often?

Peter had expected, on some level, that Spider-Man would be missed: by his friends, by the public, by the people he’s saved. He had also expected for Peter Parker to not be missed by anyone except for his landlord (when he missed rent) and his respective bosses: J. Jonah Jameson from the Daily Bugle, where Peter worked as a freelance photographer, and some guy called Buddy (which may or may not be his actual name) who had been Peter’s manager for his day-job as a waiter at a restaurant. He had been really good at not dropping plates. 

(Sticky fingers were very useful for carrying excessively large trays laden with food, and super strength meant that even though all the old ladies cooed at him for how strong he was to carry so many plates at once (during his time working at the restaurant, Peter tended to exist in a perpetual state of hungry, injured, and/or exhausted, so he had a perpetual… unfortunately-damp-and-sad cat energy which had been a hit with older ladies and maternally inclined folks when it came to tips), there was no actual strain.)

Peter had ended up being pretty on-the-nose with his predictions - perhaps underestimating how much Spider-Man would be missed, if anything - because when he came back to his universe, he was out two jobs and had only managed to keep his apartment because Johnny had paid his rent, which Peter had promised to pay back even though Johnny insisted that it really wasn’t necessary. 

Unsurprisingly, Buddy had been unwilling to take Peter back. Jameson had also, at first, been unwilling, but then Peter had dropped an envelope full of newly-arrived-back-in-New-York Spider-Man photos before anyone else had even realized Spider-Man was back (of course, this was all intentional on Peter’s part), and bada-bing bada-boom: Peter had his freelance photography job back.  

Yipee!

Still, photography doesn’t pay the bills - or, well, Jameson doesn’t pay the pills, but that’s neither here nor there - which meant that Peter needed to get another job. 

Reed Richards had, pretty quickly upon Peter arriving back in New York, offered him a job as a lab assistant, citing the fact that Peter had - somehow - figured out multidimensional transportation in a storage unit to be enough proof of his qualifications, but Peter felt weird about getting a job from a family member, so he had politely refused. The following year after Peter came back had been… rough… to say the very least, so Peter made his money primarily through photography and by taking up odd jobs that didn’t have any long-term time commitments. And then he had asked Johnny for help when, with all of that, Peter still couldn’t afford to live because this was New-fucking-York and Peter debated for a long while on taking Reed up on his job offer because then, at least, he was doing something in return for all the Fantastic Four’s help. 

But he hadn’t, in the end, because Peter was smart, yeah, but he didn’t know if he was Reed Richards smart and Peter really didn’t want to embarrass himself by being stupid in front of him. That, however, was a thought that Peter kept very close to his heart, so he just told Reed he was looking for something different instead of the truth.

Now, though, Peter muses as he swings across the city, he is in a much better place mentally and probably due for a bit of permanence. It’s about time to make his mark on the world as a fully employed person! 

…Or, at the very least, Peter would like to… stop having to ask Johnny to pay his rent, even though he seemed happy (weirdly enough) to do it. 

So Peter had searched, and searched, and applied, and got rejected because - oh right! - Peter didn’t have a goddamn degree. Har-dee-fucking-har, Peter loves the fact that his entire identity was erased, it has never caused any problems ever in this history of forever. 

But he digresses, because he had, last week, stumbled across a job advert that had potential.

Potential for him to shine? Yes. Potential for him to get killed? Also yes.

Because guess what independent scientist was looking for a lab assistant? Guess what independent scientist needed a lab assistant and didn’t require a degree: only an “acceptable” understanding of mechanics and physics? 

(...Peter wasn’t really sure what an “acceptable” level of knowledge was, but he figured he probably had it?? Even though acceptable is probably not actually acceptable, but rather an above-and-beyond understanding (which, really, had to be an unethical and unfair hiring practice, because there was no way any normal person would be ready for that guy), but Peter was both acceptable and above-and-beyond, so he wasn’t too concerned.)

Peter had sent his resume that very same day to the one and only (unless he’s counting the multiversal variants, which Peter is not) Doctor Otto Octavius, pausing for less than a minute to consider what, exactly, he was getting himself into, before inevitably going through with his moronic idea anyway. There were two (possibly three, doubtfully four) ways for their entanglement to end.

One: Peter and Doc Ock (who would hopefully not be Doc Ock quite yet) get along smashingly well and nothing bad happens. 

Two: Peter and Doc Ock get along until one thing or another happens and then Doc Ock commits some super-fun attempted murder!! Which, Peter would like to clarify for his own mind, is not the preferred option, but would be his second place choice.

The possible third option is that the attempted murder becomes actual murder, which, Peter would like to go on record to state, is the option he likes the least.

The fourth - and most doubtful outcome - is that Peter doesn’t get the job, because Peter might have the self confidence of a horse that spooks at its own shadow, but he can admit that his brain is - not to toot his own horn, but hell, Peter is totally tooting it - pretty freaking great. 

(Maybe not… Reed Richards great, but Peter felt pretty confident that he could easily be Doctor Octavius great, which is probably a little rude, but the guy (‘s alternate universe self) had tried to kill him before, so Peter thinks he’s warranted a bit of leeway in the rudeness department.)

The dollar signs had been flashing in his eyes like a cartoon character as Peter submitted his (pretty shitty) resume, which had felt pretty shallow, so Peter lied to himself by saying that keeping on top of Doc Ock’s movements would be in his best interest. Which is. The main reason he applied. And definitely not because Peter wants to pick the man’s brain more and also have some fun mental stimulation. 

This is totally a strictly business (and vigilante) arrangement that has nothing to do with any of Peter’s own personal interests. 

A few days after Peter had submitted his application, Doc Ock (Peter should probably get used to calling him Doctor Octavius since the guy isn’t, well, evil. Yet. Hopefully.) had reached out to schedule an interview. Privately, Peter can admit to himself and the New York skyline, he is genuinely looking forward to it. But Peter pushes any thoughts about the interview (which is set for tomorrow) to the side for now because somewhere down below him, a car alarm had started blaring.

Peter felt overdressed. It was almost embarrassing, really.

He had rented a suit for the interview, anxiously double-triple-quadruple checked the address Doctor Octavius had given him and arrived twenty minutes early (it would have been thirty if he hadn’t paced outside of the building for ten minutes), stressing all the while, only for Doctor Octavius to arrive five minutes late, looking about fifteen years younger than Peter had expected, with a handsome and roguish look about him that was tempered only slightly by his hair that stuck up wildly and the tired bags under his eyes. He wore sweats and a grease-stained lab coat that was rolled up to his elbows, but his handshake was firm and strong and his eyes were bright. His face was different from the other-Doc Ock, but, Peter supposes, the other-Peters had looked quite different, too, so it was easy to move on from the quiet surprise.

“Peter, right? Nice to meet you.” 

“Uh, yeah. It’s, uhm, nice to meet you too, Doctor Octavius,” Peter hopes his sweaty handshake wasn’t too deterring, “Thank you for giving me a chance.” 

Brushing off Peter’s words with a wave, Doctor Octavius then shoves his hands into his coat pockets with a shrug, “Call me Otto. And what can I say? Your resume intrigued me: no degree, but apparently well versed in robotics, physics, and a handful of other areas in science and engineering. I had to hear… or, well, test you out. Follow me.”

Doctor Octavius - Otto - is swift on his feet, every movement purposeful and self-assured, which is strikingly different to the leisurely way Doc Ock floated around on his robotic limbs, and Peter likes the difference. It makes it easier to separate the two in his mind. Winding their way through a plain corridor, Otto stops in front of a metal door - reinforced, Peter notes, but still something he would easily be able to punch through - and scans a badge that he produces from his pocket. Peter can hear the door click as it unlocks, and he follows Otto down a set of stairs as he explains what he meant by testing Peter out, “Asking questions felt like an inefficient way to test any potential assistants. I mean, it’s one thing to have shit memorized, but it’s another to be able to apply that knowledge and be productive and helpful in a laboratory environment.”

Peter agrees, but is also mentally cursing Otto out because this suit is a rental, goddamn it, he really can’t be getting messy in this thing, “What do you want me to do?” Otto scans his badge again, unlocking a second, even more reinforced door, and opens it to what Peter imagines is every scientists’ wet dream of a laboratory. The place is beautiful, and Peter would like to move in right this instant and never leave. 

“I want you to look at something, and tell me your thoughts.”

Well that’s super fucking vague, Peter thinks to himself, but follows Otto anyway to a tall thingy that is currently being covered by a not-at-all suspicious and stereotypical white cloth, which is pulled away to reveal…!

Peter’s jaw drops. Otto - the bastard - looks so fucking smug and Peter cannot blame him.

“Holy shit, dude.” The words slip out before Peter can bite them back and Otto laughs - the throw-your-head-back and shake sort of laugh - in delight. 

“I’m glad you seem to like it.” 

Understatement of the freaking century. Peter is looking at what looks like Ultron 2.0 but better, and Peter may feel way older than he actually is, but inside of him is still a twelve year old boy whose greatest dream is to build a robot to be his best friend. He turns to look at Otto for permission, which is given with a brief nod and a small smile, before taking off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves. The seams of the robot - humanoid only in shape - are perfect, with no exposed wiring or machinery, and Peter’s fingers flit over it all lightly before coming to rest where the third vertebrae would be for a human. Otto is watching him carefully. Peter is ignoring him and watching the robot carefully. There has to be a processing unit in this thing somewhere, and the torso would normally be the place but that doesn’t feel right, so Peter trails his hand down the “spinal” column and stops at the third vertebrae from the bottom, where there is an almost imperceptible divot that his nail catches on. Peter presses down and shifts to the side so that when the cover plating on the thigh swings open it doesn’t hit him. 

Otto makes a noise that sounds vaguely impressed, but Peter is already examining the inner workings of the robot. 

“This is for, uhh, underwater work? Deep sea?” Peter asks, because otherwise the plating wouldn’t need to be so airtight and seamless, and the materials it's built out of would not be crushed by the intense pressure at the bottom of the ocean. 

There is no response for a while, so Peter glances over at the scientist to see him grinning almost manically. Peter raises an eyebrow, “You can tell me if I’m wrong, y’know.” Peter isn’t wrong. He knows that. He also knows that Otto knows that, and Peter is struck with the realization that oh. 

Otto is happy that Peter was able to so easily guess the robot’s purpose. 

“I was thinking it would be for working on deep sea pipelines or wiring, or maybe exploration,” Otto’s focus on Peter’s face is intense, even as he explains with animated hand gestures, and Peter knows what he’s looking for.

It’s what every scientist looks for, after all: excitement about their projects.

Peter is happy to oblige.

“How is its pressure sensing capabilities? How is it controlled? Is there an AI inside, or does it require remote piloting. If you are going to use it for deep sea exploration, what cameras are you using?” Peter’s hands are light as he gently looks inside the robot, testing the parts, and interrupts Otto midway through his explanation regarding the piloting system (“It’s remote,” He explained with a small grimace, “No one is really comfortable with AI robots. Not after Sakovia.”), “The mechanism here is gonna stick.” 

Peter can hear the snap of Otto’s mouth closing, and then there is a presence behind him as he peers in at what Peter is looking at. 

“The wiring will pinch and decrease mobility. Not too noticeably, but…”

The rest of the day passes in much of the same way. They spend around two hours fiddling with the robot, before Otto - reluctantly - pulls away to test Peter’s knowledge about something else - nanotechnology, energy generation, prosthetics, artificial intelligence - and before Peter has realized, his “interview” has lasted seven hours and Peter thinks some dead spark inside of him - the part of him that loves to invent and create - has been revived. Otto’s eyes are even brighter than they were this morning, and he shakes Peter’s hand as he hands him a temporary badge, “I feel like I should be paying you already,” it’s a joke, but also not, because Peter did just spend seven hours working in the lab on a variety of Otto’s projects, pointing out flaws or offering suggestions here and there, asking questions, and even spitballing his own ideas for how Otto’s creations could be a stepping stone for something bigger, better, greater, “When can you start?”

Peter laughs, his suit jacket draped over one arm. He’s definitely going to have to pay a fine because the sleeve of his shirt got caught on something and ripped, “Whenever. Today. Tomorrow.” 

“How about,” Otto’s smile is sharp, “Five hours ago? Part time today, full time tomorrow. I’ll have a contract drawn up and ready.” 

“Sounds good to me.”

During Spider-Man’s nightly patrol, Peter punches a guy with a fraction of his real strength (because he doesn’t want the asshole’s head to go flying off, even if he maybe deserves it) for chasing down a woman and she kisses the cheek of his Spider-Man mask and calls him a doll, tells him thank you, says “Can you walk me home?” and Peter… Peter doesn’t quite understand it - understand the trust that people have in him - but he says yes because of course he says yes, and she says, “I feel safer now that you’re back.”

The Spider-Man suit is, she tells him, comforting. It’s not the first time he’s heard that.

The suit is comforting to the people Spider-Man saves, to the people he helps, to the people who see him on the street. It’s even, oddly enough, a comfort to criminals and petty thieves and villains. Peter doesn’t quite get how getting caught in the middle of commiting of any sort of illegal activity can be - in any way, shape, or form - comforting, but he’s willing to be open minded. 

He walks the woman - “Jenny,” she introduces, “Jenny Hart.” - home and she tries to give him a water bottle and a protein bar as a thank you. 

She doesn’t need to thank him - and Peter says as much - but she just shrugs and presses the bar into the palm of his hand even more firmly. 

“I want to. You take care of us all. Let me do this.”

Peter had actually asked, one time, why the hell he was apparently so comforting, when some gangly teen decided to test out their pickpocketing abilities for probably the first time in their life. Peter was pretty sure it was the first time, anyway, based on their guilty expression as they walked away from their victim and turned the corner, only to be confronted with Peter’s best “Disappointed Dad” stance once they were no longer within view of the people on the sidewalk. Peter had stolen the stance from May (who had stolen it from some reality TV show), having remembered it to be a highly effective technique, even though she had only used it on him once or twice. Peter had felt very chastined at the time - very “oh shit I really messed up” - which was exactly the vibe that Peter was aiming for because he wasn’t about to beat up a teenager for taking a neat billfold from a guy who’s suit probably cost more than Peter’ rent.

“Whatcha got there?” Peter - well, Spider-Man, since he had been in the aforementioned good ol’ uniform - asked, and as Peter stepped more into the light the teen’s eyes went from wide and startled to something that looked far closer to relaxed and apologetic.

The teen tossed the billfold at Peter, which he caught easily since it was a light underhand throw, and shrugged, “Needed the money.”

“Not gonna try to run or protest?” Peter asked, holding the wallet between two fingers, “I coulda been wrong, y’know. Or been mistaken.” 

And - Peter doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand, because if he had been in her place, Peter would have been shitting his pants in fear - the teen just laughed, “Y’aren’t like that, Spidey. Y’don’t, I dunno,” She shrugged, pushing her hands into the pockets of her jacket, all loose limbed and not-at-all afraid. Which. Which is good, because Peter didn’t want to scare her, but he doesn’t understand it either, “Y’don’t try t’make folks look bad. Or accuse ‘em of shit they didn’t do.”

Peter had sighed and tucked the wallet into one of the practically invisible pockets that he had sewn into the suit, “C’mon,” he had said, “You got somewhere to stay? I’ll walk you back.”

The teen nodded, slowly, “Yer not gonna take me in? Report me to the cops?”

The scoff that escaped Peter seemed to surprise her, “Are you thinking about stealing again?”

“Not really.”

“Good enough for me. Now, you got somewhere to stay?” He repeated the question. If she didn’t, then he would figure something out. The shelters were generally closed for the night by now, but he could work something out with F.E.A.S.T. - the shelter May used to volunteer at - since they still remembered Spider-Man working with May to raise funding for them.

“I got somewhere, but it’s not pretty or nothing.” 

“That’s okay. Doesn’t have to be. Is it safe?” Peter lets the teen lead him. It’s nearing two in the morning and there was no way that Peter’s conscious or gut would allow him to let someone so young - someone that was probably only sixteen, give or take a little bit - walk home alone this late at night.

She nodded, “Yeah. It’s me, my ma, my little brother, and my dad. Dad’s real sick though, so he can’t work. Ma’s having a hard time.”

Peter didn’t - still doesn’t - understand how she’s so comfortable with telling him her story, but he made sure to keep his incredulousness hidden, “I get it. What’s your name?”

“Becca.”

“Okay, Becca. I’m sure you know what I’m about to say,” Peter would have been chafed and stubborn if someone had tried to lecture him at her age, but she looked at him which such a genuinely earnest expression that Peter stumbled for a second trying to figure out his wording, “I don’t doubt that things are hard. At all, okay? I’m not judging you or anything, but stealing isn’t the way to go about it.”

“But that guy had more money than he knew what to do with!” Becca protested, but she’s not doing it to be contrite.

“Maybe,” Peter conceded easily, “Or maybe he spent everything on a nice suit to have a better chance at job interviews. Maybe it was rented, or borrowed, or maybe his wallet has pictures of his family that can’t be easily replaced, or maybe the wallet was a gift from someone special. But you're right: maybe he wouldn’t have missed any of it. Or maybe he would have been pissed and tried to figure out where his wallet went, and now you have legal trouble on your hands.”

Becca frowned, “I didn’t think of that.”

Peter patted her on the shoulder awkwardly, “That’s understandable. You’re young and in a stressful situation. You’re trying to help your family. It’s admirable.”

They both stayed quiet for a while. Becca seemed to be gathering her thoughts, and Peter didn’t want to interrupt her. 

“Y’know Spidey,” She started, and Peter didn’t hear any reproach in her voice for nagging, but he can’t help but wonder if it’s coming anyway, “Folks always say y’re the real fuckin’ deal: a real, honest-to-God hero.”

“I wouldn’t say that…” Peter protested, but Becca kept on going like she hadn’t heard him. 

“I gotta agree. I felt bad stealing ‘n shit, but I still woulda gone through with it. Then someone called me out and I thought… Well, I thought sorry ma and fucking hell, and then I saw it was you. And. Yeah. I wasn’t scared after that.”

“Why, though?” Peter couldn’t help but ask, a bit too vulnerable for his liking, but Becca didn’t seem like the judgemental type, “I’m, like. Stopping you? I dunno. It isn’t really you, but like, I stopped some people trying to rob a store the other day and once I caught ‘em they, uh…” Peter trailed off

“They?...” Becca prompted patiently.

“They thanked me? I just don’t get it. I got them arrested. Why the hell were they thanking me?”

Becca laughed in his face, so maybe she is actually the judgemental type, “Cause it coulda been worse.”

“I got them arrested????”

“Did y’beat ‘em up?”

“No? They weren’t resisting, just afraid. There was no need to use force, just…” Peter mimed using his web shooters and Becca rolled eyes. Actually rolled her eyes at him, and Peter wondered if this was what May had to deal with when raising him.

“Exactly!” Peter was incredibly lost, “Yer a hero, Spidey. You don’t rough folks up, or make ‘em afraid, and when people genuinely make a mistake that doesn’t hurt folks y’don’t hound on ‘em. You coulda reported me or something. Got me sent to some reform place or been fined or whatever.”

“First of all,” Peter felt the need to add, “If you are going to do something illegal you should definitely know what the punishments for getting caught are, and figure out if you’re willing to risk that.”

Becca levels him with a look, like he just proved her right, and Peter - in a very mature way - elected to completely ignore her facial expressions, “Second, that’s just… being decent? You felt bad after stealing and I hope you don’t do it again. One mistake like that could really fuck up your life.”

“Y’know, you’re kinda stupid for being so smart,” Becca remarked, and Peter hadn’t really known how one responds to a statement like that, so he just kinda shrugged.

He ended up asking her about school, about her classes, while she asked him about what it was like to fly and if his arms got tired from swinging. 

(Her favorite class was physics and she was in the top of her class, and flying is very fun. His arms used to get tired when he first started out, but they don’t anymore unless it’s been a long day.)

Peter walked her all the way home. Becca stopped on the sidewalk before entering her apartment building and kicked the ground with the toe of her shoe, “Thanks again, for, y’know, not turning me in,” She eventually murmured, and Peter awkwardly patted her on the shoulder.

“Uh. No problem? And don’t… steal. Again. It’s… bad.” It was pretty weak, as far as talking-to’s go. He knew it was weak, she knew it was weak, but all Becca did was smile at him. 

“G’night, Spidey.”

(The week after, Peter put a Reed Richard’s Scholastic Scholarship application in their mailbox, because Becca has a bright mind and a brighter future ahead of her, and Peter might not be able to do much, but he does what he can.)

Peter is pretty good at lying to himself: he’s practically an expert at it. 

But the lies are like an open sore festering under wet and sloppy bandages, and eventually shit goes south, the wound gets infected, and then a minor problem becomes a real problem, because Peter thinks that Spider-Man feels like a vice around his heart that keeps on squeezing tighter and tighter. 

It’s… it’s the weight of it. Of the name. Of the pressure. Most of the time Peter likes being Spider-Man. He likes feeling needed, likes doing the right thing, likes helping people and making New York City a safer place. But other times - like when Jenny trusted Peter to walk her home (to her home, her fucking home) or when Becca told Peter her story even though he had done nothing to prove himself worthy of that story, of her fears and worries - Peter doesn’t know how he’s ever supposed to be enough. 

They - the people of New York - trust him. And… it’s weird. Because in their place, Peter wouldn’t trust himself - some random guy in a mask that he doesn’t know the background of, who could snap his spine like a twig - and he doesn’t get why they do.

Often - most of the time, really - being Spider-Man feels like an honor.

But sometimes? When the pressure gets to be unbearable, when Peter just doesn’t understand what he’s done to earn this trust - this oddly unshakeable trust… 

Sometimes, it feels more like a noose.

(His heart and lungs are being squeezed to death, so Peter opens the duffle bag that’s been hiding in the corner of his closet for more than a year. Within it, Peter’s other suit lies untouched and neatly folded - the suit from Gotham - and Peter can tell himself it’s just because he needs a change of pace that he puts the thing on. That it’s just for one night. That this doesn’t change anything, because Peter is always going to be Spider-Man, but tonight he just needs to be someone else. 

Peter is pretty good at lying to himself, but he’s even better at ignoring the things he doesn’t want to think about.)

Otto Octavius is a fucking genius and also maybe a madman. 

Peter loves working for him. 

Although, really, it’s not so much Peter working for him as working with him, because Peter might have been hired as an “assistant” but it only took a month for Otto to give him his own work space and total freedom in the lab. 

Peter works five days a week - he has the weekends off - on a typical nine-to-five schedule, although his work is anything but typical. He has a tendency to work overtime every day by accident because he gets so engrossed in his work, but Otto doesn’t mind, and adjusts his pay accordingly. Early on, Otto informed him that the way he’s able to afford such high tech equipment and materials is because he sells the patents to his designs and innovations to the United States government, other tech companies, or makes things for private buyers. It’s good work, he had said, As long as I keep inventing. But there was a strained edge to his smile that made Peter feel uneasy. 

Still, the work was good, the company was great, and the paycheck made Peter feel hopeful again.

There was a reason, after all, that Peter wanted to be able to stand on his own two feet financially… aside from generally wanting independence, feeling bad about asking his best friend (and boyfriend) to pay his rent every month, et cetera, et cetera. 

(So… maybe there were a lot of reasons.)

But the reason Peter held closest to his heart - the one that had Peter dreaming of more than just making it from month to month - was being able to rent a bigger apartment. A two bedroom, to be exact.

Currently, Peter lives in a studio apartment where his only seating consists of his bed, a beanbag, and his dining table chairs. It is a far cry from what Peter initially started out with - a bed, a lego figurine, and a heater that didn’t work - due to the generosity and kindness of his family, and Peter didn’t really need more space. He liked his shitty little apartment quite a lot, actually. 

However, Peter has a dream. 

It’ll never happen, of course, but that doesn’t stop Peter from imagining a world where he comes home from work and there Johnny is: playing video games or cooking or napping or doing anything, really, but doing it in their apartment. 

Theirs. Peter and Johnny’s. Together.

There is no reason for Johnny to say yes - to agree to go from owning a fucking building to Peter’s shitty apartment with one bed and two rooms (the bathroom and then everywhere else) - so maybe, maybe, if Peter had a two bedroom apartment then he could ask Johnny if he wanted to stay over more. He could ask Johnny if he wanted to put his clothes in the second dresser, in the second bedroom, which Peter would like to call Johnny’s bedroom even though he knows it isn’t realistic. He wants Johnny to have a permanent toothbrush in the (their) bathroom, and have a pair of slippers that were worn and perfect and Johnny’s and maybe they would even match Peter’s. If there were two bedrooms then Peter could say, “Hey Johnny, wanna spend the night?” and it would be okay. If there were two bedrooms, then Peter wouldn’t feel awkward asking Johnny to stay over, his one bed glaring at him from the corner of the room.

Peter dreams of asking Johnny to move in with him, rather than him moving into the Baxter Building, because even though Peter loves Reed and Sue and Ben, he isn’t ready for that step. To have them all so near every single day. 

Peter wants to have a home with his best friend. He wants a home with just enough space for his lover, his loved one, Johnny, but it feels unfair to ask Johnny to move away from his family and comfortable life, so that is why Peter’s dream will remain a dream.

But a two bedroom apartment. A two bedroom, with a bedroom that could be Johnny’s in everything but name… then that would be enough. And, one day, if Peter feels like he can (because right now the Baxter Buildings feels too big, too much, and Peter can’t stomach the idea of relying on someone for everything when it's been so easily ripped away from him in the past), then maybe he will move into the Baxter Building, they’ll move in together  - not in spirit or in Peter’s dreams but something that is firmly real and solid - and Peter will be overjoyed because they are Peter and Johnny and that, Peter thinks quietly to himself, is more than enough. 

…

Peter knows it should feel like he is moving too fast.

It should be too much, too soon, but it isn’t, because even though they haven’t been dating for long - only two months - Johnny has been Peter’s rock and best friend for nearly three years now. Peter trusts Johnny with everything inside of him, everything that has been broken and stomped on and shattered and painstakingly pieced together again - not quite right, not quite complete, but getting there - because Johnny is good. He is good, so good, and perhaps it is stupid and foolish - Peter is only twenty, for Thor’s sake, and should not be in the business of silly things like forever - but maybe Peter wants to be silly and foolish and naively hopeful like any other twenty year old because he wants this to be it, for the rest of his life to mean them.

(The word forever gets stuck in Peter’s throat like a peppercorn and he chokes and coughs and cries over it, but only a year ago the word forever had felt like dying, so maybe one day Peter will be able to look at his life and say, “Yeah. This is it. This is my forever,” but he isn’t there yet, and, Peter supposes, he doesn’t have to be there yet, so he settles on them, because them - Johnny and Peter and Peter and Johnny - feels right. It feels good - a breath of fresh air, a cool glass of water to soothe the burn - because even though they haven’t been dating for a long time and it might not be forever, Peter knows he could never regret them.)

So Peter dreams of one day and wishes it were today, even (especially) in his tiny studio apartment. He isn’t brave enough to ask, although he knows Johnny - no matter his answer - would be kind with Peter’s heart. The fear of Johnny agreeing, though, and then regretting his choice - regretting leaving his home and his sister and his team (because fuck, Johnny is part of a superhero team, he isn’t a solo act like Peter) is too much to bear and Peter doesn’t want to break his own heart when two bedrooms would solve everything.

But. 

But Otto Octavius is a genius or a madman, but he's probably both, and Peter refocuses in on the work in front of him, and pushes dreams to the side for now.