Peter turned to look at him flatly. “That is such a Reed way to say yes.”

Reed paused for just a moment before nodding. He really did not have a way to argue against that..”

Peter let out a tired breath through his nose.

“I did not tell Johnny.”

Peter looked up sharply and met Reed’s eyes through the clear faceplate. 

“It is not my secret to share.”

“Thanks.” He said softly.

Reed inclined his head slightly. “While you are a vigilante, and I cannot professionally condone your life choices, I am aware Spider-Man has worked consistently to protect this city.”

Peter’s mouth twitched.

Reed continued. “And I am aware that you are not a threat to this building.”

“I literally bled radiation in your lobby.”

Reed even didn’t blink at that, “Yes.” he said, pausing just a moment before adding, “Which is why you are currently in containment.”

By the next day, Peter was technically cleared to leave containment, though Reed had delivered the news with the kind of grave professionalism that made it sound less like discharge and more like the release of a mildly unstable biohazard into the general population.

Peter was wearing loose gray Baxter Building workout clothes that hung slightly wrong on his frame, a thick bandage wrapped tightly around his torso beneath the shirt and enough layers of webbing reinforcing the dressing that it was fairly difficult for him to bend. Every movement still pulled unpleasantly at his side even with the layers of bandages and webs but it wasn’t enough to stop him from moving entirely.

Reed finished reviewing the last scan in silence while Peter sat on the edge of the examination table trying very hard not to look nervous about something that had nothing to do with the fact he had almost died less than a day ago because the problem was not the injury anymore, it was Johnny.

Reed finally set the scanner aside and stepped toward the sealed containment doors.

Peter straightened slightly. “That’s it?”

“For now,” Reed said.

The doors slid open with a low mechanical hiss as Peter watched them carefully, then he looked to Reed. “You’re not going to tell Johnny I’m being released?”

Reed adjusted the cuff of one glove with maddening calm. “No.”

Peter waited for an explanation that never came before pushing himself carefully to his feet with all the enthusiasm of a man preparing for his own execution. “You know,” he muttered, “most people would consider warning him the humane option.”

Reed finally looked at him directly. “Try not to startle him.”

Peter barked out a tired laugh before immediately regretting it when his side protested sharply. “You’re joking.”

He was not.

The elevator ride up felt absurdly long, Peter leaned back against the wall once the doors closed, one hand hovering near his side without quite touching it. He could feel the tight pressure of the bandages and webbing beneath his shirt every time he breathed too deeply. The mirrored elevator walls reflected him back at himself in brief flashes whenever the light shifted. Pale face, exhausted eyes, his hair still flattened strangely from sleeping in a medical bed. A body held together by stitches, webbing, and Reed Richards’ refusal to let people die inconveniently in his building.

Peter stared at his reflection for a second too long before looking away because underneath all the lingering pain and exhaustion was one singular, horrifying realization: He was about to voluntarily tell Johnny Storm he was Spider-Man. Which, honestly, felt significantly more terrifying than the stabbing.

The elevator finally slowed and Peter could feel his stomach dropping with it. The doors slid open onto the main floor and before Peter even stepped out, Johnny’s voice hit him from across the room.

“...and he won’t tell me anything, which is insane, because it’s Peter, and I’m not just gonna sit here and pretend that’s normal. He was bleeding, Ben. Like, a lot. And Reed’s acting like this is a normal Tuesday.”

Peter stepped out slowly, the main living area looked exactly the same as it always did. Bright windows spilling sunlight across polished floors. Half-finished science projects abandoned on side tables. The television running quietly in the background while Ben sat planted on the couch trying very hard to watch his show as Johnny talked at him.

Johnny was pacing barefoot across the room with enough restless energy to wear a trench into the floor, his hair a complete disaster and his clothes wrinkled like he had slept in them. Which, considering the dark circles under his eyes and the tension pulled through his shoulders, he probably had.

Ben noticed Peter first and his entire rocky face visibly relaxed. “Oh, thank God,” he said, voice full of exhausted relief. “Your boyfriend’s back.”

Johnny’s head snapped toward the elevator so fast Peter genuinely worried about his vertebrae.

For one second, the entire room seemed to stop as Johnny just stared at him.

Peter stood there just outside the elevator door feeling painfully fragile as he lifted his free hand in a weak wave. “Hey.”

Johnny moved immediately, one second he was across the room, the next he was right there.

Ben pointed at him from the couch, “Parker,” he called, “you are literally never allowed to do that again. He’s been annoying as hell.”

Peter managed a tired laugh that came out rough around the edges. “Good to see you too, Ben.”

Johnny reached him before anything else could be said and Peter thought that Johnny might actually grab him and start demanding answers immediately. Instead Johnny stopped just short of crashing into him, his expression twisting with the visible effort of forcing himself to be careful. Then he pulled Peter into a hug, it wasn’t exactly cautious but it was careful in a way that wasn’t normally Johnny.

His arms wrapped tightly around Peter without touching his injured side, one hand settling firmly between his shoulder blades.

Peter froze for a few seconds before he slowly melted into his arms, because Johnny was warm and Peter had spent the last twenty-four hours alone and trapped in a containment room thinking about this exact moment and Peter let it go on for far too long.

“What happened?” Johnny asked finally, his voice muffled against Peter’s shoulder. “Who did this to you? Are you okay? Did Reed actually fix you? Are you still radioactive? Can I touch you? Wait, I’m already touching you, is that bad? I swear to god, Pete, I’ll kill whoever did this.”

Peter blinked tiredly over Johnny’s shoulder toward the couch.

Ben raised both eyebrows in silent good luck with that.

Peter let one hand settle awkwardly against Johnny’s back.

“Johnny,” he said quietly. “Can we talk?”

Everything in Johnny seemed to go still, Peter felt it happen in real time, the way the panic shifted into something heavier the second Johnny heard the tone in his voice.

Slowly, Johnny pulled back and he searched Peter’s face with growing dread. “Yeah,” Johnny said after a second, even though he very clearly wanted to say literally anything else. “Yeah. Okay.” He swallowed hard, glanced away briefly like he needed half a second to brace himself, then jerked his head toward the hallway.

 “Come on.” He led the way toward his room, walking slower now only because he kept looking back every few steps to make sure Peter was still following him. The second Johnny’s bedroom door shut behind them, the atmosphere in the room changed completely, the noise of the Baxter Building faded into the background.

Johnny turned immediately. “Pete,” he said, voice tight enough to snap, “whoever did this to you, I swear I won’t let them do it again.”

Peter’s expression twisted painfully as Johnny took a step towards him, his words coming faster now. “If this is because of me, if someone got to you because you’re always here, because people know you’re close to me, because everyone knows you’re my-”

He stopped himself abruptly.

Peter shook his head. “Johnny.”

“No, I’m serious,” Johnny pushed on, visibly unraveling in front of him. “I can fix this. I can keep people away from you. I can make sure nobody ever gets near you again, I can-”

“Johnny, no.” Peter’s voice wasn’t loud but it was firm. It stopped Johnny in his tracks and Peter suddenly understood with awful clarity that Johnny genuinely believed this had happened because of him.

It’s not that,” Peter said quietly. “This isn’t your fault.”

Johnny’s expression shifted like he wanted to argue with that, like accepting it would mean letting go of the only explanation he had managed to find in the last twenty-four hours. If this was his fault then it was something he could fix; something he could burn out, chase down, and stand in front of.

Peter looked Johnny over once, like he was trying to memorize him in case this went really, really bad.

Of course Johnny noticed and the panic that had taken over his face flickered into something quieter. “Pete?”

Peter reached out before he could lose his nerve and took Johnny’s hand.

Johnny’s fingers closed around his immediately, automatic and warm and familiar, and for one second Peter almost lost the whole speech as he looked down at their joined hands. Johnny’s thumb was pressed against his knuckles and Peter could feel his pulse, fast and uneven.

Then Peter looked back up. “Johnny,” he said carefully, “they’ve been after me for years.”

Johnny’s face tightened. “What?” His grip tightened. “Why didn’t you-”

Peter shook his head once and kept going, because if he stopped, he was never going to start again. “They’re not your villains, Firefly.”

Johnny went still, his brows pulling together in confusion as Peter tightened his own grip on Johnny’s hand.

“They’re mine.”

The room seemed to narrow around them.

The bed. The posters on Johnny’s wall. The jacket tossed over the chair. The half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. All of it blurred at the edges until there was only Johnny looking at him and the words Peter had spent years not saying.

“I’m Spider-Man.”

Johnny didn’t move, he didn’t blink and for one awful moment, Peter thought he hadn’t understood. Then Johnny’s hand went slack in his, he wasn’t pulling away but it was like the shock had loosened something in him.

Peter held on anyway, because apparently he was selfish enough for that.

Johnny stared at him with absolutely nothing on his face and that was so much worse than anger, or yelling, or Johnny bursting into flame and storming out through the nearest window.

Peter tried to smile but it came out wrong. “Surprise?”

Johnny said nothing, it wasn’t a calm or thoughtful nothing. It was a terrifying nothing, the kind of silence that felt heavy enough to crush the air out of the room.

Peter’s heart started climbing steadily into his throat.

Johnny was still staring at him with that same blank, stunned expression, his hand loose in Peter’s grip like his brain had temporarily disconnected from the rest of him.

Peter’s panic immediately filled the silence. “Okay,” he said quickly, words tripping over each other almost instantly. “Okay, so, I know that sounds insane but it’s not like I meant to keep it from you forever. It just sort of got bigger? The secret, I mean. Not me. I mean technically kind of me too because there was the bite and then the strength and the sticking to walls thing and then I guess I got older?”

Johnny’s eyes flicked upward slightly at that.

Peter kept going anyway, because stopping felt impossible now that he had finally started. “And I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t safe. Not because of you. God, not because of you.” His grip tightened anxiously around Johnny’s hand. “It was because if anyone found out you knew or if anyone connected you to me more than they already do, then you’d be in danger. More danger. Different danger. Spider-Man danger.”

Johnny’s expression shifted, only slightly, but Peter saw it happen and immediately started talking faster. “And I know you already have villains and press and weird alien invasions and people trying to kill you literally all the time but this is different, Johnny. These are my enemies and they’re insane and they go after people. They go after people I care about.” Peter swallowed hard. “So I couldn’t just hand them another reason to look at you, and I couldn’t tell you about the radiation because then you’d ask questions, and I couldn’t answer those questions without telling you everything, and then-”

“You didn’t trust me.”

Peter stopped so abruptly it felt like getting hit. “What?”

Johnny’s voice was quiet, it was so quite, he wasn’t angry but he didn’t need to be. “You didn’t trust me.”

“No.” Peter shook his head immediately, too fast as the panic flashed across his face. “No, that’s not what this was.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened hard enough for Peter to see the muscle jump.

“It’s not about trust,” Peter said quickly. “It was about safety.”

Johnny laughed once and there was absolutely no humor in it.

Peter flinched instinctively. “I was protecting you.”

Johnny finally looked at him then, really looked at him, and Peter knew instantly that he had said exactly the wrong thing, but the words kept coming anyway because he apparently had no self preservation skills. “I had to,” he said. “If someone knew you knew, if Goblin or Octavius or Scorpion or any of them figured out you were important to me-”

Johnny snapped. “Peter, I don’t give a shit if you’re Spider-Man.”

Peter’s mouth shut immediately.

Johnny stepped closer in one sharp movement, eyes bright with anger and fear and something raw enough underneath that Peter’s chest tightened painfully just looking at him.

“I love you,” Johnny said, voice cracking with sheer frustration, “and I can’t protect you if I don’t know you’re out there fighting the fucking Green Goblin!”

Peter stopped, every thought in his head went dead silent all at once.

Johnny seemed to hear himself a second too late and the anger in his face faltered almost immediately, replaced by dawning horror. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “That was... a lot.”

Peter just stared at him, his head tilted slightly without him seeming to realize he was doing it.

Johnny blinked and then his eyes narrowed slowly. “How did I never notice that?”

Peter, still visibly stranded somewhere between emotional collapse and system reboot, frowned faintly. “Notice what?”

Johnny pointed directly at him. “That. The head thing.”

“What head thing?”

“The Spider-Man head thing.”

Peter straightened immediately, offended on instinct despite the way the movement pulled painfully at his healing side. “I do not do a head thing.”

“You absolutely do a head thing.” Johnny stared at him in disbelief.

“No, I don’t.”

“You just did it.”

“That was a normal head movement.”

“No,” Johnny said, pointing harder now. “That was a very specific bug-eye-mask head movement.”

Peter looked genuinely affronted. “That is not a category of movement.”

“It is when you do it.”

“I don’t do it.”

“You literally just did it!”

“I’m injured,” Peter informed him with complete dignity. “Maybe my neck is weird.”

Johnny stared at him.

Peter stared back.

And for one second the room almost felt normal again.

Then Peter’s mouth twitched, his grin started slowly, crooked and bright and deeply unfair. “Did you just say you love me?”

Johnny went completely rigid. “No.”

“Because I think you did.”

“I was under emotional duress.”

“That’s gross, you know.”

Johnny stared at him flatly while Peter nodded with solemn seriousness.

“Like, really gross. Embarrassing for you, honestly.”

A flush crept rapidly up Johnny’s neck. “I take it back.”

“Good,” Peter said immediately. “Because otherwise we’d have to apologize to a lot of people.”

“What?” Johnny frowned despite himself.

Peter’s grin softened around the edges but did not disappear. “For correcting them every time they called us boyfriends.”

Johnny froze.

Because Peter was still smiling at him.

Because he was not hiding behind the joke completely this time.

Because for once it sounded less like deflection and more like hope.

Johnny looked at him carefully then, really looked at him and realized with sudden terrifying clarity that Peter wanted this too.

The hurt was still there, the anger too, none of that had disappeared but something warmer had stepped in beside it. 

Johnny moved before he could think too hard about what he was doing, one second he was staring at Peter like the world had just tilted sideways beneath him, and the next he was stepping forward, grabbing lightly at Peter’s wrist and sitting down hard on the edge of the bed, dragging Peter down with him in one clumsy motion.

Peter let out a startled sound as he half-stumbled sideways, catching himself awkwardly with one hand against the mattress before carefully lowering himself the rest of the way down beside Johnny.

“Easy,” Johnny muttered immediately, one hand darting toward Peter’s side on instinct before stopping just short of touching him. “Jesus, sorry.”

Peter huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, the sound warm and tired and still slightly disbelieving. “It’s okay.”

Johnny shook his head once anyway, like he was still furious at the universe for allowing Peter to get hurt in the first place. “You’re still in trouble,” he said quietly.

Peter’s smile softened into something smaller. “Yeah?”

“So much trouble.”

Peter leaned against him slightly, careful of his stitches. “Boyfriend trouble?”

Johnny let out a breath that sounded half like a laugh and half like relief. “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “Boyfriend trouble.” He stared at him for maybe half a second longer, like he was giving himself one last chance to make a reasonable decision. 

Then, apparently, he decided thinking was overrated.

He grabbed Peter by the front of his borrowed Baxter Building shirt and kissed him, it wasn’t smooth. It was not careful in the way first kisses were supposed to be careful and it was definitely not planned, it was all the frustration Johnny had been choking on for twenty-four hours and all the panic of seeing Peter bleeding out in the lobby, the anger that Peter had kept this from him, and all the affection they had spent years pretending was just a normal amount of clingy best friendship.

Johnny kissed like he did everything else, like if he did not do this right now, he might actually combust from the force of everything he had been trying not to feel.

Peter made a startled noise against his mouth, one hand lifting automatically to catch around Johnny’s wrist. For just a second Johnny thought he might have misread the situation and then Peter kissed him back soft and eager and just clumsy enough to make Johnny’s chest ache.

Johnny was warm under Peter’s hand.

Almost too warm.

Actually...

Peter pulled back just enough to mumble against his lips, “I think your hair is smoking.”

Johnny froze. “What?”

Peter, grinning like a complete menace now against Johnny’s lips, reached up and patted lightly at the side of Johnny’s hair. A little curl of smoke rose near his temple, thin and unmistakable.

“Yep,” Peter said. “Definitely smoldering.”

“Are you serious?” Johnny jerked back, swatting at his own head with one hand. 

Peter started laughing, which immediately turned out to be a mistake. Pain sparked through his side, sharp enough that he folded in on himself with a wince, one hand grabbing at the stitches beneath his shirt.

Johnny dropped the hair panic instantly. “Okay, no.” He caught Peter by the shoulders, careful and frantic all at once. “No laughing. You are literally held together with medical thread right now.”

Peter waved him off immediately still trying to recover from laughing hard enough to nearly rip his stitches open. “No,” he said, breathless around the edges, “the top layer of skin is mostly knitted back together, and Reed let me put webbing over it so I don’t leak radiation everywhere.”

“...What?”

Peter, apparently deciding visual aids would help, grabbed the hem of his borrowed Baxter Building shirt and lifted it.

Johnny immediately wished he had not asked.

Bandages wrapped tightly around Peter’s torso beneath uneven layers of silvery webbing stretched across his skin in overlapping strands reinforcing the dressing with deeply concerning efficiency. The whole thing looked less like medical treatment and more like someone had attempted the world’s worst medical craft project.

For a second, Johnny could only stare at it, the sharp contrast between pale skin and white bandages and silver webbing. At the ugly hint of bruising disappearing beneath the wraps. At the visible proof of just how badly Peter had actually been hurt.

Then his face flattened completely. “You’re a freak.”

Peter grinned instantly, bright and unashamed. “Yeah,” he said. “But I’m your freak.” He flicked both wrists toward Johnny in tiny web-shooter motions. “Thwip thwip.”

Johnny looked deeply unimpressed. “I’m reconsidering the boyfriend thing.”

Peter dropped his shirt again, still smiling like this was all going incredibly well for him. “Too late,” he informed him cheerfully. “You already kissed the radioactive freak. That’s legally binding.”

“That is not how dating works.”

“It is for us.”

“No,” Johnny said firmly. “It absolutely is not.”

Peter shrugged with complete shamelessness, like a man who had already won an argument. “You’re probably contaminated now anyway, so that’s basically the same as licking food. You’re mine.”

For a long second, Johnny genuinely looked like he was trying to decide whether Peter needed a boyfriend, a doctor, or an exorcism. “That is not at all the same thing.”

Peter made a face like Johnny was being difficult on purpose. “It honestly is the same thing.”

“No,” Johnny said, before he dropped forward without warning, pressing his forehead into Peter’s shoulder, his face ended up half-hidden against the side of Peter’s neck.

Peter could feel the heat coming off him immediately, it wasn’t flame-on warm, just embarrassed Johnny warm, which somehow felt infinitely more hazardous to Peter’s emotional stability right now.

Johnny’s voice came out muffled against his skin. “You know it’s kind of messed up that you admit you like me right after getting nearly gutted.”

Peter snorted softly, one hand automatically coming up to rest against the back of Johnny’s neck.

Johnny kept talking anyway, words still warm and muffled where they brushed against Peter’s throat. “Because now I can’t do what I want with you.”

Peter went completely still for exactly one second, then his grin turned downright evil. “Excuse me?”

Johnny’s breath caught, Peter could feel the moment the realization of what he had said hit him.

Peter leaned back just enough to look down at him properly, eyebrows climbing higher and higher with obvious delight. “First, you admitted you love me because you’re gross.”

Johnny groaned louder and pressed his face harder into Peter’s neck like maybe if he committed hard enough he could physically disappear into the mattress.

Peter’s grin somehow got worse at that. “And now,” he said, voice dripping with satisfaction, “you just admitted you think about doing stuff with me?”

Johnny made a strangled sound that was probably supposed to be words and instead came out like a prayer for death.

Peter tilted his head thoughtfully. “Which is, like...” He paused dramatically. “Double gross.”

That finally got Johnny to lift his head from Peter’s neck just enough to glare at him. “Oh my god,” he said flatly. “Are you twelve?”

Peter grinned at him, completely unrepentant.

“No.” He shrugged one shoulder lazily, “I just like seeing you suffer.”

Johnny stared at him for a long second like he was genuinely reconsidering every life choice that had somehow got him here, emotionally compromised and leaning into a radioactive idiot with stitches in his side and absolutely no survival instincts whatsoever.

Then he pointed accusingly at Peter. “You know what? I’m done. Never mind. I hate you.” He started pushing himself upright off the bed with all the exaggerated dignity of someone attempting to storm away from a conversation while still trapped on a mattress.

Peter moved before Johnny got more than an inch, one second Johnny was halfway standing the next Peter had caught his wrist and tugged, not even hard, just one quick, easy pull backed by the deeply unfair strength of someone who could bench press a car.

Johnny yelped as his balance disappeared completely out from under him and he landed sprawled half across Peter, catching himself on his elbows at the last second so none of his weight crashed into Peter’s healing side.

The mattress bounced once beneath them.

Then everything went still.

Johnny blinked down at him from only a few inches away.

Peter’s curls were completely wrecked by now, soft and messy against the bed. The borrowed Baxter Building shirt hung crookedly off one shoulder from all the grabbing and pulling. His face still looked too pale, freckles standing out sharply against his tired skin but his eyes were warm in a way Johnny had never seen directed fully at him before.

Then Peter smiled so softly and very quietly, like it mattered more than every joke before it said, “I love you too, Flamebrain.”

Johnny just stared at him, for maybe three seconds before leveling him with a flat look. “You know you could’ve led with that.”

Peter shrugged carefully against the mattress, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Johnny narrowed his eyes at him, but there was no heat behind it anymore. Just exhausted affection and the lingering disbelief that this was apparently real now. Then he kissed him again anyway, softer and slower this time. Nothing like the first kiss had been, this wasn’t fueled by panic and adrenaline and too many emotions clashing all at once. Johnny’s hand slid carefully up along Peter’s jaw while Peter kissed him back with sleepy, aching softness that made Johnny feel strangely unsteady.

And still, even now, Johnny ran warm enough that Peter could feel the heat building again near his temple.

Peter smiled faintly against his mouth. “Your hair’s smoking,” he mumbled. “Again.”

Johnny groaned directly into the kiss. “Shut up.”

Peter pushed him back just enough to squint suspiciously up at Johnny, studying the faint little curls of smoke still lifting lazily off the ends of his hair.

For a second, he looked genuinely thoughtful about it, then, completely deadpan he said,  “I’m gonna get one of those mister bottles people use to deter cats.”

“What?” Johnny blinked at him. 

Peter lifted one hand between them and made a tiny spraying motion with his fingers. “For you.”

Johnny stared at him in pure offended silence, the kind of silence that suggested he was moments away from either arguing or setting something on fire.

“Did you just compare me to a cat?”

Peter considered that very seriously for a moment before answering. “No.”

Johnny visibly relaxed a fraction.

“Cats are less dramatic.” Peter grinned.

Johnny gasped like Peter had physically struck him, the offended expression on his face was so immediate and sincere that Peter almost started laughing again on reflex.

“I take back everything,” Johnny declared. “The love. The kissing. The boyfriend thing. All of it.”

Peter snorted softly.

“You literally confessed first, there’s paperwork now.”

Johnny narrowed his eyes instantly, then with absolutely no warning, he dropped his full weight forward being careful to avoid Peter’s stitches, trapping Peter against the mattress.

Peter wheezed as the air left his lungs. “Johnny.”

“No,” Johnny said firmly, pinning him in place with dramatic determination. “You do not get to compare me to a cat and threaten me with a spray bottle.”

Peter managed to wiggle one hand free from where Johnny had him trapped and immediately made another tiny spraying motion toward his face. “Psst,” he said. “Down, Flamebrain.”

Johnny’s eyes narrowed slowly in a way Peter recognized immediately as trouble. “Okay,” he said.

Peter blinked up at him. “Okay?”

Johnny leaned down until their noses were almost touching, close enough that Peter could feel the warmth radiating off his skin again. “Keep talking, bug boy.”

Peter’s grin went a little crooked around the edges. “...Still gonna get the bottle.”