𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

Tags
peter parker x reader spiderman x reader tasm! peter parker x reader tasm!peter parker spiderman fanfiction tasm peter parker tasm!peter imagine tasm!peter x reader peter parker x y/n peter parker x you tasm peter x reader spiderman x you peter parker oneshot tasm x reader peter parker imagine peter parker blurb tasm!peter parker x reader tasm peter parker imagine tasm peter parker x you tasm!spiderman x reader

More Posts from Annewashere and Others

annewashere
2 years ago

In the middle of the night

Y/n shout-whispering : Gally ? Gally can I sleep with you ?

Gally lifting the covers still sleepy : sure sweetheart, come here

Y/n snuggling with him : Thanks

Gally : So what's the problem ?

Y/n pulling up the covers : Nothing I just missed you

Gally chuckling : There's a spider in your hut right ?

Y/n dramatically : That thing was huge ! I swear it's a shucking monster !

Tags
the maze runner gally x reader the maze runner incorrect quotes the maze runner x reader
2K notes View Post
annewashere
2 years ago

could i please request a blurb w hotch like the scaring off a creep one u did with james 🥹🫶

Thank you for your request! fem!reader, tw unwanted advance

When a creep at the bar won't leave you alone, you look for the most intimidating man in the room. You know it might make things worse for you, but his suit jacket screams businessman, maybe lawyer, and while lots of lawyers are scumbags, he's standing with another man and two women, neither of which are under his arm, so you take your chances. 

"Hey, I'm talking to you." A cruel hand tightens around your wrist.

"I already told you I have a boyfriend," you say, pulling your hand away from the creeper's reach. 

"I already told you I don't believe it," he says. 

You rag your hand out of his touch and weave through people, until you're close enough to almost throw the businessman off his feet as you slot yourself under his arm. He stiffens, and his friends all react defensively, but luckily he puts up his hand and nobody tries to tackle you. 

The creeper is a couple steps behind you, and he doesn't see the strange reaction your 'boyfriend' has to your hiding in his side, thankfully.

"If you don't leave me alone," you say as bravely as you're able, hand curling with real nervousness into the businessman's shirt, "my boyfriend's gonna ask you outside." 

Creeper looks at you, shocked, and then at the businessman with raised eyebrows, as if to say, Is she fucking for real? 

The businessman's arm settles properly around your shoulder, his hand braceleting your naked upper arm. 

"Did you hear her or not?" he asks, and his voice is so steady, so commanding, he startles not only the creeper but you, too. 

"I can repeat it for you, if you'd like," says his dark-haired friend. She's almost as fierce as he is. 

Finally, finally, your creeper admits defeat and turns away. You watch him walk all the way to the door, and then you turn around and hang your head. 

"Sir," you say, "I am so, so sorry to just barge into you like that." 

"Are you hurt?" he asks. 

You look up, blinking. "Oh, no, not really. He grabbed me pretty hard, but that's when I came up to you." You smile at him and his friends. "You're the most intimidating person here. No offence." 

He rolls his eyes at the wave of his friends' raucous laughter.

"He absolutely is," says a shorter blonde woman, grinning. 

You nod your apologies at all of them and turn back to the maybe-not-businessman, who's really quite handsome both smiling and glaring. You decide you like the smiling more. 

"Could I buy you a drink?" you ask. "As an apology? Or a thank you." 

"No." He holds his arm out like he might steer you away and your heart drops, but he adds, "I'll buy you one. If that's alright." 

There's nothing forceful in his offer. The pit fills. Excitement blooms.

"That's alright," you confirm, words coloured by a tell-tale happiness. 

He guides you to the bar with a big hand behind your shoulder. Good-natured laughter follows from his table of friends, as well as a short but enthusiastic cheer of, "Go Hotch." 

"What's a hotch?" you ask, perplexed.

He laughs, a light, airy thing, at odds with his stern looks. "No idea. My name's Aaron, by the way." 

Tags
aaron hotchner criminal minds aaron hotchner x reader aaron hotchner imagine criminal minds fanfiction aaron hotchner fluff aaron hotchner x fem!reader
5K notes View Post
annewashere
2 years ago

Annoying

Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: It’s no secret Five finds you annoying. In fact, he frequently tells you this. Maybe he even goes too far. But when someone else insults you, Five realizes that only he’s allowed to do that. Reader is gender neutral.

Warnings: Hurtful comments said to the reader

Word Count: 3500

A/N: I’m alive! So long story short, I lost the motivation to write for a while which caused my spontaneous hiatus. I honestly wasn’t sure if I would post anything again. But then, I rediscovered comfort in writing, especially when it’s about my best boys. 

My posting from now on may be a bit sporadic as I’m back in school but I do intend to keep posting.

Anyway, here’s my favourite grumpy boy as a treat!

Annoying

Five Hargreeves had gotten used to working at the Commission. He still hated every second of it: the job, the people, the killings. But he had adapted, just like he had in the apocalypse, and had fallen into a familiar routine that made the situation easier to swallow. He had finally accepted his job and made peace with it. That is, until you came along.

You also work at the Commission as a field agent and until recently, Five didn’t even know of your existence. Then one day, you came into his office and tried to chat with him. He was bewildered of course and told you to get the hell out of his face. But his rude words didn’t deter you. Instead, you asked him if he wanted to be your partner in the field. Again, Five was shocked and told you absolutely not. Unfortunately, you don’t seem to take no as an answer.

Every day since then, you kept popping into his life. Every day you would make nice with him, do him favours, and were overall friendly with him. Every day, he offered you nothing but a cold shoulder. Every day you asked him to be your partner and every day he told you no.

It was extremely aggravating to say the least. He tried to report you to the Handler but she told him you were doing nothing wrong. She even made some suggestive comments that made Five regret ever going to her for help. So he was on his own.

Except none of his usual moves worked. You never shied away from his negative presence. If he blinked away, you would somehow find him again. There seemed to be no way to remove you from his life.

He’s sitting in his office working when he hears a sound he has come to dread. “Knock knock,” you say as you open his door, not waiting for a response. He once asked you, “What if I was doing something private?” but that only made him flush at the accidental implication and you laughed.

“Not now,” he mumbles, not taking his eyes off his work.

“Yes now,” you say, entering the room and taking a seat on the other side of his desk. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t just removed the chair since the only person who ever used it was you. “I brought you coffee!”

This causes him to glance up, only a little, and what a mistake that turns out to be. There you sit, a beaming smile spread across your face. Your eyes tend to light up when you smile, bringing attention to how stunning they are. Thoughts like these make him feel queasy, at least that’s what he’s deeming it to be. His face also tends to heat up and his breathing acts funny. He’s considered a few times that he was sick, but every test indicated otherwise.

This is another thing that bothers him so much about you. You bring unknown feelings that Five has never experienced before, and he hates feelings, let alone unfamiliar ones.

“The answer is still, and always will be, no,” he says blankly, his eyes focused on his computer but he isn’t paying attention to what’s on the screen.

“But I haven’t even said my pitch yet!” you complain. Without looking, he knows you’re looking at him with big puppy dog eyes. He would never admit, even to himself, that they affect him. “I think today’s speech is much better—”

“Doesn’t matter, still a no.”

You ignore him and clear your throat. “As your partner—”

“Stop.”

“I would bring you freshly made coffee every morning, just the way you like it,” you continue. He decides to stop talking to you altogether. With concentration, he’s able to read the words on the screen and continue typing. “You can still take lead on the missions, though you’ll find I’m fairly skilled on the field. This will also reduce the danger of getting hurt, and if one of us does get hurt, the other can patch them up.”

It is a pain to tend to my own wounds, Five thinks before mentally berating himself. He’s supposed to be ignoring you. And besides, he’s been taking care of himself for years, he’s used to the difficulties by now.

“Another bonus, is that with me as your partner, the Handler won’t be on you as much,” you say, and despite himself, he listens. “She’ll know that someone else has their eyes on you, and with my reputation, she’ll trust me with it.”

Now that actually sounds desirable. The Handler is always checking in on him and keeping a watchful eye on his actions. She knows he’s a good agent, he’s proved that by now, but she still worries that he might betray them. This makes him a loose canon in her eyes. Plus, with her attention elsewhere he’ll be able to make more progress on his secret project to return to his family—

Stop it, he tells himself. This is exactly what you want. You actually have him considering the possibility of becoming partners. The more your voice fills his ears and the more he thinks about what it would mean to have you as a partner, the more his face starts to burn.

He can feel himself losing control over his emotions and he panics. Clearly, ignoring you is not the solution.

“That’s enough!” he yells, causing you to pause mid-sentence. He looks over at you to see your wide eyes staring at him. For the first time, he sees a crack in your positive shield. He continues. “God, just stop already. I am so sick and tired of you groveling at my feet, it is so annoying. Why won’t you get this through your head? I am never partnering with anyone, especially not with you! So for the last time, leave me alone!”

A deadly silence fills the room. Five is panting from his outburst and when his anger recedes, he finds he’s shocked at himself. He’s never had an outburst like that, never yelled like that before. Sure he gets angry and frustrated all of the time, but he hardly ever yells and his words are never that venomous. He just got so riled up with his emotions…

You also seem shocked. You try to cover it up, but he can still tell. You seem unsure of what to say and your usual peppiness seems to have vanished as well. Five isn’t sure how to feel. He also isn’t sure of what to do.

You then clear your throat. “Well then,” you say, trying to piece yourself together. “You seem busy so I should go.” You grin but its wobbly and it doesn’t meet your eyes. And despite himself, he feels sorry. You wordlessly stand up and exit his office.

The silence remains and Five is left frozen. After a moment, he shakes his head and tries to feel unbothered by what just happened.

†††

A few hours have passed since his conversation with you, and Five is out of coffee. He blinks to the Commission’s break room but then he sees you there. You’re standing at the counter with your back to him and in a moment of panic, he blinks to behind a wall just around the corner from the break room.  

He curses silently. He can’t believe that he’s hiding from you after earlier. Maybe he just doesn’t want to deal with your emotions. Or maybe he’s hiding from his own.

He’s about to just toughen up and deal with it when he hears someone else entering the room. “Y/N, how nice to see you,” he hears someone say. He looks to see a woman approaching you. Five thinks he’s seen her around but doesn’t recognize her. He’s tried not to make friends here or fill his mind with useless information. This means he only knows a few people including you and the Handler.

“Cassandra,” he hears you say in a bitter tone. He frowns. He’s never heard you speak like that.

“How have you been?” Cassandra asks and Five doesn’t know why, but she sounds ingenuine despite her cheery tone. He also suspects her smile to be too friendly.

“Fine.” You don’t even look over at her as you continue whatever you were doing at the counter. It isn’t like you to be short with people, and Five wonders if it’s because of what he said.

“I heard you got in trouble with the Handler this morning,” Cassandra says. Oh shit, Five thinks. He isn’t sure if that happened before or after he yelled at you but either way, he doesn’t envy your morning.

“Yup,” is your only response. Cassandra doesn’t seem satisfied by your response. She walks over and leans against the counter next to you.

“That must have been awful. I hope she doesn’t fire you soon,” she says with false concern. You still don’t glance her way. You simply nod your head absentmindedly as your focus remains locked on the kettle in front of you, waiting for the water to boil. Cassandra just keeps talking. “Are you still bugging Agent Five about being his partner?”

Five’s ears begin to burn as the conversation steers towards him. Now more than ever, he thinks he should leave this private conversation, but his feet remain glued to the floor. What does he care? he tries to tell himself, but it doesn’t work.

He watches as you grip the counter tightly. Unfortunately, Cassandra also seems to notice and she takes that as an answer. “Aw you poor thing,” she says, putting her hand on your shoulder only for you to shrug it off.

“Look Cassandra,” you say, your voice filled with agitation. “I’ve had a really bad day, if you could just—”

“I can only imagine,” the woman says, and Five is starting to really dislike her. “It must be hard, getting rejected day after day. I’m surprised you haven’t given up.”

“Fuck it.” You push yourself off the counter. You turn around and Five ducks back around the corner. “I’ll come back later.”

There’s a moment of silence before, “Do you know why he keeps rejecting you?” Five risks a glance to see that you’ve turned back around.

“What?” you say, surprised by the question.

“It’s the same reason why all of the others rejected you,” she says, which takes Five by surprise. He didn’t know there were others. An illogical flare of jealousy rises in him before he stomps it out.

“You’re annoying,” she says, her tone one of false sympathy. “No one wants to be around you. You come on way too strong and, sweetie, you reek of desperation.”

“S-stop,” you say, in shock but also seemingly hit by a bullet of emotions. Even Five is surprised.

“You’re just a nuisance,” Cassandra says. “A pest that no one can get rid of. That’s why you’ve never found a partner and that’s why you never will. I mean, who could like you let alone stand you?”

“Cassandra…” you say and Five can hear the quiver in your voice. He doesn’t know why, but the sound makes his chest tighten.

“Face it, Y/N,” she says, now standing right in front of you. “You were always meant to be alone.” Finally, Five can’t take it anymore. He walks out from around the corner and glares at Cassandra. He finds himself loathing her. Only he is allowed to call you annoying.

Cassandra glances past you and looks surprised to see him there. Just like that, she has on her friendly looking face again. “Oh hey there Fi—” she starts to say to him.

“Get out,” he spits at her. Her eyes widen at his venomous tone but decides to listen, scurrying away. It’s nice to see his fearful reputation precedes him. There’s a silence that settles in the room once she’s left. You seem to be frozen in place, not even turning to face him. He isn’t sure what to do himself, whether to somehow approach you or to ignore you entirely.

Luckily, his decision is made for him as you wordlessly walk back up to the counter towards the kettle. Five clears his throat, trying to rid himself of this awkward feeling, and walks up beside you.

He doesn’t address you, after all he normally isn’t the one to start the conversation. Which is why it’s so odd when you don’t. The two of you move about silently, completing your individual tasks. He finds he can’t even look at you, for the downtrodden look on your face still inflicts pain upon him. Finally, after an agonizing amount of time, you speak.

“Five,” you say, also clearing your throat. “I, uh, I have some good news for you.”

He sees that you’re trying to plaster on your usual happy appearance but it’s broken and he can see right through it.

He expects you to say something along the lines of “I forgive you for earlier” or “I made you some coffee.” He expects you to forgive him and act as normal. He did not, however, expect your actual words.

“I will no longer be bothering you with my presence.” Normally, these words would send him jumping for joy. After all, this is what he’s been wanting. But after the conversation he overheard, something gave him pause.

“Oh?” he says, at a loss for words as he is caught off guard.

“Yeah,” you say with a forced smile. “I’ve realized that I haven’t been respecting your feelings, as you have made it more than clear that you don’t want me as a partner and that you never will.”

He hears your voice crack towards the end and he can’t help but compare your words to Cassandra’s. “Yes I uh…I appreciate that,” he says, hesitant with his words. He isn’t sure what to make of all of this.        

“Right,” you say, straightening yourself. You pick up your mug and turn to fully face him. He tries to ignore the shine of incoming tears in your eyes. “See you around. And uh, sorry for bothering you.”

Before he can say anything else, you turn and exit the room, leaving Five in a state of uncertainty.

†††

When Five walks into work the next morning, he’s not on edge like he usually is. He normally expects you to greet him on his way to his office, but there’s no sight of you. After Five recovered from his shock, he decided he should be happy about the situation. Sure, he didn’t want you to get hurt, but he got what he wanted.

He settles into his office and gets to work. He reaches to take a sip of his coffee when he realizes there’s nothing there. Oh, right. You normally got his morning coffees for him. Not a big deal, he thinks. If anything, this shows what a nuisance you had been for changing his routine.

Throughout the next couple of days, he starts to realize what an impact you had made on him. For one, the coffee doesn’t taste as good, which is odd. Then he noticed his plant started to die. Five didn’t even know he had a plant. He got rid of it and suddenly felt that his office was colder. He knows it’s illogical, but he didn’t realize how it brightened the room.

And most of all, he found his normal routine to be rather dull. Normally, you would interrupt his work and give a small relief to the boring workload. His room is quieter than ever and the days start to blend together.

But this is what he wanted wasn’t it? To finally be on his own? It’s not like he missed your ramblings, or the sound of your laugh, or your happy disposition, or the way you brightened his day. No. He’s better off alone…

He doesn’t even believe himself. He scowls. How could he let this happen? How could he let someone in and affect him so much to a point where he missed them? He thinks about ignoring his feelings and soldiering on, as is his way, but the thought of going on like this for God knows how long makes him reconsider.

Goddamn you.

†††

He had never seen your office before. He didn’t even know you had an office up until now. He thought, a bit conceitedly perhaps, that he was the only field agent with an office. Maybe you weren’t exaggerating when you said you were good.

Your door is left open, possibly to be more inviting and welcoming. It’s perfectly you. Five looks in to see your head down, writing something at your desk, and takes a moment to consider you. God, he had missed you. He feels a little excited just seeing you there. Is he that lonely and desperate?

He knocks on your door and stands in the doorway. You lift your head and your eyes widen in surprise to see him. He tries not to look uncomfortable under your gaze.

“Oh! Hey Five,” you say, cautiously. You’re not as bubbly around him anymore, almost afraid to scare him off. He doesn’t like it. “What can I do for—”

Before you can finish, Five drops a file onto your desk. You look at him in surprise. There’s a silence. “What’s this?” you ask.

“Read it,” he snaps at you, his nerves getting the better of him. You open the file and he sees surprise overtake your whole face.

“This…this is a request to have me as your partner,” you say quietly, not knowing how to react.

“This has nothing to do with your pestering, by the way,” Five says. “I thought about it and came to my own conclusion that a partner would be beneficial. I thought since you were already willing, it was the simpler choice.”

As he speaks, he watches your disbelief change into joy and a bright smile returns to your face. It’s almost infectious.

“This is incredible,” you say. And then something changes and your smile drops into a frown, which makes him upset. Not that he was doing this for you, but he thought you’d be happy. “But I thought…I thought I annoyed you. What changed?”

He feels guilt tug at him. It seems his outburst stuck with you. “I…might have overreacted the other day. You do annoy me, but I didn’t mean it like that.” You nod at this and he senses it isn’t enough to convince you. Fuck it. He’s already in this deep. “I suppose, as a gesture of good faith as your new partner, and only for this occasion…I owe you an apology.”

Your eyes shoot up at him and he falters. Then he clears his throat and prays no one else is around to hear this. “I am…sorry, for any hurt my outburst may have caused you.” He could count on one hand the number of times he has genuinely apologized to someone. But apparently it works, as your frown is gone.

“Oh, um, thank you,” you say, unsure how to respond to his sudden change in character. There’s an awkward pause before you smile. You hold out your hand and say, “Partners?”

It’s such a sweet gesture of forgiveness that Five finds his mouth twitching upwards. “Partners,” he says, shaking your hand. He ignores the sparks he feels when his hand touches yours. But he has been sentimental for far too long.

He ends the handshake and clears his throat once more. “To be clear, this is not an official contract, you still have to sign the paper,” he says but the smile cannot be erased from your face.

“Yes, of course! I will handle that right away,” you say. “This is so exciting! You will not regret this.”

“I better not,” he says. “This doesn’t change anything between us, we’re not friends.”

“Yet,” you say with a cheeky smile. He is much more relieved to see you acting as your normal self again.

“Y/N I’m serious—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. This is going to be so fun,” you giggle, seemingly ignoring what he just said. “Thank you.”

You’re looking up at him, a soft smile on your lips and a twinkle in your eye. He falters again as he feels heat rising in his cheeks. He looks away.

“No need to thank me, just make sure that request is signed and submitted.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” you salute him and he takes this as his cue to leave. He turns and you call out, “See you around!”

He doesn’t respond, or rather he can’t. He’s already starting to regret this and not because of the reason you think. Seeing you all happy and excitement caused his heart to swell with a feeling he isn’t familiar with. He doesn’t like this unknown territory and change. But he has to admit…

It felt kind of nice.

Tags
the umbrella academy five hargreeves five x reader five hargreeves x reader five hargreeves fanfiction
3K notes View Post
annewashere
1 year ago

A Fate You Can’t Escape

A Fate You Can’t Escape

Summary: Hungry and alone in the bunker the reader decides to take the Impala into town for a quick trip to get dinner. But things don’t go as planned and the reader tries her hardest to escape the consequences of her actions before the brothers return from their hunt. But as things go from bad to worse the reader begins to discover that some times you can’t escape your fate.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 8,900

Warnings: Car Accidents

A Fate You Can’t Escape

You were laying on the couch in the Dean cave watching some new show on Netflix when your stomach just started rumbling. You tried to ignore the grumbling, but it got to the point that you couldn’t anymore. If you didn’t eat something soon you were gonna be sick.

You groaned, you knew there was practically no food in the kitchen. There might have been a slice of bread, but that wasn’t gonna hold you over. Neither Sam or Dean were home, Garth had picked them up for help with a case in the area and they promised to pick up supplies and grocery’s on their way back. The problem was you expect them back two hours ago and you hadn’t heard from them.

You could wait for them, but you had no idea when they were going to be back and even if you manage to wait for them then you would have to wait till dinner was cooked.

Another violent grumble in your stomach told you that you weren’t going to be able to wait and decided to go into town yourself and pick up some food.

Although that brought up another problem. Your car was still out of commission after the last hunt you took it on. The impala was still in the garage, as Garth had picked the boys up, but Dean rarely lets you drive it, hell Sam barely gets the chance. You knew that Dean would not be happy if found out you took his baby, especially without asking first.

There were course several other cars in the garage, but half of them weren’t in working order having sat so long uncared for. Dean has been fixing them up in his free time, as a hobby and way to clear his head. But lately, we’ve been so busy with back to back hunts we’ve hardly had any downtime. And the ones Dean has managed to fix up were stick shift and you had no idea how to drive them.

Without any other option, you headed to Dean’s room to get the keys to the impala. You thought about texting him, but he would probably make up some excuse and tell you they were on their way back now and just to wait for them. Of course, that’s what he said the last time you talked and yet they still weren’t here. You figured that as long as you didn’t linger around, you’d be able to get the food and come back before them.

“Pizza for Y/N.” You said to the man behind the counter, he nodded his head and went back to fetch it.

Y/N, that’s a pretty name.” Said the elderly woman standing at the counter waiting for her order.

You gave her a short, but polite smile, “Thanks.”

“It’s so pretty, and it really fits you.” She stepped closer to you, closer than you would have liked, but you fought to hide your discomfort as she was just being a sweet old lady.

“And your hair. It’s so pretty!” She said reaching out as if she was going to run her hand through it. You immediately stepped back only for her to follow. You didn’t want to be rude but she beginning to make you uncomfortable.

You turned away from her staring back at the kitchen hoping your food would come out soon as you kept a watch on her from over your shoulder. Your feeling of uneasiness grew even more when she began asking you questions you were and where you lived. You made up a lie about just passing through town but then her questions only grew.

“Alright pizza and wings combo.” The man said setting the food down on the counter. You let out a sigh of relief and quickly paid for your food and rushed out of the restaurant.

The interaction left you feeling uneasy and you had this unshakable feeling in the pit of your stomach. You sat in the impala for a few seconds to makethe sure she didn’t follow you out and you even drove around the block a couple of times in hopes to settle that uneasiness.

After circling two blocks and another grumble of your stomach that reminded you how hungry you were, you got back on the main road and headed out of town.

You were driving out of town faster than the posted limit because you wanted to get back and dig into ‘your food. You weren’t concerned about speeding as it was a clear evening, no one was around, and Dean always drove at least fifteen over the limit.

You were about two miles out of town, coming across ‘Bendman’s Curve’ as the locals referred to it due to something that happened years ago. The curve was sharp and you slowed down to a more manageable speed, you were probably still driving a little faster than officials would have liked, but you have driven it many times and knew you would be fine at this speed.

That was until you were halfway through the curve and saw a water tank had tipped over and was laying on the side of the road. That wasn’t the problem though, the problem was the tank burst and was currently spilling all over the road. Between the angle of the curve and the water on the road, it was too much. The tires began to spin out and skid and the next thing you know you had last control of the front wheels. As a result, the impala was sliding across the road and despite all your efforts you could not regain control of the car.

Before you knew it the impala came to an abrupt stop as it crashed into the guardrail.

You pull your pounding head up from where it had collided with the steering wheel and as you brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, you felt something wet. Blood. A look in the rearview mirror showed a large gash on your forehead.

You weren’t worried about that though. Despite the fact that everything was blurry and how light-headed you were feeling, you pushed past that feeling and climbed out of the impala.

Standing up was a mistake though, and if it wasn’t for the fact you were leaning against the impala you would have fallen to the ground. You slowly pushed yourself upright and made your way around the impala.

You inspected the area you crashed into. The front fender had taken the brute of the impact, causing the siding to cave in. The headlight had popped out too.

You were overwelmed with emotion. Dean was gonna kill you.

This car was his most valued possession. It’s the only thing he’s ever known since the age of four. He took care of his car, more than anyone else would. He washed and waxed it on a set schedule, he was constatly under the hood making sure everything was running just as it should be. The impala was more than just a car, it was a safe place he could take shelter from the monsters when he was a kid, it was a warm sight to see as John came back to pick him up from whatever motel he had dumped him at. It was the first car he learned how to drive and the first and only car he owned. She was his baby and the only home he has ever known. Even now that they have found the bunker and a constant place to rest their heads, the impala was truly where both boys felt at home, especially Dean.

Dean hardly ever lets Sam drive her, and the only time he’s ever let you drive her was because he got hurt on a hunt and Sam wasn’t around, and even then you had to plead with him that he couldn’t drive in the state he was in.

What were you thinking taking Baby without even asking Dean? He would have been mad, no not mad furious if he got home before you and found out you took her out for a ‘joyride’. But now, after he gets a look at her, mad wouldn’t even come close to the rage he will be feeling.

God how could you be so stupid, taking the impala was stupid enough but you knew how much Dean loves her, you should have taken extra care of her, you shouldn’t have been driving so fast, you should have watched the road more carefully for hazards.

You brought your hands up to head, ‘What did I do? What did I do?’ Kept repeating in your head. ‘If only I had driven slower, or if I left the restaurant right away instead of driving mindlessly around the block, or maybe if I waited longer.’

What you wouldn’t do to fix this.

Suddenly the pain in your head grew immensely. You felt dizzy and light-headed, and you went to grab your phone and call for help, but before you got a chance darkness overtook you.

A Fate You Can’t Escape

You groaned as you opened your eyes. Your back and neck hurt from the position you were in so as carefully as you could you moved to sit up. It took you a few moments to clear the fogginess in your brain and get your eyes to focus, You were unsure of where you were.

As became more alert, you found yourself sitting in the impala, the ache in your neck and back due to the fact you had been hunched over the steering wheel. You began to remember what had happened, Bendman’s curve, the water truck, and the accident.

But the strange thing was you were no longer there. You vaguely remember passing out at the scene of the accident but now you find yourself waking up in a different place. Normally that wouldn’t be such a unnatural thing somebody found you, and called for help. But if that happened you be waking up in a hospital or even an ambulance. Or if Sam and Dean had found you, you’d find yourself waking up in the familiar sight of the garage in the bunker.

But that’s not where you found yourself. The blinding neon lights flashing in front of you put you back at the restaurant. How you got back here though, you weren’t sure.

You climbed out of the impala and made your way around to the front and were astonished to find baby’s front was unblemished. Her fender was shiny and pristine just like she was the day she rolled off the line. Dean really did a fine job taking care of her.

A fact that only made you feel more guilty for taking her without permission. You weren’t sure why or how you had such a vivid dream, but you were thankful for it. You had foresight of what could happen and you knew what to avoid.

You climbed back into baby and started her up. This time you wasted no time and got on the road. You drove her carefully, making sure to follow the speed limit and keeping your eyes moving for unexpected hazards in or around the road.

When you made it back to Bendman’s curve you were relieved to find the road clear and the water truck no where to be seen. Not willing to take any chances you slowed down below the curve’s speed limit. This curve was named after a tragic accident after all. You made it through the worst of the curve and you began to gently accelerate out of the curve.

You saw the black pickup truck driving towards you in the other lane. You watched it carefully and even moved over toward the side of the road when you thought it was going to crossover into your lane. When it readjusted its position in the center of the left lane you began to move back over. As you approached it closer you continued to watch it, though everything seemed fine.

Until it wasn’t.

Just as you were about to pass the truck, it crossed over into your lane and there was nothing you could do to avoid the head on collision. The impala came to a sudden and violent stop as it collided with the pickup truck.

Ringing. That’s all you could hear as your mind worked through the haze. All you felt was pain, excruciating pain. There was a deep pounding in your head, your chest ached due to the fact you had been jolten into the dashboard, and your legs had been pinned and crushed.

You were having a hard time focusing on anything other than the pain radiating throughout your whole body. You tried hard to concentrate and make your eyes work but your vision was fuzzy and disoriented. You could hear muffled voices, but you couldn’t make out what was being said.

Sacred and worried you began to wiggle and try to turn in the direction that voices were coming from. Which you soon found was a mistake as the pain doubled. You froze where you were, the position painful and uncomfortable but moving proved to be worse.

God, why is this happening to you!? You had a warning, and you took every precaution to make sure the ‘dream’ you had didn’t come to fruition but now not only did it happen but it was worse than predicted.

Forget the rage Dean would have towards you for taking his baby. He was going to kill you for destroying her.

“Miss, can you hear me!” A fuzzy voice was shouting at you. You couldn’t focus on it as you having a hard enough breathing right now.

After a couple more minutes you found that the pain had lessened in intensity, but you knew that wasn’t a good thing. Combined with the fact that your eyes felt extremely heavy and you found it a struggle to keep them open, you knew you wouldn’t have long if you didn’t receive medical attention soon.

Many regrets flashed through your mind. Not taking more time for yourself. Not living your life to its full potential. Not taking chances. Your mind showed you images of the green-eyed man who had captured your heart. He didn’t know about the crush you had on him and now he never will.

“Stay awake,” a voice commanded. But as much as you wanted to you couldn’t follow the demand. Not being able to fight anymore, your eyes slipped closed and the muffled voices around became silent.

A Fate You Can’t Escape

You woke with a start, taking in the surroundings around you. You were confused trying to remember what happened. You remembered bits and pieces. You somewhat remembered the crash and you vividly remember the pain.

But your body felt fine now. You even sat up and took stock of your body looking for injuries and moving around feeling for any sort of pain. There was a creak in your neck from the way you had been hunched over the steering wheel, but other than that you were fine.

Baby herself was unharmed as well. Her once caved in dashboard was in perfect condition, the windshield was no longer a spiderweb of broken glass, and her frame was no longer bent out of shape.

You were back in front of the pizza parlor, after having just picked up your food. You were confused as to what was happening. Twice now you had been in an accident, or at least your thought you had, but then you woke up right back here.

Did you fall asleep? Was it all just a dream? But if it was just a dream, why do you fall asleep? You had been perfectly alert before picking up your food and now you’re passing out behind the wheel of baby? It just didn’t make sense.

Something was off, you could feel it in your gut. But yet you were always known to have vivid and wild dreams, it why you had a hard time believing that monsters were out there when you first attacked by one. You couldn’t have been sure that it wasn’t just your crazy imagination.

One thing was for sure though, you weren’t going to solve anything sitting here in the parking lot and the grumbling in your stomach reminded you how famished you were. Whatever was happening or more likely not happening, you could figure it out back at the bunker with the boys. Speaking of the boys you knew you need to get home before they did or rather when Dean did and spotted a Baby sized whole in the garage.

So ignoring everything that just happened, every confused thought you had, you got back on the road heading home. Your cleared your mind of everything that was happening and made getting home your first priority. Nothing else mattered. If something was going on, well it should stop when you were in the protective walls of the bunker, and if not well then you worked it out in the safety of the bunker with the boys while you chowed down on your food.

But your urgency to get home was less because of the strange things you thought you were experiencing and more due to the fact you wanted to get home before Dean. Real or not, twice now you had experienced deep regret about taking his car without even asking. You could imagine how angry he would be at you, for not only taking her but letting her get damaged on your watch. You didn’t want to feel that way again. You didn’t want to see the anger that would cross his face, anger which you caused. You didn’t want see his heartbroken stare as he took in the damage of not only his precious car but his home and his whole world. You would never forgive yourself for causing him such pain and you would never be able to get his hurt expression out of your head. It would haunt you in your dreams, even now just imagining it had left you shaken. The only way to make sure that didn’t happen was to get home before he could notice she was gone.

So you drove home, ignoring everything else happening in town, your only focus was on the two lanes ahead of you. The closer you got to home the more tension you felt lifted from you, you were going to make it. Everything was as it should be but as you approached Bendman’s Curve this nagging feeling in your gut grew. It was so much that just before entering the curve you pulled over to the side of the road.

You sat there trying to compose yourself. You felt silly sitting here, too afraid to move forward. You felt like a coward, but for the life of you, you could not make yourself precede forward.

Another rumble of your stomach reminded you of how hungry you were. You glanced over at your food sitting on the passenger seat. You wanted nothing more than to go home and dig into it, yet still, you couldn’t force youself to move. The thought briefly crossed your mind about eating here in the car, but you quickly dismissed the idea. Dean had a strict rule about eating in his baby. He let snacks and other small things go on long road trips, but never were you allowed to eat meals in his car, he strictly forbid it. Not willing to risk leaving a mess for Dean to find you chose just to wait until you got home, you be lucky enough if you got Baby home before he noticed, you weren’t willing to take the chance of committing two offenses.

You were lost in your own thoughts when suddenly a black truck came zipping out of the curve. Your eyes widen in shock as it drove past you, close enough that it almost hit you, in fact, if you hadn’t been parked on the side of the road they would have definitely hit you head on as the truck had crossed over into your lane.

You sat there, heart racing with adrenaline at the near miss you just had until the dream you had woken from came flashing back to your mind. That was the same truck that had plowed you down in your dream, from its color, to its make and model, to even the mud stains lining the driver’s side of the vehicle. Something was happening, any doubts you had that it was just a fluke, your imagination, or some crazy coincidence were gone. If you hadn’t felt some uneasiness in your gut that made you pull over you would have sure been flattened under the dashboard as the result of the collision.

You remember Sam briefly telling you about the vision or rather premonitions he used to get years ago. Could that be what was happening to you? It was the only reasonable explanation you could come up with, but then again it didn’t make sense. Sam’s premonitions were caused by the demon blood yellow eyes had given him as a baby. You weren’t one of ‘Azazel’s children’, you had been born five years prior so why was this all happening to you? And why now? You had gone your entire life without any of this happening, so what’s causing it now?

Now the urgency to get back to the bunker was even stronger. If those truly had been visions and they depicted you getting in a car wreck on your way home, then you were in trouble. You still had seven miles left, curse the bunker for being located so far from town, and just because you manage to nearly miss the accident a few minutes ago didn’t mean more couldn’t be along the way, there were a lot of idiot drivers after all.

In fact, the reoccurring theme in visions seems to make that pretty obvious. You avoid the first accident by taking a different route, you missed the second by pulling over at the right moment, two accidents was more than just a coincidence, there will be another.

A Fate You Can’t Escape

You let out a frustrated yell when you opened your eyes. Once more you were back at the pizza parlor, this time a loose beam under the bridge slipped as the impala rolled over it. There was nothing you could do as the road slipped away right under your wheels and you went crashing into the watery grave below.

That was the seven time you had tried to make it home, each time a new problem rose up preventing you from completing the trek home. You felt stuck like there was nothing you could do. No matter how safe you drove, you never made it back. Some careless driver or unforeseen circumstances always won.

You had even tried to drive a completely different route home. One that would have taken you far longer to get home and risked the boys beating you home, but at the time you felt it was a safer option than the usual route, given that you died on it six times already.

It didn’t matter want you did or didn’t do, you always crashed, you never make home, and you always ended up right back here to due all over again.

Though you have noticed that no matter how long you took the loop never faltered. Every time you woke up, you woke at the same time, each time, 6:23. At first it had been a blessing it meant that you still had time to beat them home but as the loop continued your looked at the number with disdain. You were trapped in an unless cycle.

The only thing you haven’t tried was waiting the hour out. You hated doing it as you wanted more than anything to beat the boys home, a fact you don’t even know why was so important anymore given everything going on.

You still had no idea what was going on. Was your loop tied to the hour? Was it some sort of bad luck on the roads? Who knows? But right now your only option was to stay off of the road. Maybe when the hour passes this will be all over. Maybe once it gets later the amount of people on the road will dwindle down and you would have fewer hazards to worry about when you try once again to go home.

You still wanted to beat the boys home, but this was the only card you had left at the moment. You decided you rather take the chance of Dean finding out you took Baby without asking and the anger that would result than the rage he would feel when you crashed her. Plus you had expected the boys nearly two and a half hours ago. You’re not sure what has delayed them but maybe it might take them even longer to get back and you could still beat them home. Right?

You walked into the restaurant and found an open table and dug into your food. You had to hold back a moan after the first bite of the pizza. God, it was so good! It almost made you forget all of your regrets.

You’ve had pizza before, but never one quiet like this. It was cheesy, but not overpowering and the sauce was thick and rich, the best consistency, which prevents the crust from becoming soggy, an issue you had with a lot of pizza places. Since you moved into town with the boys it quickly became your favorite and you honestly hated getting pizza anywhere else now.

You took your time enjoying every bite of your food, to savoring it, and too waste time. When you finished you had time to kill and you check for a message from Sam or Dean. There was nothing and you were conflicted as to if that was good or bad. The lack of communication could be from whatever was holding them up or if they had made it back Dean could be waiting until you got home to unleash his fury. You weren’t sure if you wanted them to text you, to let you know that they were home, or for Sam to give you a heads up that Dean wasn’t happy.

As you stared down mindlessly at your phone willing the time to pass faster. You had twenty more minutes to wait before you could back on the road. As you waited you glanced around the restaurant for the old woman from earlier. She was nowhere to be found which made you chuckle in an annoyed way.

All of this started because of her. She neglect the curiosity of personal space and just overall creeped you out. All because of that interaction you drove around town in circles in fear that she was following you. You wondered if you hadn’t wasted time, if you had gone straight home would you still be stuck in the situation you were now?

As the seconds ticked by of the last minute of the hour, you watched in anxious anticipation. You squeezed your eyes shut at the last second in fear of what might happen when the hour went passed. You kept your eyes closed for a few moments. When you opened your eyes would you see the dashboard of the impala or the booth you had been sitting in?

You expected to feel something when the hour mark passed. A whoosh as you transport through space and time, dizziness as you reset in the loop, pain, anything at all.

After several moments of nothing you slowly pride your eyes open. Relief flooded over as you opened your eyes to find yourself still in the pizza parlor. You looked at the time 7:25. You broke the loop.

Not wasting another second you ran out the door and back to the impala, not even bothering to clean up garbage as you raced out the door. You’d feel guilty about it later, but right now nothing mattered but getting back to the bunker, hopefully, before the Winchesters did.

You ran across the parking lot and into the driver’s seat. You moved so quickly you even fumbled trying to put the key in the ignition. When you finally got it baby roared to life, a sound that would always bring a smile to your face, maybe you like Dean in that sense.

Despite your rush to get home, you had not forgotten about everything you have gone through. How could you, it had become a curse upon you, a fate that you couldn’t escape. Until now.

You made sure the path was clear and pulled out of the spot you parked in and then drove off towards the road. There was a car approaching fast, though it looked like you would have just enough time to pull out. But given your history today, that was not a chance you were willing to take, so you waited the extra seven seconds till the car passed. You pulled out the parking lot and made it a little down the road before you came to a stop at the traffic light. Once it was green you proceed ahead heading home.

However, in the corner of your eye, you saw it. A car coming from the opposite direction who thought they could make it running the red. There was nothing you could do to react, nothing you could do to stop the collision that was about the happened.

You were shaken in the impala as the car collided with the driver’s side of the car. The impala was pushed off the road and onto a nearby sidewalk.

Your head had made a violent impact with the window when the car smashed into you. Your head was ringing and your vision was blurry, a feeling you were becoming all too familiar with.

A Fate You Can’t Escape

You let out a long and exasperated sign. You couldn’t do this anymore. Thirty accidents. Thirty failed attempts to get home. No matter what you did the outcome was always the same. You had reach your breaking point. You had no ideas left and were out of hope. What was the point to keep trying when nothing changed?

You sat at the scene of your latest accident, the impala’s front had been pushed over to the side of the road while the back end remained in the road. Some idiot had rammed into her from behind.

This accident was different from the rest. Taking stock of your body you couldn’t see or feel anything wrong. All of the previous crashes were serve enough that you had been injured in the impact. You weren’t sure if you died each time or if the loop had reset when you passed out. But this time you were completely alert.

You were confused and unsure of what you should do now. You had never lasted this long after the accident. All you knew was that you couldn’t do this anymore and not wanting to waste another second of whatever time you had left, you pull your phone out of your back pocket. While anyone else would be calling the police or their insurance representatives when placed in a situation like this, there was only one person you wanted to talk to.

The ringing seemed to go and on. You didn’t know what you were going to do if you couldn’t get a hold of him. The constant reliving of the same event was one thing but for that loop to change and you couldn’t get a hold of the one person who could help you out. Well, that felt like a fate worst than death. One thing you knew for certain was that you could not take this anymore.

“Hello. Y/N you there?”

You hadn’t even realized he picked up, you had been too lost in your thoughts. “DEAN!” You shouted.

“Hey sorry, we’re late we ran into some trouble on the way back. I’ll explain it all when we get back.”

They weren’t even home yet. God that hurt. Despite all your wishing that you could beat them home now you wished he was home, so he come and help you out of the hole you seemed to be lost in.

“Dean I need help.” You said urgently, emotion overtaking you. There was no doubt Dean could hear the distress in your voice.

“Woah Y/N what happened?”

“I….I…I” You were now gasping as you tried to explain what you have been through.

“Y/N take a breath. Slow Down.” He ordered. “I need you to calm down so you can tell me what happened.” Someone how your body had responded to him and you took several deep breaths feeling your heart steady a bit. “Good, good girl, now what’s going on?”

“I didn’t know where you were and I got hungry, so I took the impala..” You paused waiting for his reaction. A sharp inhale, a grunt of anger, or something. Yet there was nothing he had either reacted in his facial expression knowing you wouldn’t be able to see or he was hiding his reactions as he didn’t want to upset you further than you were right now. “I just went to the pizza parlor, but now I can’t get home.”

“You can’t get home?” Dean interrupted you sounded slightly annoyed but then were quick to hide it.

“No like I literally can’t. I’ve tried at least thirty times. Something always stops me. Every time I get hit or run over and then I wake up right back at the restaurant. Dean, I don’t know what to do.”

“Alright Y/N calm down where are you now?”

“Highway 42 just passed the fallen barn. Dean, I’m so sorry.” You said crying. “I never dreamed that any of this would happen when I took your car. I should have never done it, taking her without asking, I really don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Calm down Y/N, it’s gonna be alright. Are you okay, are you hurt?”

You looked over yourself once more, “No I don’t think so they hit the back this time.”

“Okay stay right where you are. We’re on our way just stay there.”

It was roughly an hour later when you saw Garth’s beat up car pull up. Dean was quick to jump out of the car and run over to the impala. The rest of the emotion you had managed to hold back came flooding out as soon as you saw him.

You expected him to run to the back to see the damage that occur in the collision, the damage that you caused. But he didn’t, instead, he ran to where you were leaning against the hood. You looked down as he approached. “Are you okay?”

“I…I’m f… fine,” You crooked out. “I wasn’t hurt.” You weren’t able to look him in the eyes too ashamed of what you’d done and afraid to see the look on his face, the anger and the hatred that you were sure had to be there. “Dean I’m so so sorry. I know that nothing I will ever do will be able to change what I’ve done, the damage I’ve caused. And I know you probably never be able to forgive me, but I just need you to know that I truly am sorry.” You cried.

“Y/N sweetheart look at me.” He spoke in a gentle voice. And that nickname he used, you knew it meant nothing, he’s used it all the time on victims he came across. But your heart couldn’t help but flutter in response.

Dean put his finger under your chin and gently lifted your eyes to meet his. “I’m not worried about that. I’m more concerned with how you are.”

“Dean you haven’t even see it yet, the damage that …that I caused.” Another tear slipped down your cheek.

“All that can wait. Whatever is damage can be replaced. You can’t.” Dean brushed the tear from your cheek and tucked a strand of hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear. You watched his eyes furrow at you when he did.

“That’s bleeding a lot Y/N.” He brought his hand up to your forehead and touched the gash on your head and you winced in response. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You looked at your reflection in the windshield of the impala. “I didn’t know, I honestly didn’t even feel it.” You confessed. Dean led you back to the driver’s seat and sat you down and then he moved to the back of the impala. You tried to get a look at his face, to see his reaction once he saw the damage, but you couldn’t get see from where you sat.

Dean pride open the trunk of the implala and return to you with the first aid kit. He began to fuss over your wound, cleaning the area and preparing to bandage it. “Dean really I’m fine.” You said trying to stop his hands and moving your head away.

Dean was persistent though and his one hand easily caught both of yours and held them out of his way while he continued to work. “Y/N that was a lot of blood.”

“You know how head wounds are, they’re overdramatic. Really I feel fine.”

“Nevertheless let me take care of you.”

Dean was finishing placing the bandage on your head when Sam came walking over. “How are you feeling Y/N?”

“Just peachy.” You said with a slight sigh.

He gave you a sympathetic look. “Mr. Davis over there takes full responsibility for the crash,” He must have flashed his badge and had been handling the scene. “He said he leaned down to grab his phone which had fallen and wasn’t watching the road.”

This was a fact you had already known as you had talked to the man after you got off the phone with Dean. Dean had yet to show any anger or any inclination that he was upset about the accident, until now that was. You watch Dean’s eyes narrow as Sam spoke then he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. You could see the rage bubbling below the surface, but when he opened his eyes again all you saw was concern for you.”

“I called Garth at the motel, he’s on his way with a tow truck as she’s not gonna anywhere and I figured you’d rather fix her up yourself.”

Dean nodded his head in response. “Yeah, I saw that too. Back left wheel popped.”

“Dean I’m sor…”

“Shhh Y/N”, Dean said placing a gentle hand on your cheek. “The damage is not that bad. Sidings dented in on the back side and the tire popped on impact with the truck. But that’s nothing I can’t fix. I’m just glad you called me when you needed help.

Sam knelt down next to Dean, “Speaking of Y/N what’s going on?”

You ran anxious fingers through your hair, “I’m not sure I decided I wanted food and went to the pizzeria, got back on the roa to head back and I got into an accident. I passed out only to wake back outside the pizza parlor to do it all again.”

You went on to tell them everything you have been through, every accident, everything you saw and felt on your countless attempts to get home. Sam and Dean nodded their head as you explained everything and when you finished they paused thinking it over.

“And how did you break the cycle?” Sam asked.

You shook your head. “I didn’t. I don’t know what happened I still may reset now.”

Dean looked at his watch and shook his head. “It’s been over an hour since the crash I think if you were gonna reset it would have happened already.”

“So why didn’t I?”

“You said you passed out after each accident right?”

“Yeah, due to the trauma I endured during each crash. I never made it past five minutes afterwards.”

Dean nodded his head in response. “So every time you’ve lost consciousness the loop has reset.” Sam finished Dean’s thoughts.

Dean frowned, “Which means you still could reset if you fall asleep.”

His words made your eyes widen and send a shiver down your spine in fear.

“It’s alright Y/N. We’re gonna figure this out.” Sam said placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Can you try and recall anything that you encounter that was strange or out of the ordinary?”

“You mean besides getting into thirty crashes in a row?” You deadpanned, You shook your head, “I don’t know all I really did was drive. I would go different ways or at different times in hopes I could get back, but it never worked.”

Sam and Dean’s faces mirror each other as they puzzled over what could be the cause of your endless cycle.

“Though there was this woman.” You said as you remembered how this truly started.

“What woman?” Dean asked.

“When I was waiting for the food there was this older woman at the counter waiting for hers as well. She started making causal conversation with me but then she started creeping me out.”

“What did she do?” Sam inquired.

“Nothing really. I mean there was the whole neglecting the curiosity of personnel space thing, but is more of the feeling I got. She left me uneasy and for a moment I thought she was following me, so I drove in circles around town trying to lose the tail I thought I had.”

“And then what happened?”

“Once I thought I shook her I got back on the main road to head back to the bunker and then I got into my first accident.”

“Did she say anything unusual?” Dean asked. You furrowed your brow, “You know like something that might lead to our kind of work. Chanting, spells, or anything?”

You shook your head, “Not that I know of. She tried to touch me, but I stepped back.”

“Touch you? How?” Dean asked voice slightly raising.

“She compliment my hair and then tried to run her fingers through it.” Sam and Dean shared a look communicating wordlessly. “Guys, what is it?”

Dean brought his hands out to you, “May I?” He asked as he reached for your jacket.

You nodded your head in response. Dean began running his hands up and down your coat. What he was searching for you weren’t sure, but he left no trace unturned as he scanned your sleeves and your pockets.

When he reached in your left pocket his hand stilled. You watched him pull out a small brown bag wrapped closed with leather. A hex bag.

You couldn’t believe you had no idea it was there. All this time you had been carrying it around with you and you hadn’t even felt it. Nor had you felt the woman place it in your pocket, but I guess that was the whole point.

Dean quickly took at his lighter and burned the bag into ashes effectively ending its cruel spell. You felt relief flow over you as you watched it burn. It was over. It was finally over.

“Damn witches.” You mumbled in embarrassment. You were nowhere near the level of expertise that Sam and Dean were but you still felt like should have figured it out sooner.

“Yeah, they are tricky bastards.” Dean said sharing a knowing glance with Sam.

“What do you mean?”

“The reason we were late, was because of witches they put a border spell around the town and we couldn’t leave until we broke the spell.”

“What’s that have to do with any of this.”

“We caught one of the witches. Their coven order then to do whatever possible to distract us.”

“Distract not kill? Doesn’t that seem strange?”

“That was exactly our thought.” Sam said. “And it looks like you got the same hit. I think it’s got something to do with Rowena, she was acting very strange the last time we ran into her and whatever she working on she clearly doesn’t want us getting wind.”

“Yup, but that’s something we can figure out later. For now, you need to rest.”

“Dean I told you I feel fine.”

“Sure you do, but head injuries are nothing to mess with. You may feel fine now because of a delayed reaction. Plus we don’t know what kind of trauma that might linger after thirty head injuries.”

Later that night

After getting back to the bunker you reheated your food, it was a miracle it was only slightly shaken in the crash. It would have really been a letdown if you endured all that for nothing. You ate with the boys and talked over the day’s events.

Once you were done you were feeling stuffed and tired so you laid down to take a nap

When you woke though you didn’t feel well rested instead there was a throbbing in your skull. You glanced at the clock seeing it was just after midnight. Not feeling like you would be able to sleep you decide to eat or research or whatever, you would decided on the way.

However, when you walked out of the room and started making your way down the hall you heard a clanging noise and despite the ache in your head, you followed the sound.

It led you to the garage where you found Dean working away on his baby. “How’s it coming?” You asked announcing your presence.

Dean stopped what he was doing and turned around to face you. “She’s coming along.” He said placing his tools down. In truth, she was looking better. Dean had already replaced her wheel and he was working on smoothing out her surface.

Despite his success though you still felt guilty. “Dean.” You said your voice changing as the emotion came back.

Dean looked back at you, “Y/N, don’t.”

“Dean,” You repeated, “I know I’ve said it before but I’m so sorry.”

“I know Y/N. I’m not angry at you.” He admitted.

Your eyes widen in shock, “How? I know I don’t need to tell you this, but she’s more than just a car Dean. She’s been the one constant thing in your life. She’s protected you and looked after you more than anyone else ever has. She is where your heart is, where your home is, and where you are truly the happiest. And I knew that. I don’t know why I thought I could just borrow her, especially without even running it past you.”

Dean rested his hands against the impala and leaned on her, “Why did you.”

You brushed your hand through your hair, “ I don’t know. I guess it was because I never get to drive her and I thought it would be a short trip. I guess I was feeling a little rebellious. I’ve told you about the girl I used to be, shy, innocent, and always following my mother’s orders. I guess I just saw it as a chance to break a rule without consequence and without you knowing. Though if I would have known what would happen I would have just starved until you guys got back.”

“You could’ve asked Y/N.” He said in a genuine tone.

“Oh come on Dean. Are you seriously trying to tell me you wouldn’t have made up some excuse for me not to? You hardly let me drive her as it is or Sam for that matter.”

Dean smirked as he thought it over, “I suppose you got a point there. How are you doing?”

“Okay.”

“No lasting effects from the multitude of head bashing?”

“Nope.” You lied. In truth, your headache was starting to grow in intensity so much so that the light was starting to bother you. “You know it’s funny all that I went through, after every crash and I reset back in front of the restaurant and all I could think was I got a second chance to fix this. To get her home before you figured out I took her and get her back safely. If I just called you after the third, fourth, hell even the fifth crash, I could have saved myself a lot of time and pain. I was focused on trying to escape the hand fate dealt me I missed what was really happening.”

Dean let out a small chuckle, “Yeah I guess so. Do you remember it all?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t like your endless loop with the trickster. I remember all the pain I went through and every last minute thought that crossed my mind as the end drew near.”

“Like what?”

“Oh um, just you know the usual stuff.” You said sheepishly. “Stuff I didn’t do, things I didn’t say, and that sort of thing. Love not shared.” You added softly at the end.

Judging by the way Dean’s eyes lit up though he seems to have heard you. He came to your side. “You know I was so worried when you called me tonight. You sounded so worried, so frightened. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like not being there for you.”

“I’m sorry. I was just so afraid I was gonna reset and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Don’t be. I’m glad that you called me when you needed help. And for the future Y/N, I don’t want you ever to be afraid of calling me when you need help because you’re afraid of how I’m gonna react. If you need help, I’m there. We could work out whatever else later.”

“Thanks, Dean.” You said a warm feeling settling in your chest. “I really appreciate that.”

Dean hummed in response, “So this unfounded love. Anyone I know?” He asked.

You felt your cheeks heat up as the blush rose to them. You wanted to lie as you were ashamed to admit your feelings. You’ve had a crush on him for three years now and every time you tried to confess your feelings it’s as if you’re hit with laryngitis.

But based on the way Dean was looking at you, with the knowing smirk, you knew he would see through your lie. “Just someone who I love very much. He takes care of me in so many ways. Looks out for me and helps me out even when I don’t know it or think I need it. He makes me feel loved and special and makes me believe that there is good in life. He makes my heart flutter with his endearing pet names and his touch is so gentle and sweet.” You looked away from him choosing instead to look past him at baby where he had been fixing her. “I know he doesn’t reciprocate those feelings in the way that I do, but that’s okay because to be loved by him, even as a friend is more than I can ever ask for.”

Dean followed your glance back at his car. “You know you were right she does mean a lot to me. And don’t get me wrong I would kill anyone who tired to take her from me, but there’s one thing you got wrong.” You looked back at him. “Baby is not where my heart lies. My heart lies with the woman who stole it. She’s a dream I never thought I’d get and I cherish every moment I have with her. Whether we’re laughing at cheesy old movies or singing along to the music on the road. I would love more than anything to take her as mine and spend the rest of my life with her.” Dean said grabbing your hands in his own and leaning in for a kiss.

You weren’t sure if this was real, a dream, or a crazy hallucination brought forth by your aching head but either way, you weren’t gonna let this moment pass by. You closed the gap between the two of you as you mapped out his mouth with yours. You only parted when the need for air forced you to and you pull your lips back with a big smile on your face.

Dean had a matching smile of his own and the two of you stood there in each other’s arms happy as can be. Dean stared into your eyes lovestruck for several moments until suddenly his expression changed as his brow raised, “How’s the head Y/N?” He asked amused.

“Good.”

His brow raises further with a smirk on his lips. “Really so you wouldn’t mind if I got back to work pounding out this siding?”

“Actually..” You began before Dean interrupted you.

“Your head hurts doesn’t it?”

“How did you know?”

“I recognize the sign of a concussion Y/N and your dilated pupils and droopy eyelids are a clear giveaway. Why didn’t you say something sooner.”

“I didn’t think it was anything more than a small headache.”

Dean gave you a bitchface, “With all the head trauma you’ve had today?”

“Not hold on we don’t know that the last twenty-nine have lasting side effects seeing as I reset after each one?” You counter.

Dean shook his head smiling. “Come on.” He said taking your hand and leading you back into the bunker. “We’re getting you some Advil and getting you back to bed.”

“Only if you stay with me.”

“Always sweetheart.” He said while placing a kiss on your temple.

Tags
supernatural dean x reader deanwinchester dean winchester x reader
244 notes View Post
annewashere
1 year ago

“You promised you wouldn’t forget me” + ambrose please?

+ “I wished every day to hold you once more”

I haven’t written Ambrose yet so I hope this is somewhat good!!

Ambrose’s house arrest was a touchy subject. He had his family, of course. He could act like that was enough, but he craved more. He would feign indifference.

He often remembers his life outside of the Spellman household, the people he met, the lovers he had. He remembers, but wishes he could forget. There is nothing worse than those memories. The memories taunt him in his dreams. Y/N haunts him in those dreams. 

The bed was suffocating as he attempted to unwrap his body from the sheets. The dreams, again. The same face he’s seen every night for 75 years in this house. He rubs at his eyes, trying to get rid of the thought, but he can’t drop it. Y/N. They had lost contact after everything that happened with the Vatican. He’s tried to find traces, but to no avail. You did not want to be found. The feeling of betrayal was the only thing he had left from you.

“How long has it been, Ambrose? 70 years?” A voice from across the room made him scramble in his bed.

“Who’s there?” He was never one to be scared, but the voice was hauntingly familiar. It was just there, in his dreams. Was he still dreaming?

The room is dark, he’s unable to see a thing. “You promised you wouldn’t forget me.” The voice teased, bouncing of the walls from every side. It itched at him as he stood up from the bed, hating the way the voice taunted him. This was all too familiar. He fumbles around the room for his light, flicking it on.

Ambrose meets the same face he’s seen every night for 75 years and he’s positive he’s dreaming. Except, the hair is different, the eyes aren’t as bright, but that’s the same seductive smile from years ago. Not a single word seems to be able to escape his mouth, even though there’s a million of them swarming his thoughts. “Y/N.” Is all he can say, eyes wide. “You’re not real.”

“Why would you say that?” You questioned, reaching a hand out to touch his cheek. He responds instantly, leaning into your touch. It feels like you never left. “It’s me, Ambrose.” You reassure him.

He searches for something that would tell him otherwise, but he finds nothing. It has to be you. “I wished every day to hold you once more.” He confesses, eyes pleading with your own. He’s never felt so vulnerable, yet so complete at the same time. “Why did you leave?” He finally questions, but doesn’t pull away, too scared you’ll disappear.

You open your mouth to answer, but Sabrina bursts into his room. She looks frightened, but stops in her tracks when she sees the scene in front of her. She steps forward tentatively, reaching a hand out to Ambrose. “Ambrose…” She trails off, eyes apologetic as she touches his arm. “There’s a sleep demon in the house, this…” She glances at your figure. “This isn’t real.”

Ambrose turns to meet your eyes again, wondering if what his cousin is saying is true, but you’re gone. He can still feel your hand on his cheek. He was simply reliving all the other dreams he’s had for the past 75 years. The real torture is waking up, the real torture was him believing you’d ever come back.

“You have to wake up, Ambrose.”

Tags
ambrose spellman ambrose spellman x reader ambrose spellman imagine chilling adventures of sabrina imagine
548 notes View Post
annewashere
1 year ago
Painting Practice With Dr. Medical Malpractice

Painting practice with Dr. Medical Malpractice

Tags
art gregory house house md house md fanart hate crimes md
1K notes View Post
annewashere
3 months ago
annewashere - Loser vill
10K notes View Post
annewashere
2 years ago

paper rings // gilbert blythe

or,

the 4 times gilbert blythe fell in love with you, and the 1 time he knew he’d do it all over again

⋆ ࣪.      ⁺⑅     ⋰˚     *.ﾟ    .˳⁺⁎˚     ˚⁎⁺˳ .    ༺ ˖

gilbert blythe x fem!reader

wc: 5.7k

i like shiny things, but i’d marry you with paper rings

a/n: trying something new here! i’ve never used this format (five times // one time- i tweaked it to make it four and one since i’m exhausted) so i hope you all enjoy <3 also fair warning that this is not historically accurate. but i actually spend my summers in PEI (and have for my entire life) so i think my portrayal of the environment at least is good! also, this is rushed as per usual :)

⋆ ࣪.      ⁺⑅     ⋰˚     *.ﾟ    .˳⁺⁎˚     ˚⁎⁺˳ .    ༺ ˖

one. when he walked you home from school.

the late june air was sticky in the avonlea schoolhouse, clinging to skin, beads of sweat gathering by brows. sunlight spilled through the windows, and even billy andrews couldn’t muster enough enthusiasm to tease anyone in this heat. pinafores too heavy for this weather, the girls gathered in one corner, pretending to read the excerpt mr phillips had picked out for today, but in honesty, you were all just complaining about the summer heat.

“i can’t wait until i have my hair up,” ruby gillis sighed, casting a longing glance across the room towards the boys. “my ribbon does suit my complexion, of course- but it’s much too hot in summer to have my hair down.”

murmurs of agreement spread throughout your little group. “i tried it one time,” whispered anne dramatically, “when marilla was away. it was rather romantic, but the pins hurt a great deal.”

sitting in between jane andrews and tillie boulter, you tried not to zone out. gaze drifting across the classroom, you caught gilbert blythe’s eye from where he was sitting with the boys, and he shot you a quick smile. you gave him a shy one back, and looked away before you could blush. you’d known gilbert forever- his family was close to yours- but something had changed recently, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

mr. phillips finally dismissed the class, and in a rush of rowdiness, the boys all excused themselves from the schoolhouse, whooping and hollering about a potential skinny dip in the wild waves. in a flurry of giggles and secrets, your friends gathered their books and rushed outside (in a rather unladylike manner- but it was summer and the world was their oyster, so who cared). you knew diana was hosting a tea party over the weekend- complete with ice cream, she’d said!- but as far as you knew, there were no plans for tonight, save the beach trip the boys had talked about. trying your best to avoid the heat for as long as possible, you lingered in the coatroom, taking the time to adjust your hat into place. but you weren’t alone, and you startled as a familiar face appeared over your shoulder.

“gilbert,” you said, his name sweet on your tongue. “you’re not going to the beach with billy?”

he shook his head. “i’m not quite in the mood for that today. but i was wondering. do you want- can i- would you like some company on your walk home?”

heart in your throat, you looked at the boy you’d known your whole life. was gilbert blythe asking to walk you home? you nodded wordlessly, and his eyes immediately softened. there was a nervousness you’d never seen in him before, a cautiousness, as if he were treading on eggshells and was terrified to break them. “i- i’d love that, gilbert, thank you.” a smile slowly spread across his face, and you seemed to see him in a new light. noticing the things you hadn’t before. the softness of his dark eyes and the way they sparkled. the gentle curve of his jaw. the way he smelled like rosemary and mint soap and the blythe farm’s apple orchard, mixed with a hint of cinnamon. the way gilbert blythe was the prettiest boy you’d ever seen.

“great,” he said, finally breaking you out of your reverie. “i wouldn’t want you to get heatstroke, after all. it’d be ungentlemanly of me to let you go home without making sure you’re alright in this heat.”

your stomach erupted with butterflies, and you walked in silence with him as you left the schoolhouse. treading along the path, your footsteps settled into the same rhythm, and eventually gilbert spoke, his voice clear among the songbirds and crickets. 

“how’s your family? i haven’t seen them in a fortnight.”

his tone was proper and gentlemanly, but curious and kind. you looked shyly up at him. gilbert was tall, taller than you, sturdy with broad shoulders and a grin that showed off a lopsided roguishness once in a while on his otherwise serious face. you gripped your books a little tighter, trying to focus your thoughts back to the conversation. “they’re good, thanks for asking. mother’s been wondering about you, though. she’s wanted to drop soup off for your father, but wasn’t sure if he’d appreciate it. it’s been a while since you were over, so she doesn’t know if he still likes biscuits or bone broth.”

gilbert scuffed the ground with his boot a little bit, looking down at you contemplatively. “that’s kind of her,” he said. “he’s barely been able to keep anything down, but he likes soup. i’m not sure about the biscuits, but i’d certainly like some. i wouldn’t mind some of your mother’s plum preserves either. i haven’t had much time to go into town for food lately.”

you’d noticed. there were shadows under his eyes, and he’d always been on the lanky side, but since gilbert had taken on more of the farm work you’d observed his cheeks grow more drawn. his muscles had grown, too- another result of all the wood chopping you knew he was doing- but he lacked energy, and your heart ached for the boy. cicadas chirped as you walked in unison through the path, minding the garden snakes slinking through the tall grass, and an idea sparked in your mind as you passed the field signaling close to home.

“gilbert,” you said thoughtfully, stopping in your tracks. “mother was going to make a layer cake today, with raspberry preserves and clotted cream. i’m sure it’s cooled by now. we can have a little picnic, you and i- we have lemonade at home too, that rachel lynde brought us, and father thinks it’s too tart, so he wants to get rid of it. you can bring some home for your father as well. mother wouldn’t mind, i promise- i can make us a picnic basket, and we can sit in that field.”

gilbert turned towards you, and you couldn’t quite decipher the expression on his face. “i don’t want you to pity me,” he said quietly. “much less drag your family into it.”

“no, no,” you said quickly, fearing he’d interpreted your invitation the wrong way. “just a picnic, to catch up, as friends. we haven’t talked in a while. i miss you.”

he bit his lip. you could almost see the gears turning in his head. “alright,” he said finally. “it’s almost summer, after all. i think- i think i’d like that.”

when you reached your house, your mother was more than happy to oblige, giving gilbert a big hug and fussing over how much taller he’d gotten since the last time she saw him. you cut two pieces of cake and put them on plates in the straw picnic basket along with the bottle of mrs. lynde’s infamous lemonade. your mother even let you bring the crystal glasses used for special occasions- she trusted the both of you well enough to know that you wouldn’t break them. covering up the basket with a red checkered tablecloth, you and gilbert set off again, waving goodbye to your mother and finding a spot in the field where there was a tree with enough shade to sit under. clover and goldenrod and cornstalk bloomed in the field, and the cool, sweet grass tickled the bottom of your dress. gilbert, beside you, leaned back against the tree, his broad shoulder touching yours, and spooned a large amount of cake into his mouth. it was the happiest you’d seen him in months. the thin layer of ruby jelly in between the vanilla layers coloured the cupid’s bow of your lips, and gilbert realized in that moment that he wanted very badly to take you into his arms and kiss you. but the moment was fleeting, and gilbert was left with the idea of love lingering on his mind.

that was the first time gilbert blythe realized he was falling for you.

two. when you showed up on his doorstep in the rain.

rain poured outside, streaking the windows and trickling down the roofs of avonlea’s houses. sorrow hung in the air, and black clothing had dominated the church the day prior. it was not often that avonlea had funerals, and when they were, they were a somber affair, impacting every one of its citizens. especially now. it seemed as though the whole world had watched mr. blythe’s casket descend into the soil, and now the rain was fertilizing it. perhaps flowers would bloom on top of his grave. the entirety of the little town hoped so- anything to bring comfort to the blythe’s only son.

you’d seen gilbert at the funeral, features etched with sorrow, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. but he’d looked resigned as well- putting on a strong face for those who could not. ruby had sobbed hysterically, as had rachel lynde, and even marilla cuthbert had shed a tear. normally, you would have talked to gilbert. you’d been over the day before mr. blythe had died, bringing with you a sweater you and your mother had knit together to help keep him warm. you’d known his health was declining, but it was even more heart wrenching seeing gilbert that way- expression unmoving, body stiff as he accepted the gift. you’d only had a moment with him before mr. blythe erupted into coughs again- a second in which gilbert’s mask slipped and you truly saw the fear plaguing his mind. you’d wished you could have said something to make it all better. but you hadn’t. you couldn’t.

and now you were on his porch, clutching a package of baking soda biscuits and a small posy of forget-me-nots in your hands. you were shivering from the cold rain, and you’d gotten soaked on the way over, but it was worth it. there seemed to be barely any movement in the gray house- you couldn’t spot any candles lit inside from the windows- and you were wondering if gilbert was even here when all of a sudden the door swung open and he appeared.

his expression was unreadable, brown eyes deep with emotion and seeded in sadness. “hi,” he said. “gil,” you breathed back. 

after a moment of silence, the words came back to you. “these are for you,” you said, reaching out. your hands were shaking, and whether they were from nerves or the cold, gilbert couldn’t tell. he took the flowers and the parcel from your outstretched hands, almost unsure what to do with them. “they’re biscuits,” you said, mouth dry, trying to fill the quiet. “mother’s baking soda ones. you mentioned you liked them one time, and we were out of plum preserves, but i-”

“thank you,” gilbert said, and although it sounded slightly robotic, his words felt genuine. you looked at your shoes, unsure of what to say next. your parents had always taught you to say “i’m sorry for your loss” to someone grieving, but the phrase felt too unfamiliar. “i- i’ll leave you to it, then,” you stuttered, backing away from the door and turning to go. you didn’t want to intrude- even if he was your friend. because that’s what you were, right? friends. friends visited during difficult times. friends didn’t want to hug all the sadness out of him. but gilbert’s voice cracked when he spoke next, and you turned around.

“no,” he said clumsily. the words are rushed and jumbled from his mouth, and he stumbles over the next ones too. “please. you’re freezing, and soaking wet. come in.”

up until then, you’d hoped you didn’t look that bad. your straw hat had managed to protect the top of your head, but the rest of your hair was stringy and dripping over your shoulders. your cheeks were also flushed, and even in what should have been a moment focused on his own grief, gilbert found himself worrying that you’d catch pneumonia in this weather. he hadn’t expected anyone to visit today, especially not in a rainstorm. 

seeing the concern in his eyes, you realized that walking all the way home in a thunderstorm was probably not such a good idea, so you stepped in cautiously per gilbert’s invitation. the house was warm, but everything seemed dim and gray. the door you knew led to mr. blythe’s bedroom was closed, and you could see gilbert’s eyes darting towards it as well, as if he were praying you wouldn’t say anything. gilbert set down the parcel of biscuits on the kitchen table and looked around for something.

“do you have a vase?” you asked quietly. “i can fill it up with water for you. i thought the forget-me-nots would bring a little light.”

gilbert nodded, but sucked in a breath. you turned to him with a questioning look. “the vase,” he said, voice dry. “it’s in his room. mrs. lynde brought some peonies over while he was still sick, and i didn’t take them out. he’s always hated peonies- he thinks they’re too big and bold. but he would’ve loved these.”

you lightly touched the small forget me not bouquet, felt the soft petals under your fingertips. “you don’t have to use a vase,” you replied softly. “a mug will do.” gilbert stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen, and you maneuvered around him, carefully filling up the pottery with water and placing the flowers in it.

he seemed rooted to the floor, even when he focused his gaze on the posy. your glance met his, and the sorrow was evident. gilbert hadn’t cried at the funeral- you’d never seen him cry. but now tears were brimming at the corners of his soft chocolate eyes, threatening to spill over, and in a moment your body overtook your mind and you had wrapped your arms around gilbert in a hug.

for a moment you regretted it. but then he was hugging you back, clutching your arms, holding onto you as if you were his lifeline. and in a way, you were. you could feel his hot breath on the back of your neck, hear his muffled cries. due to his height, your face was nestled in the crook of gilbert’s neck, and the two of you stayed like that, intertwined, for several long moments. 

when gilbert finally pulled away, he knew that for better or for worse, you would be there for him until the day he died. 

three. when you exchanged christmas presents in the snow.

to be honest, you hadn’t expected gilbert to come back from the steamer, or trinidad. you’d kept in close correspondence with him, saving the letters he sent you in a special drawer in your writing desk. you memorized his handwriting- the candid tone recalling his tales- the stamps on the envelope. but it still came as a surprise when he’d arrived back.

everything had been awkward at the start, but as soon as gilbert told you all the tales of his travels, you’d slowly slipped back into your old dynamic. there was still a line the both of you were toeing, trying to test out the boundaries between platonic and whatever the two of you were. when you’d met bash, he’d given you a quick wink and told you he’d heard all about you, but other than that, you were positive gilbert just wanted to stay friends. “he can’t love me,” you’d told the avonlea girls a few days prior. “the letters didn’t mean anything, he was just lonely.” but all of them agreed, even ruby- who had been zoning in on moody spurgeon ever since gilbert had left- that there was something more in his words, that it wasn’t all in your head.

and now it was christmas. gilbert, bash, and the shirley-cuthberts had all come for dinner (you’d grown close to anne the past year, and it had taken some convincing but since your father knew matthew so well, marilla had deemed it acceptable). the dinner had been lovely- your mother had brought out all the stops for gilbert and bash- roast goose, scalloped potatoes (island ones, of course), cranberry jelly, chicken pie, spiced gingerbread. flames crackled in the fireplace, biting gusts of wind rattled the windows, and blurred glittery ornaments adorned the pine tree in the center of your living room. dinner was over now, and the adults were gathered around the table and swapping stories of old. anne was there too, heavily engaged in a discussion with bash, but the social aspect was getting to be somewhat exhausting, so you quietly slipped out the back door to have a few moments alone.

in a rather unladylike fashion, you got up and sat on the fence by your house, snowflakes tickling your nose, watching the sun slowly begin to set. hues of pink and orange tinged the sky, and you were surprised you could even see it right now- the weather suggested a cloudy sky. the sound of snow crunching came from behind you, and to your surprise, gilbert was coming towards you. he had his brown cap and his red flannel on, and he looked so cozy that you somehow wished you were cuddled up in his arms. pushing the thought away, you greeted him as he came to sit on the fence beside you.

“enjoying the night so far?”

“quite,” gilbert replied. there was a sparkle in his eyes that danced, one that had been noticeably absent since his father died. you suspected it had something to do with bash’s uncle-like presence, and maybe anne’s too- it was well rumored that he’d fancied her for a while when they’d first met. gilbert looked off into the sunset, puffs of his breath materializing in the cold air, and you shivered involuntarily. he offered you his wool mittens wordlessly, and you gratefully put them on, although they were too big for you.

“oh,” you said, remembering something. he turned towards you, watching you intently as you pulled out a small package from your coat pocket. it was wrapped in festive paper, and you’d written his name on it in swooping calligraphy.

“for me?” gilbert asked. he carefully unfurled the wrapping paper to reveal a small leather bound book embossed with “the complete illustrated medical dictionary (pocket edition)” on the front. “i’ve had it since you left,” you said, breath catching in your throat. “i kept it for you. all this time.”

genuine joy shone in gilbert’s eyes. he flipped through the pages delightedly, marveling at the drawings inside. “thank you,” he grinned. “i actually have something for you too.”

breathlessly, you awaited your gift, snowflakes fluttering down and landing on you. they decorated your hair and its festive ribbon for one fleeting moment before melting, and you swore there was nothing as beautiful as this moment, exchanging gifts with gilbert in the snow, watching the sunset sweep across the dove-gray sky. finally, gilbert found what he was looking for in his pocket, and produced a tiny box.

“it doesn’t look like much,” he warned, “but i found it on my travels. i was waiting to give it to you. i wanted it to be the perfect moment.”

carefully opening the small box, you gasped as the lid revealed a necklace with a pendant. a small silver locket shaped like a heart, the kind one could put a photograph in. “gilbert,” you breathed. “this is- this is beautiful.”

and it was. the locket lay on a delicate chain, and it was engraved intricately, with elaborate designs. your mittened hands fumbled to take it out of the box and inspect it more, but gilbert took it from you with a small smile. “let me help you,” he murmured, and made to fasten it on you. you stood still, hyper aware of how close gilbert’s hands were to your face. his fingers brushed against the back of your neck, securing the necklace, and you caught yourself from flinching. you didn’t know what to say, except for thank you, so you repeated yourself again. 

“a thing of beauty is a joy forever,” gilbert quoted, somewhat uncharacteristically. “keats,” he added after a moment, referencing the poet he’d read the phrase from. “i wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

“to remember you by?” you laughed. “what, are you going on the steamer again?”

he could tell the thought sobered you, so he shook his head, shrugging. “no. i just think…you’re a wonderful girl. the loveliest in avonlea.”

“i think you’re wonderful too,” you said shyly, which was about as many words as you could manage right now. the loveliest girl in avonlea? goodness. 

the sun had almost set by now, and the sky was turning dark- a good cover for hiding the red tint spreading across your face. “we should go back inside,” you said hurriedly, and the two of you made your way over to the door. you stopped before opening it, basking in the glow of the oil lamp on the porch.

“gilbert, i-”

overcome by sudden anxiety, you handed back his warm mittens. “thank you,” you said, the words lingering on your tongue. “for everything.”

quickly, so fast you almost missed it, gilbert leaned down, brushed a stray wisp of hair away, and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “merry christmas,” he said simply. and then, the two of you went back inside, as if nothing had happened at all.

as soon as you entered, bash noticed the locket and smirked. gilbert shot him a warning look, lest he say anything. the two of you immersed yourself in separate conversations- you with anne, him with marilla and your mother, while matthew silently observed your father and bash discuss politics. but you kept stealing glances at each other as if you were speaking a secret language that only the two of you knew, and each time it filled you with comfort.

it was a cold christmas, but you felt the warmest you had been in a while– and, as luck would have it, so did gilbert.

four. when you climbed a tree.

and so summer rolled around again, fading into august. university loomed on the horizon. childhood was over- gone were the days of butterflies, bumblebees, and scraped knees. yet you could pretend, and so you did. 

the soft salt breeze tickled your face, sending a pleasant feeling down your spine. you were with gilbert- on his farm, in the orchard. it was just the two of you- most of avonlea were in charlottetown for the island county fair, granting you the opportunity to do whatever you wanted, since no one was around to see.

so you took advantage of that. no more were the stolen glances, the sneaking around, your only physical touch with gilbert being brushed hands- and even then you’d both deemed it risky. neither of you wanted word to get around yet. sure, there had been rumors and some of your best friends knew (only the ones you were sure wouldn’t spread anything around). but here, now, the world was your oyster. and the two of you soaked it up blissfully.

you were lying on the grass with your head in gilbert’s lap, weaving a flower crown as he read a book- an old poetry collection ms stacy had lent him. the clouds were glorious fluffy shapes in the blue sky, and you pointed them out to gilbert every once in a while. your fingers deftly twined the daisies and their stems, finally tying them all together in a knot, creating a perfect circlet, and setting it teasingly on gilbert’s dark hair.

he smirked, leaving it on. “made it for me?”

“a pretty crown for a pretty boy,” you replied, smiling from your position in his lap. he was solid, sturdy, his hand resting securely on your waist. you felt safe with your body close to his, arms and legs intertwined. and he was pretty- “the prettiest boy in avonlea,” you said, mimicking his words to you from last christmas. he laughed and set the book down, taking the flower crown off and resting it gently on your hair. “it suits you,” gilbert said softly, and he was right.

the two of you stayed like that for a while, absorbing each other’s presence. you charted the rare freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose as if they were constellations, tracing them with the tip of your finger. it tickled him, and he smiled down at you. he finally returned to his book- “i want to read you something”- and blissfully, you obliged, settling down to listen.

“i almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days- three such days with you i could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain,” gilbert read from the poetry collection in his lap, a break from the constant medical anatomy books he was usually seen carrying around. you recognized the fragment of poetry- “keats,” you said, “just like what you said to me last winter. when you gave me the necklace.”

a smile tugged at gilbert’s lips, and you pulled out the locket from under the neckline of your dress to show him. “i’ll never take it off,” you promised him, right then and there. “it’s like a little piece of you with me, all the time.”

“you better not,” he teased. “cost me a fortune, that one. even more than all of those romance books i’m always secretly buying you in town.”

you sat up and shoved him jokingly, tousling his dark curls to purposely peeve him. gilbert’s hair wasn’t tidy all that often, but he’d let it slip once that he always tried to make it look nice for you. struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, you jumped up. “let’s go pick some apples.”

the blythe orchard was infamous for their strawberry apples, the only place in avonlea where they were available. contrary to popular belief, this was simply a variant of apple, and not a strawberry hybrid. all too happy to appease you, gilbert took your hand and led you to the best tree on the land. most of the other boughs were still blooming with apple blossoms, but this tree was different.

he pointed to a low-hanging branch, one blessed with red fruit. “my father always picked the first apple on this tree in august,” he told you, tone contemplative and wistful. “he said this was the tree he kissed my mother under for the first time. he thought if the first apple of the season was picked here, at this tree, it brought the harvest luck.”

nostalgia flickered in gilbert’s eyes, and you knew he was missing his father more than usual. “let’s do it, then,” you said, finding your voice, fingers delicately intertwined with his- giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “we’ll each pick one. in honor of him. a new tradition.”

the words you’d spoken may have been simplistic, but to gilbert they meant the world. without his father, it had been so incredibly difficult at first to do anything- carry on old traditions, much less creating new ones. but here you were, by his side, looking up at him with adoring eyes, and giving him the opportunity to heal and grow. gilbert knew he could never put into words how much it truly meant to him.

you let him go first, watching him scamper up the tree like a squirrel. he seemed a boy again, plucking an apple from the highest bough and descending nimbly. when you started climbing, you found your footing easily, but doubt wracked your mind- imagine the horrors if mrs. lynde and her posse heard about this, climbing trees like a chimpanzee! - and so you opted for a lower branch, reaching it deftly. you reached for an apple and held it high victoriously. some hint of pride shone in gilbert’s eyes.

“to making new traditions,” he said- a toast with the notable absence of glasses brimming with champagne. “to making new traditions,” you repeated, and in that moment, you in the tree and him on the ground, you swore you could see hints of a future- one with new traditions and old traditions, little feet running around and everything in between. today was flawless.

and it would’ve been perfect, except for the sound of the branch cracking under your weight. you weren’t too high up in the tree, but inevitably, you landed on the ground, a crumpled heap of petticoats and ribbons, crying out softly upon impact.

you’d never seen gilbert this way, in ‘doctor mode’, simply put. he was immediately beside you, voice laced with concern, checking you over for scrapes and bruises. you were fine, mostly- just a little shaken up and scared, save for the red-hot throbbing in your wrist. the pain didn’t exactly warrant crying, but you weren’t used to the funny feeling, and tears welled in your waterline anyways. gilbert, telling you to take deep breaths, helped you sit up.

he’d noticed straightaway the way you held you wrist, cradling it slightly away from your body, and murmuring words of comfort, he started prodding your knuckles, gently examining the swollen area. you winced, but it wasn’t too bad. “i don’t think it’s broken,” gilbert said finally, deeming it a sprain after careful inspection. “but let’s get you back home. i have some bandages- i’ll wrap it just in case.”

tears threatened to spill over again as the two of you walked from the orchard to his home. gilbert noticed, and stopped. “hey,” he said softly. “it’s okay. i’ll make you some herbal tea. that should help with the pain a bit.”

“it’s not that,” you made out, a small pout forming on your lips. “we were having such a wonderful day, gil, and i ruined it all. i’m sorry.”

“whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, his brow furrowing. “you didn’t ruin anything. you got hurt, it happens. and we have the rest of the afternoon to be together- i’ll tell you what, how about once we get back to the farmhouse, we’ll make the most of it, okay? we can still have some fun.”

a wobbly smile formed on your lips, and you nodded. gilbert cupped your face gently, and looked into your eyes. “i love you,” he said, voice nervous but firm. “just let me take care of you.”

your heart caught in your throat. he’d never said that before. contrary to the rumors, he hadn’t even kissed you properly yet. “i love you too,” you whispered, voice hoarse. and before you could think about it too much, you went up on your tiptoes and pressed a small kiss to gilbert’s lips.

they were soft and sweet and filled with promise and hope, and he leaned into it, your bodies closer than they’d ever been. his hands ghosted the small of your back, your hips, your shoulders, and it felt like home. when you finally pulled apart, there was a twinkle in his eye you’d never seen before. a twinkle of something called joy.

when you got back to the farmhouse, he finally settled you on the couch, comfortably sipping a cup of tea and trying wholeheartedly to braid your hair. he’d always wanted to learn, and since you were currently unable to do it yourself, he deemed it the perfect opportunity. it made you laugh- his fingers, usually nimble and clever, were clumsy in your locks, and the braid you ended up with was slightly sloppy, but filled with adoration. a realization fluttered through your mind, and set its claws into your future. you loved gilbert- gilbert loved you- and though you wouldn’t say it out loud, at least not for several years, he would make a wonderful husband.

five. when you said “i do”.

the spring skies were blue today- flowers were blooming- grass was green. “a lovely day for a wedding,” mrs. lynde had told marilla that morning, and all of avonlea agreed. 

you were walking down the aisle in a few minutes, getting ready in reverence. a delicate white veil lay on your hair, the one passed down through your family for almost a century. the lace dress fit you perfectly, intricate embroidery accentuating your waist. your mother’s simple pearl earrings adorned your ears, glowing in the morning light. in your hands were a bouquet- a single spray of forget-me-nots, periwinkle blue, an ode to gilbert’s father, who had loved them so. and at the same time, a tribute to your past together, that awful rainy day after the funeral filled with grief and tears and emotion, yet what had brought you closer together. something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. all was well. you were ready.

the springtime realm of gilbert’s yard was immersed in devotion. petals decorated the grass down the aisle. your dearest friends and family observed, and the wedding itself passed in the blink of an eye. there was not a dry eye during the vows, and gilbert’s words were even more poetic than you had ever hoped. he promised to love you- to care for you- in sickness and in health, to be your rock. it was not the fanciest wedding- there were no messes of tulle and satin and roses- but it was yours, and you couldn’t be happier.

you were husband and wife. the dawn had come anew. and that night, when gilbert fell asleep watching you breathe, finding solace in the rise and fall of your chest, he knew without a doubt that he would do it all over again.

Tags
anne with an e Gilbert Blythe gilbert blythe headcanon gilbert blythe x reader gilbert blythe imagine gilbert blythe drabble anne with an e imagine gilbert blythe imagines gilbert blythe fluff
1K notes View Post
annewashere
1 year ago

Stubborn to a fault- David Rossi.

Summary: You try to continue working when you’re ill, Davi isn’t having any of it and takes care of you.

Prompts: ‘shh, it’s okay. Get everything out.’ ‘Will you carry me?’

Warnings: Sick!reader, overworking, disregard for own health, vomit, crying, undressing.

Pairing: David Rossi x sick!reader.

Word count: 1,520.

Bella: Beautiful.

Dolcezza: Sweetness.

Stubborn To A Fault- David Rossi.

The number of files on my pile was slowly going down, I didn't have many left anymore. I was determined to get them all done before I left for the night. I held my hand tight around my stomach as I fought to focus on the work in front of me rather than the cramps and rolling waves of nausea.

"See you later Y/N." I smiled up at Emily, giving her a slight wave as I hid my discomfort. I was left alone in the bullpen, lights dimmed and closed off from Hotch and Rossi as they worked away in their offices. The clock seemed to slow down until minutes felt like hours, and all the while the pain worsened. My hands shook as I wrote, making it impossible to finish my report.

"You look terrible." I jumped out of my trance as David's voice came from beside me. I glared up at him halfheartedly, slightly offended despite it being the truth.

"Thank you," I deadpanned, smiling grimly. "Is it any wonder you've had three wives?"

"Ouch," his hand clutched at his chest in faux pain. "I guess I deserved that, huh?"

"Sorry, that was harsh." Rubbing my hands over my face. "I'm a little under the weather."

"Hmm, I can see that." I smiled tiredly at him as he crouched beside my desk. "Why don't we get you home?"

"No, it's okay, I've got too much to do. I'll go home when I'm finished." Turning back to my desk I grabbed my pen, only to be stopped by a warm, calloused hand covering my own. My eyes met his for a moment before I let out a heavy sigh.

"Y/N, that can wait for now. You're not well and you need rest. Your complexion enough is scaring me and paired with the stomach pains and shaking is more than enough to allow yourself time off." Pulling the pen from my grip, he set it on the desk and put my phone in my bag before slinging it over his shoulder. "Come on, ill drive you home." He caught Hotch's gaze from the office and motioned that he was taking me as I stood from the chair, holding his arm for support.

"Fine, but not because you told me." I countered. "Because I want to." Ignoring the spinning of my head, we walked to the car park, his hand holding my waist so I didn't fall. After buckling me in, David began the drive home.

"You know, you're too stubborn for your own good." He commented, eyes flickering from the road to me and back.

"I know I'm behind on my files and Strauss will rip into Aaron about it. I thought if I could get the done now then my reward would be having the weekend off ill." The sickness persisted as the motion of the car irritated my stomach.

"That's not how this works, you resting when you're ill isn't a reward it's a necessity. And if you'd spoken to Aaron then he would have given you time off without any questions asked. He would've dealt with Strauss." His voice was gentle and soothing, calming me as my anxiety rose.

"I just didn't want to put more pressure on him, he's dealing with enough with Jack." I shrugged off the conversation, brow furrowing as I watched the streets pass. "Rossi, this isn't the way to my house."

"I know," He chuckled. "Do you really think I'm going to leave you alone when you're ill? I don't think so, we're going to my place so I can take care of you." My heart melted in my chest at his words and I settled back in my seat for the rest of the ride.

"Y/N, we're here." My eyes fluttered open at his voice and it dawned on me I had dozed off. "Come on, let's get you in the warmth." He leant over me through the now open door and unbuckled me, helping me out carefully. The churning in my stomach picked up once more as we walked to the house. I stood stiller than ever as Rossi wandered around, putting our jackets away and my bag on the table. I knew how awkward I must look but I was scared of ruining something.

"David," my voice was barely a whisper as a wave of nausea and heat rocked my body. "David." I let my voice get a little louder, catching his attention as my mouth started to water and my heart pounded against my ribs. Dark, whiskey eyes met my own and widened in realisation as he took in my panicked voice and pasty face. His hands gripped my waist as he rushed us towards the bathroom, speeding up slightly when I slapped my hand over my mouth.

I spluttered around my hand as we made it to the bathroom just in time. I fell to my knees as my body hurled its contents up. Cramps wracked my body as I threw up, grimacing at the sound it made. The waves of vomiting interrupted the groans of pain and discomfort mixed with sobs.

"Shhh, it's okay. Get everything out, Dolcezza." David muttered as he rubbed my back, keeping my hair away from my face. My body slumped after a while, energy depleted as I dry retched, having nothing left the bring up.

"I'm sorry," I cried, letting him pull me back against his chest. "I'm really sorry." Guilt crept up o me; feeling awful for throwing up at his house when I was a guest.

"It's okay, Bella, you can't help being ill." He was so gentle and understanding, just holding me as I settled down. "You don't need to be sorry." Closing my eyes, I waited for the room to stop sinning, focusing on the warm hands that rubbed my arms. After a few minutes, he manoeuvred me to rest against the bathtub before grabbing a brand-new toothbrush as I struggled to keep my eyes open. "Here Dolcezza let's get you cleaned up. Brush your teeth and we can get you rested up." Grabbing the toothbrush from his hand, I sleepily did as he said, letting him wipe my face with a warm cloth afterwards.

"Now, let's get you to bed, Bella." I smiled at him tiredly, brushing my fingers over his cheek gently.

"You're too sweet to me." Exhaustion was quickly taking over, making me giddy and seem almost drunk. "Will you carry me?" His chuckle made my head feel a little lighter, despite the fever that was beginning to take over. Without hesitation, strong arms picked me up and I looped my arms around his neck, head falling on his shoulder. I let out a sigh of relief as the cold sheets met my skin but the feeling didn't last long as they warmed up under me.

"It's okay, we'll get you cooled off." Rossi's face came into focus as he sat on the edge of his bed, a glass of water in one hand and a bowl of water in the other. "Take a few sips of this, slowly, don't want you throwing up again." My head seemed fuzzy as I drank with shaking hands, grimacing at the sweat that seemed to pour off me.

"Want this off." Pulling at my jumper, huffing as my hands got stuck in the sleeves. "Need it. I can't get it," frustration built up, soon turning to tears which were common when I was ill.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," David rushed back over, placing a clean washcloth beside the bowl on the bedside table. "Calm down, Bella, let me help." The jumper was quickly removed, the air on my dampened skin feeling almost icy. "Lie down, you have to rest."

"Don't wanna make a mess of your room." Words began to slur together as exhaustion took over but he seemed to understand clearly enough. "Don't wanna ruin anything, David." I yanked off my trousers, the fabric feeling like knives against my skin, kicking off my shoes as I threw myself back against the pillows

"you don't need to worry, things can be cleaned." He soothed me, reorganising the pillows so I could lay comfortably and folding my discarded clothes before pulling a soft, light blanket over my waist. If it wasn't for the fever delirium then I would have been mortified id stripped in front of my boss but I couldn't collect any thoughts at the moment.

"M'Kay," I sprawled against the bed grateful for the breeze from the open window. I let out a moan of appreciation as a damp, cold cloth wiped over my skin, settling at the base of my neck. "You're an angel, David, my sweet angel." My voice quietened as I began to nod off. "Stay with me?" The vulnerability pushed through my sleepiness.

"Of course, Dolcezza, I'll be right here when you wake up." My lips curled into a soft smile as he kissed my head, smoothing down my hair. I threw my arm over his waist, burying my head into the gap between the pillows and his side. "Sleep well, Bella."

Tags
david rossi criminal minds criminal minds fanfiction criminal minds x reader david rossi x reader
231 notes View Post
annewashere
9 months ago

BACK TO YOU — CHISHIYA X FEM!READER

MAJOR AIB SPOILERS !!

SUMMARY — you win the games and wake up in the hospital. remembering everything that happened in the borderlands and not knowing if chishiya made it.

BACK TO YOU — CHISHIYA X FEM!READER
BACK TO YOU — CHISHIYA X FEM!READER
BACK TO YOU — CHISHIYA X FEM!READER

your mouth was dry and it tasted like blood. your eyes opened slowly, getting used to the bright lights of the hospital room and you hissed when your hand landed on your temples. you had some cuts on your face, covered with gauzes and medical tapes, and some bruises too, especially around your eyes and on your cheekbones.

you looked around the room and you could see your mom's purse next to your bed, but she wasn't in the room. somethings never change, not even when you are at the hospital after having been dead for a few seconds. once you tried to sit on the bed, you felt a stabbing pain in your lower abdomen and then on your forearm. your hand went directly where it hurt in your belly and you realized that you were wearing a bigger gauze there and another of the same size on your arm, and at that moment a wave of memories hit you making you feel dizzy. the beach. the next level. the king of spades. chishiya.

chishiya.

you gasped and forced yourself to remember when was the last time that you saw him. niragi's gun was pointing at you when he suddenly stepped in the middle of your body and the bullet with your name written in it.

"why would you do it?" you asked him with tears in your eyes. chishiya just showed you a smirk. you told him that he needed to resist, that there were only two games left and everything will be over. a little smile remained on chishiya’s lips as he nodded slowly. he knew that by the time you completed the games he wouldn't be there. you wanted to stay by his side but usagi and arisu dragged you out of there when the zeppelin of the king of spades appeared.

the last thing you remember from that day was lying next to kuina and ann on the cold ground. your back hurt and your wounds didn't stop bleeding as you watched the fireworks and listened to what you were being asked. "i decline." you finally answered, with tears in the corners of your eyes.

you got up from the hospital bed and noticed that you were sharing a room with someone else. that someone in the room with you was separated from your side with a curtain. with small steps and with a hand on your belly, right where your wound was, you approached the curtain, and being extremely careful, you had a quick peek to the other side. you took a sharp breath after you recognized the boy on the other side. his thick brown hair was stuck to his forehead, and just like you, he had some gauzes on his face. he gave a small jump on the bed when he noticed that someone was staring at him from a small opening in the curtain, but his frown relaxed once he recognized you.

"y/n?" he asked, still a bit confused.

"arisu." you removed the curtain completely and his eyes opened wide. he removed the blanket from himself and turned his body to let his legs hang from the bed, ready to get up from the moment he saw you. you were quicker than him and hugged him, maybe a little too hard because you both hissed when your bodies collided. you stayed like that for a few seconds more and then he asked you if you were okay, and how long had been since you woke up.

"a minute?" you asked him. your head hurt. "everything- everything happened in a minute. all the games, all the deaths? in a minute?"

arisu nodded. you gulped. all the things you lived with chishiya happened in sixty seconds. you felt like you could throw up. you shook your head and decided to talk about anything else. "did usagi make it?"

"yes. she was with me when we finished the last game."

you nodded, glad to hear that your friend was alive. "kuina and ann also made it. i think i heard aguni and akane too but i can't remember well."

arisu then understood. you knew that all of your friends made it but not if he did. "i'm sure- i'm sure he's here. i'm sure chishiya got out."

you shook your head with your eyes closed. arisu didn't know that. when the king of spades appeared and him and usagi separated you from chishiya, his white jacket was already soaked in blood. the first bullet hit him in a noncritical area, but the second one, the one that should've got you, went directly into his chest. you didn't need to be a med student to know that that was bad.

"come on. let's go for a walk." arisu got up from the bed and kissed your forehead after noticing how sad your eyes were. you hooked your arm in his. every now and then arisu would stop to check up on you, if you were breathing well, if you were too tired to continue but you assured him every time that you were fine.

you saw aguni in the icu. the doctors that came out of the room were pointing out how that man being alive was practically a medical miracle. akane was on a wheelchair looking at him through the glass. the girl was very pleased to see you both again. she asked about your injuries and she thanked arisu in a subtle way for winning the last game. she didn't know if you were ready to talk openly about what happened. she didn't even know if she was.

you tried to run and arisu had to hold you so you wouldn't fall down the moment that you saw kuina. her face glowed and she had to blink a couple of times to believe her eyes. kuina was kneeling in front of a woman in a wheelchair, a man was standing next to the two of them, and you guessed that they were her parents. she was quick to stand up, her father had to help her to get to you and arisu, and then you hugged her tightly. you were careful though, you saw how bad her injuries were. you remember the king of spades on top of her, stabbing multiple times her stomach, blood coming out of her mouth and you immobile lying on the ground after being shot by him.

"have you seen him? do you know if he made it out?" you held kuina's cheeks. defeated, you let out a sigh after seeing kuina's confused expression. she shook her head to both of your questions. kuina told you that the last time that she saw chishiya was when the king of spades attacked for the first time, and then each of you followed a different path and she never saw him again after that. but when she met arisu again, he said that chishiya was fine.

you slowly turned to look at arisu with raised eyebrows, and the boy just shrugged his shoulders. on second thought, you were sure that arisu didn't do it with bad intentions. you had to explain to her that niragi shot him twice. kuina gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. you told her that the second time niragi was aiming at you but chishiya stood in the middle. that did not come as a surprise to her. she knew him longer than you did. they were already at the beach when you arrived there with arisu and usagi, and as long as she had known him, chishiya had always acted unbothered. he wasn't a big fan of showing affection. he was selfish, arrogant, and really self-centered. but kuina knew that he would take a bullet for you.

she insisted on joining you and arisu on your walk. you three recognized some people who were in the games with you: people from the beach, that kid usagi fought so hard to save, people you tried to kill, and people that tried to kill you.

"excuse me?"

the hospital reception was chaotic, and you barely heard the woman at the other side of the counter humming to your question.

"i'm- i'm looking for someone."

"name?"

you blinked a few times at her sudden question. you played with your fingers nervously. she raised her eyebrows waiting for an answer. "chishiya shuntarō."

you shouldn't have ask. you should have waited for him to find you. what if the woman told you what you didn't want to hear? no. no. no. you should've waited, or had arisu to ask for you. but now you were waiting for that woman to finish typing on the computer and maybe to tell you that he was dea-

"third floor, room 301."

"oh." you said in a sigh. you could feel all your body relaxing, your hands stopped trambling, your legs didn't feel like giving up anymore. but you could also feel your heart beating in your throat, and your chest slowly heaving. the woman raised her eyebrows at you again.

"do you need anything else?"

you gulped, shaking your head softly and coming back to you. "hm?oh. no, thank you."

you turned around and walked towards arisu and kuina, your eyes locked on the floor. your two friends arched their brows worried, by your face both of them expected the worse. kuina could feel that familiar lump that forms in your throat moments before bursting into tears. arisu approached you and his hands gripped your shoulders. your eyes connected with his.

"y/n-"

"he's on the third floor."

arisu sighed in relief. kuina also let out a sigh and she wiped away some tears off her cheeks before you could see her. she approached the woman and asked for an and she told kuina that she was in the operating room, which was also a strong relief.

time passed slowly, and the way to the third floor was the longest you could remember. not when you were walking to the control room with him and kuina, escaping from the militants, not when you were heading to a game, not even when you ran to him after niragi shot him. the elevator was too slow for you.

arisu was checking up on you, kuina was too deep in her thoughts. once the elevator stopped and the doors opened, you gulped and looked at arisu. he nodded for you to be the first one out of the elevator. what you didn't expect was to see chishiya in the middle of the hallway, his body slightly curved and one of his hands pressing his lower abdomen. he was talking to his doctor, probably asking a million questions like why he had put him on that medication instead of the other one, and trying to convince him why the other one was better.

"chishiya."

the boy quickly turned to see who was calling him and his eyes opened wide in surprise. "y/n." chishiya soon forgot about the doctor. one of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other one hugged your upper body, resting his hand on the back of your head and pulling you closer to him. he hid his face into the crook of your neck.

it was weird having him in between your arms in the real world. once you two were completely healed you'd go back to your normal life but you'll have each other. you were going to have to get used to his twenty-four hours shift as a doctor, and he was going to get used to hugs and kisses every day. but now, with his arms wrapped around you and after gone through that much, he thought that he could get used to that easily.

"i knew that you would make it." chishiya said with a small smile on his lips. one of his hands pushed your hair away from your face and tucked it behind your ear. the other one held your chin up trying to see through the gauzes on your face what type of injuries you had.

arisu and kuina were standing behind you. chishiya shared a glance with both of them. arisu was smirking, kuina was biting her nails with tears in her eyes, probably waiting for her turn to greet her friend but not wanting to separate you. you rested your head on his chest, careful to not touch where he was shot. your lower lip trembled, tears started forming in your eyes.

"i thought that you-"

someone talked before chishiya could. "that could never happen, you know what they say, only the good ones die young."

"you bastard." you looked over chishiya's shoulders and tried to move away from him the moment that you saw niragi at the end of the hallway, approaching the group from behind chishiya. he was quick to hold you tighter against him, to prevent you from hurting yourself even more by hitting niragi.

niragi was smiling. even though half of his body was covered with bandages you could see that disgusting smirk on his lips.

"i'm gonna kill you," you stated. niragi laughed at you. you couldn't see it but chishiya smirked, his arms still hugging you and not letting you part from him.

"it's not that big of a deal, honey. he's is alive and i got to shoot him. we both won."

chishiya could stop you but he didn't have enough arms to stop kuina. the girl passed by your side like a fury. arisu tried to grab her arm but she was mad. her fists were already clenched before she was even close to niragi, and arisu called her name in a last attempt of stopping her. niragi looked down at her with a smile on his lips. he knew what was coming. he had seen that face on kuina before.

her fist closed tighter and with all the strength in her body, she punched niragi. his mouth and nose started bleeding right after but he didn't stop laughing. she had her fist ready again but arisu grabbed her waist from behind pulling her away from him.

"better?" chishiya asked after feeling your breathing slowing down. you nodded and you both looked at kuina kicking in the arms of arisu. chishiya raised his brows looking at the doctors coming to assist niragi. "well, he deserved it." you rolled your eyes at him.

"you have to tell me a lot of things, i guess." chishiya said referring to your bruised face. you nodded, he was going to believe everything that happened between the time he was shot until arisu and usagi won the last game.

"i haven't seen banda and yaba."

chishiya smiled at your innocent. "i'm sure that they are fine but i'm also sure that they decided to stay." you already thought about that. you nodded understanding. what a shame because they were nice to you during the jack of hearts game, and they promised you that you'll see each other again. chishiya knew by your face that you didn't listen when he said that banda was a murderer and yaba was a scammer. people like that could only live freely in the borderlands.

not people like you two tho

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 Chishiya alice in borderland chishiya shuntaro chishiya x reader alice in boderland x reader chishiya x fem!reader chishiya x you chishiya imagine chishiya angst chishiya fluff alice in borderland fluff alice in borderland angst chishiya x y/n
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