"You don't ha- "
"[Y/N,] please," he begged, sweaty hands wrapped firmly around the pair that were balled up at his chest, fingers clenching at the fabric of his t-shirt; the likeness of Einstein wrinkled and distorted; not entirely unlike the world around you as time stopped and all there was among the disorder and confusion was the two of you, "I need you to trust me. I'm going to keep you safe. "
"I do. I do trust you, Pete," eyebrows furrowing, shaking your head at him, "it's not that, I just - "
A woman from your World Literature class slammed into you, clock starting back up again as her shoulder rammed itself into yours; the hands at Peter's chest keeping you from falling over.
Chaos was erupting around you, students and faculty alike were frantically running down crowded halls, dozens of echoing steps and loud, panicked voices filling your ears and clouding your brain; the TV visible from the open door of the lounge broadcasting the scene less than a block away from campus; explosions and gunfire, strange energy weapons pulsing, emitting beams of violence in varying shades.
"-I worry about you. Look at that, Peter."
You didn't need the stressed words of the newscaster cowering on scene to tell you how dangerous the attack was; even from where you stood, sheltered by the walls of the institution, you could hear the keening, strange sounds the guns were making. You could hear screaming; could hear crying, pleading voices.
If you really focused, you could see the way the munitions coming from the outlandish barrels were casting this eerie spectacle of light across the reflective surface of the windows behind the TV, colors changing the white streaming from the sun into various alien pastels.
"I want to protect you," the way he said it like a prayer, a declaration, a promise, his own eyebrows rising at the words spilling from his anxious heart, "more than anything. Let me do that by stopping them."
His eyes, dark brown and glassy, were pleading with you; with the hands at his chest; you could see yourself reflected in them, could see the worried expression you wore on your face projected onto the screen of his irises as you took in the boy in front of you.
But then he wasn't really a boy anymore, was he?
He was all hard lines, strong arms, and honeyed words.
He was Peter Parker, the man who wore t-shirts with science puns, space, movie heroes, and too-big comfy sweaters. The man who sometimes forgot to brush his curls into order, occasionally neglected to tie the laces of his Converse up the right way, who tripped over himself and his words a few too many times a day, and had a hard time buttoning up his flannels correctly.
He was the kind of man who made silly jokes about photons and traveling light.
But, he was also the Peter who always somehow knew your new favorite song before even you did, your preferred color for the week, who remembered the comment you'd made about the warm shades decorating the trees outside your apartment, and who always told you when you looked pretty; words fighting through blushing cheeks just to make sure you knew.
You loved this man.
You loved him and you were selfish.
Looking into his eyes, the feel of his strong, steady hands and the hard, set line of his jaw, you forgot for a second how soft Peter was, suddenly seeing him for all that he stood for. Sometimes you forgot that this man was a protector, a hero, too wrapped up in the sometimes clumsy, always dorky, gentle being made of light that he was.
Sometimes you forgot that he was also Spider-Man, that he was always both. There was no distinction.
Selfish.
The building shook as an explosion went off just outside, a billowing pillar of amber colored smoke blew in through the windows of the empty lecture room to your left; Peter's arms moving quickly to wrap themselves around you, cocooning your face and neck within the safe harbor of his chest, burying his own into your hair as tiny shards of melted glass blew out into the corridor.
As quickly as he had moved to shelter you, he was releasing you again, eyes alert and body tense.
Then a hand was wrapping around yours again and he was pulling you towards the storage closet a little further down the hall. You knocked over a stack of paper towels on a wobbly shelf as he all but shoved you in, a set of warm lips leaving a wet mark on your forehead as he placed a hasty kiss there.
He had already managed to rip his jacket off, had already worked Einstein over his head and was tossing both into the closet with you, both articles caught and hanging off of a broom handle.
The emblem he wore at his chest caught the light from the bulb above your heads.
"I've got to go. Please, stay right here. I'll come and get you after." He was already half way out the door, but you held firm to his hand.
"Peter - " He cut you off with a kiss. It was firm, and rough, and desperate, his fingers pulling a little too harshly at your hair as they held on to your face for all they were worth, and there were teeth clanging together with teeth, and raspy breaths exhaling from squished noses, but oh, if his lips didn't set you on fire; your whole body begging for him to just stay.
Selfish: the word tattooed on your heart, letters formed at the cellular level with the ink of guarded, careful, all consuming adoration.
"I've beaten guys like this before. I can handle it. Trust me, [Y/N.]"
But your brain, your brain knew that he was needed out there where the sounds of terrorism were overwhelming, and violence was now on every frequency.
So you nodded your head and dropped his hand.
"Stay here," he pointed a pleading set of fingers at you, while the other worked a mask over a pair of worried eyes.
The building rattled again, broom tipping over into the small space, his clothes toppling to the floor with it.
Then he slammed the door shut.
"I can't stand the thought of losing you," you heard him whisper through the spaces around the door, carbon copied words matching the thoughts you'd been unable to voice to him before he'd run off to face your fears.
