Peter Parker ▹ Spider-Man | imagines

priorities

"You're gonna be saving the world, and we'll never get to just be two stupid teenagers."
warnings: language, fluff, angst

11:47 pm

You always kept your window unlocked. The curtains were always shut, the window was always closed, but you always left it unlocked. Always for him, and never really for yourself.

It was late at night. You hadn't checked the clock, but the moon had been out for awhile now, and the stars were almost coming through. When the stars almost came through, it meant the world was asleep. It meant you should've been asleep, too.

Growing bodies needed sleep. You needed sleep. You needed sleep so you could get a good grade on your chemistry exam, you needed sleep so you could sit up in English class, you needed sleep so you could come up with stupid remarks against your fifth period lab partner.

Sleep never came easy. You always worried about him. If you didn't worry about him, it was because he was with you. If he was with you, you weren't getting sleep. It was a cycle of desperate frustration and sweet relief, one that sleep never gave you. It was a shame.

You were startled when you heard the rattling at your window. He knew it wasn't locked, but he would never come in. No matter how many times you insisted he could enter without knocking, he wouldn't dare. It was bad enough that he was coming in through your window and not your front door.

You slid out of bed, not even bothering to rub your tired eyes because you hadn't been sleeping. You watched the silhouette outside your window slide down the wall of your fire escape, settling down. You pushed aside the curtains, looking around the ledge until you spotted the side of his mask. You slid the glass up, poking your head out into the autumn cold that blanketed your borough of the city.

"Peter," you said softly, and he turned his head. You knew if he wasn't wearing the mask, you would see the struggle strain his features as he stood up slowly and shakily. You lent him your hand, and instead of insisting, "I'm Spider-Man, I can do it," he allowed you to carefully pull him into the familiarity of your room. The room he called his safe place, the room that became his refuge, the girl that became his home.

You slid your arm around his torso, moving slowly as you laid him down on your comforter. Peter moaned in relief as you slid his mask off his face, his curls escaping in tuffs of matted and damp hair. You grimaced when you noticed the ring of yellow bruising turning to purple against his eye. You said nothing as Peter released the confinement of his suit, carefully sliding out of it as you folded it neatly and slid it underneath your bed.

You said nothing as you reached for a shirt and sweats, clothes you had borrowed from him some time ago, and tossed them atop his stomach as you turned your body to face him. Peter did not look at you as he dressed, his eyes on the ground. He was too nervous to meet your gaze.

You knelt beside him as he slid between the sheets of your already-warm bed, pulling the covers up to his chin as he breathed another sigh of relief. His eyes were shut, but he knew you were still watching him.

You shifted on your knees, reaching your arm over and taking the side of his face into the palm of your hand. The action alone made his eyes flutter open, and you gave him a sorrowful smile as he hummed, relaxing into your touch.

"Peter, you gotta stop coming home to me like this," you whispered. He fixed his gaze on you, a look in his eyes you couldn't quite decipher. A cross between confusion, maybe shock, adoration. You couldn't quite make out what he was thinking, but you knew what he saw in yours: pity, nothing but pity.