often?

Thirty minutes before Miles told his parents that he was Spider-Man, he told Peter that he wasn’t.

Miles had dragged Peter upstairs, saying something about a science project, and then stopped at the top of the stairwell, just out of sight, and quietly blurted out, “I’m not Spider-Man.” 

Peter hadn’t said anything - not immediately - only let out a quiet puff of air and nodded slowly, waiting for Miles to continue. He wasn’t going to jump to conclusions, jump to a defense, jump to anything, really.

Peter had just wanted to listen.

But Miles hadn’t continued - hadn’t known how to continue, perhaps - and when it looked like he was about to start hyperventilating, Peter jumped. He patted Miles on the shoulder and then sat down on the top step. 

Get lower, Peter’s mind had whispered. 

Be smaller, Peter’s gut had urged.

Do whatever it takes to make things okay again, Peter had known, instinctively and intimately. He would make things okay again. 

Peter had been able to hear the murmuring of Mr. and Mrs. Morales from the first floor - wondering if they should climb the stairs and see what the hell was going on - but it seemed like, for the moment, they had given Peter the benefit of the doubt. 

“That’s okay,” Peter said quietly, and patted the spot next to him.

Miles sat down, although it was really more of a slump than a sit, like a puppet whose strings were cut, and his voice was edged with a hint of hysteria, “How is that okay? You’ve - you’ve put so much time into training me! I’ve been Spider-Man for a few years, how- how are you okay with that? With me not- with me- with-!” 

There were many ways Peter could have answered him: 

“I’ve noticed that you’ve been drawing back,” but that had sounded judgemental, sounded harsh, and Peter never wanted to be harsh with Miles. Peter knew how harshness and judgment grated against one’s skin, against one’s soul, and Peter wasn’t there to judge.

“You’ll always be Spider-Man,” but Peter hadn’t known if Miles had an issue with being Spider-Man or with being a vigilante in general, so he hadn’t wanted to place that sort of burden on Miles’ shoulders - the burden of forever or permanence - when he’s so young.

“I’ve always hoped you wouldn’t be Spider-Man,” but that sounded like Peter had an issue with Miles, and not with the name Spider-Man, the burden of being Spider-Man, and all of the mistakes and baggage that comes with being him. 

“It’s good,” was too final, but “It’s bad” felt far too final, too, and anywhere in between wasn’t final enough. Miles was searching for an answer and Peter wasn’t sure if he had the right one, but he had one, and firmly but quietly, Peter had said, leaving no room for argument, “It’s never been a waste.”

“But I’m betraying you! Letting you down.”

The words stung more than Peter would have cared to admit, and he turned to face Miles, placed one hand on his shoulder, and squeezed lightly, “You could never let me down. You know that, right? I’m always gonna be proud of you, no matter what you do, because you’re gonna kill it. Whenever you set your mind on something,” Peter had sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, then shaken it out. He hadn’t known how to make the words come out the right way, to make sure they were perfect, but Miles needed something and so Peter let go of his half-formed ideas and accepted their imperfection, “I just… I know it’ll be good. Got that?” 

Then he’d been hugged, tight enough to break a normal person’s bones, but Miles has never been afraid of his strength around Peter. Miles has never been afraid of his powers, period, because there had always been someone like him (like Spider-Man, like Peter) out there for Miles to look up to, who went first and took the heat so that those who came after wouldn’t have to: someone who proved to the world that powers like theirs are good. 

(Peter paved the way for Spider-Man, paved the way for a lot of small-time vigilantes, paved the way for a lot of mutant-rights activism (even though Peter isn’t a mutant). He’s proud of that.)

“I know,” Miles murmured into the fabric of Peter’s shirt, “I know you wouldn’t be let down. But I was ‘fraid to anyway.”

Peter hadn’t been able to ask Miles what he meant when he said “I’m not Spider-Man,” and had been even more confused when Miles went around and told his parents, thirty minutes later, that he was Spider-Man. 

But Peter hadn’t asked, hadn’t pried, because he’d taken one look at Miles’ face and seen the confusion and uncertainty in his eyes and realized that Miles didn’t really know either.

Peter doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t come into an instant state of awareness. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he physically can’t. Instead, consciousness comes slowly, carefully, and the first thing he notices is that everything hurts. 

It’s not surprising, the fact that everything hurts, except for the fact that Peter had been pretty sure that when he last closed his eyes, he was never going to open them again.

(Something had been warm.)

The second thing that Peter became aware of is the fact that he’s lying on a couch. It’s slightly too small for him, and his feet are elevated and propped up on the armrest because of it, and the couch isn’t lumpy or uncomfortable but different, and so that is how Peter realizes the third, and perhaps most important thing, which is that he’s pretty sure he has no idea where he is.

(He’s not cold anymore.)

There is a faint murmur of sound somewhere close, which means that for anyone else, the volume would be indiscernible. But Peter can hear the sound of someone humming, a room or so away, and maybe it’s stereotypical of him but he feels like criminals (and people who intend to do him great amounts of harm, which, if the two categories were laid out like a venn diagram, would basically just make a circle) don’t tend to hum. Especially not to what Peter thinks is “Umbrella” by Rihanna. 

Plus, he’s not chained, tied, constrained, or laid out on a lab table, which all bodes pretty well for Peter’s sake, and he can hear the relatively close sounds of New York traffic so he’s pretty sure he’s just in someone’s apartment. 

Which… is still pretty weird, if Peter is being sensible and normal about things, but it’s not as weird as it could have been, and Peter’s learned to not question the small victories. 

(Like the fact that he’s still breathing.)

Peter’s also learned to take his losses, which consist of a) excruciating pain and b) being unable to hop to his feet and leave due to the aforementioned excruciating pain. 

Then, about three quarters of the way through “Umbrella”, Peter hears a dull thud and a loud swear as his maybe-captor stubs their toe, wacks their shoulder on a door frame, bumps their head against something, or something along those lines, and Peter - with his godforsaken mouth - goes, “Ouch.” 

He’s a goddamn empath, and that’s what will most likely kill him in the end.

The person might not have heard Peter’s stupid fucking “Ouch” but they do hear the following coughing fit that tears out of Peter’s throat like a line of fire. The singular word - the too heavy exhale of noise - rips through his throat, and maybe things would have been fine if Peter hadn’t coughed. And then everything is on fire as he coughs, and coughs, and coughs, and everything hurts as the coughs pull at the giant fucking hole in his gut as his abdomen instinctively clenches with each harsh sound, and the sensation of not being able to breathe rears its ugly head. He’s gasping, and every ragged breath is a glimpse of hell. 

It’s hell. 

Peter is in hell. 

And then a glass of room temperature water is at his lips, and he can’t handle more than a few sips but it’s enough to calm - at least temporarily - the scratchy glass shards that had lined his throat. They’re not seaglass - not yet - but every inhale is no longer death washing over, so Peter takes another small victory and pries one eye open. 

Hovering above him, a worried crinkle between their brows but with a steady heart in spite of it, is a person that Peter does not recognise. Their short hair is pushed back with a headband, and they have a charcoal pore strip across the bridge of their nose. Peter briefly notes that the smell of hospitals and antiseptic clings to them like a second skin, but that’s about all Peter can handle before he has to close his eye once more, and he thinks he tries to say something along the lines of, “Thanks,” but it could have also been an indecipherable grumble. 

Then it’s dark again, but Peter isn’t cold. 

The next time Peter wakes up, he can’t definitively say whether the pain has decreased or not, but he can hear someone else’s breathing in the room and rasps something along the lines of “Water, please,” and then someone is helping him sit up slightly and take a sip through a straw. Peter can’t quite remember what happened the last time he woke up - only that it wasn’t pretty - but he can currently breathe without dying so he feels like that’s at least one definite improvement.

Opening his eyes, Peter thanks Thor (or maybe he should be thanking the stranger) for the fact that they have blackout curtains, so there is no bright sunlight to assault Peter’s eyes. 

Or maybe it’s just nighttime. Peter can’t quite tell. 

“How are you feeling?” The person asks, and Peter attempts to focus his eyes on them. 

The first thing Peter notices is the fact that they have on a pair of Spider-Man slippers. The second thing he notices is the bags under their eyes, and as his vision sharpens and slips into the definitively non-human, he can see each little charm on their charm-bracelet.

“Like I got hit by a bus,” Peter croaks out, and he knows the fact that he doesn’t have his mask on should scare him more, but considering Peter had looked death in the face… “How long has it been?”

“Two days.” 

…Considering Peter had looked death in the face merely two days ago, he thinks that he deserves a space to breathe (and not have that breath be tortuous) in between his moments of existential panic. 

It’s the little things, really. 

“I… I’m so sorry,” The person blurts out, “About. Uhm. This whole. Thing. But I found you, all collapsed, and you were in a pool of your own blood and not, like, breathing, or anything. I’m a doctor - or, gonna be. I’m doing my residency training right now.” 

“So you…?” Peter doesn’t quite have the words to ask, gives up on the sentence, then tries again, “You are…?”

“Name’s Vinny. And I did CPR, first. Since you weren’t breathing. Then did what I could to stop the bleeding. I was with my roommate, and she’s an, uhm, gym rat? I guess you could say? So she carried you back to my place. And she’s a universal donor. So. I didn’t know if, like, normal blood transfusions would kill you, but not getting a transfusion definitely would have killed you…” They trail off for a moment, then seem to gather up their steam again, “I didn’t know what else to do.” 

Peter looks at the person - Vinny - through one eye, then the other, opening and closing, opening and closing, and reaches his personal conclusion, “Thanks. Have a phone?” 

They nod, and Peter says, “Grab it,” and once he can see their face illuminated by the glow, Peter rattles off the first phone number that comes to mind, “Let ‘im know I’m alright.” Peter would have done it himself, but the world is growing darker and he’s so fucking tired. 

So Peter closes both eyes, tilts his head back, and can hear the sound of his savior going straight to voicemail. Hopefully they’ll leave a message.

Peter hopes that this is the last time he won’t remember falling asleep. But he’s up again, and there is warmth in his hands once more and his feet are no longer elevated. Peter is a ballsy motherfucker and opens both eyes this time, and the first thing he sees a blond mess of hair pillowed on a pair of arms that are covered by a sweatshirt that had disappeared from Peter’s closet a month ago. 

“...‘ohnny,” Peter’s voice cracks around the name, misses the entire “Juh” sound, but it’s enough. Johnny’s head snaps upright, and as he looks at Peter and his open eyes, his expression stretches into a wide smile. 

(Peter takes in Johnny’s face, too. There are purple-blue bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his hair is oily and mussed like he hasn’t showered. Johnny bites his lips when he’s nervous, and Peter can see the red mark of where the skin had been bitten away on his bottom lip. It hasn’t started to scab over yet.)

“Hey there,” Johnny says, easily, as if nothing crazy or weird had happened since the last time they saw one another, “How’re you feelin’?” 

“Like shit,” Peter answers honestly, and he might have laughed if his throat wasn’t killing him, “Water?”

There was already a water bottle waiting on Peter’s bedside - he’s in one of the numerous spare rooms in the Baxter Building - and Johnny helps Peter take a sip. When Peter is feeling appropriately not-as-much-like-shit, but still pretty shitty, don’t get him wrong, and Johnny has also helped Peter sit more upright, he traces his fingers over the knuckles of Johnny’s hand and bites the bullet, “What happened?” 

Both of them have been in the business of almost-dying long enough to have almost-died far too many times, and so the question is normal. The two words contain and ask so much, as opposed to Peter asking, “What happened when I was out, what happened to the villain, what happened to the situation, to New York, is Miles alright, are you alright, is the world crumbling, did it all fall apart - How many days was I unconscious? - what’s next, do I need to be a part of what’s next, how much do I need to fix? How much did I miss?”

But Peter only needs to ask, “What happened?”, only needs to prompt Johnny once to tell him he’s ready to listen, because Johnny probably already had the answer locked and ready. 

“Kraven escaped before the police could detain him. He’s on the loose. Foggy had been watching the news, told Matt, who then texted Miles and Wade. Matt and Sue are with Miles and his family now, in case Kraven decides to go after the other Spider-Man and somehow figures out Miles’ identity. He hasn’t gone out, but we’re being careful,” The unspoken I know you would have wanted that is heard loud and clear and Peter squeezes Johnny’s hand thankfully, “Matt and Sue are the most covert, so their presence won’t draw any extra attention to the Morales’.” Johnny rips the bad news off like a band-aid, and Peter appreciates it, even as his heart stops beating out of pure, raw, fear for Miles. 

This - Kraven, hunting, hurting, maybe gunning after anyone that Peter cares about because they are connected to him - is Peter’s greatest fear come to life. It’s the reason why secret identities exist in the first place: because it’s fucking dangerous to know Peter. They don’t know that Kraven will go after Miles, but he’s a hunter, he hunts, and if he’s after one Spider-Man it is reasonable to assume he might go after both. It’s all very Kraven-y. 

But Peter can’t prevent this sort of shit from happening, even though he would sell his left lung to make it the case. Miles had sought him out, had needed help with his powers, had needed Peter’s help, and Peter couldn’t have denied him in any universe. Peter has surrounded himself with heroes and people who can take a punch, who can take a hit and get back up, and they’ve decided to surround themselves with him, too, and Peter has to respect that. He has to acknowledge the fact that they - Johnny, Miles, Wade, Matt, the rest of the Fantastic Four, Otto - have all decided to be around Peter in spite of the danger. 

Just as he has decided to be around them, too. 

Peter did get a job with a man whose alternate self is a villain who tried to kill him, after all. 

And Peter gets shit from Fisk and some of the Fantastic Four’s weird enemies because of his association to them and Matt, too. 

And he doesn’t - can’t - regret it. 

So Peter takes a breath and doesn’t immediately blame himself. He takes a breath and says, “Smart thinking.”

He takes a breath and says, “What else?”

“You were out for two days and we couldn’t find where you were, then some guy who told us his name was Happy - which has to be fake, right? - called Reed and told him that Spider-Man was in someone’s apartment and needed to be picked up. Said that he’d gotten a voicemail on a private line no one should have access to. The happy-guy had seen Spider-Man and the Fantastic Four teaming up enough to figure that Reed was his best bet. We thought it was fake,” Johnny squeezes Peter’s hand a little tighter, “Obviously, it wasn’t.” 

…

Peter hadn’t meant to call Happy. 

He had meant to give… his mind pulls a blank, and he can’t remember the person’s name. Perhaps it’s understandable, he had been pretty out of it, but Peter still feels horribly guilty.

…But he’d meant to give them Matt or Johnny’s number. He hadn’t meant to call Happy, but perhaps Peter’s delirious brain had thought of injury, had needed safety, had needed someone fast and quick and who was always there, and he’d rattled out Happy’s number. 

And Happy came through.

Happy came through. 

Happy still came through.

Peter could cry. He thinks he is crying, just a little bit, because Johnny reaches out to wipe something wet off of Peter’s cheek but he just says, “Keep going,”  like the world isn’t crumbling, just a little bit. 

“The person who found you was named Vinny. Vinny Thorne. Basically brought you back from the brink. Them and their roommate, uh, Gwen. Gwen S-something, I can’t remember. They were worried about calling the police or the Fantastic Four’s public hotline ‘cause they didn’t want the wrong person finding out that Spider-Man was injured and where he was located. Plus they didn’t want to risk moving you in case Kraven was watching. They’re… insane.” Peter pulls his hand free of Johnny’s and smacks his arm, and Johnny quickly amends his statement, “I mean in a good way! Like, a really good, really positive way! Me ‘n Reed went to go check out the call, just in case, and we brought them back with us to make sure Kraven wouldn’t target ‘em either.”

Good.

That’s… good. More people involved - and Peter fucking hates that so much - but they’re safe, at least. Kraven is strong, yeah, but there is no way he’s getting into the Baxter Building. His specialty is traps, his mind, and going slow and steady. It wouldn’t surprise Peter if this - putting Peter on edge, injuring him to make him slower, less able - was Kraven’s real plan all along. If jumping off a building and nearly killing himself in the process had only been stage one. 

…And then there is the whole thing with Gwen. Peter doesn’t want to assume, but he remembers Peter-Three, remembers the broken way he had said, “I lost Gwen. She was my… she was my MJ,” and Peter doesn’t know if they’re the same but he can’t help but think what if…? 

Maybe he’ll meet her. 

Maybe. 

Probably not, although Peter wants to thank them - Vinny and Gwen - for their help, for their bravery, and he is simultaneously terrified of them because now two more people know his identity. Peter wasn’t ready for that.

“And then you’ve been out for another full day here. It’s…” The windows have blackout curtains pulled across them, so Johnny pulls out his phone and looks at the time, “Ten at night, on the third day you’ve been out.”

So a little more than seventy-two hours, Peter figures, which isn’t great, but could definitely be worse. Kraven can do a lot in seventy-two hours. 

Peter can do more in forty-five minutes. 

“Did Vinny give you the com-set that I had in my ear?” Peter asks, and realizes the silence had probably stretched for a bit too long when he’s startled by the sound of his own voice. 

Johnny had been content to wait, though, and nods now that Peter is back in his own head, “Yeah. Need it?” 

“The person on the other side is probably having a heart attack, so yeah.”

Reaching out his arm, Johnny grabs something that hadn’t been within Peter’s line of sight on the bedside table, and deposits the com-set in Peter’s free hand. Peter puts it up to his ear, and taps. 

Instantly, a panicked voice floods Peter’s ear, “Pete, Peter, fuck, that you? What happened? I’ve kept the goddamn receiver on me but I should have installed tracking, holy fuck, are you-?”

Peter interrupts him, “I’m fine, Doc. Don’t worry. Bled out in an alley for a bit, got picked up by a stranger, random blood transfusion, now I’m at the Baxter Building. Just woke up for real, not the shitty in-and-out stuff.” 

Otto starts swearing up a storm, but this time it’s relieved. He’s also saying something about “shitty self preservation skills” and “a fucking alleyway, really?” and “not reassuring, asshole!!” Peter winces at the volume, and pulls it away from his ear to whisper at Johnny, “Do you think I could eat something? I’m starving.”

It was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Johnny grimaces even as he stands up, “I hate your metabolism. If you’re ever out for a long time, like coma-type shit, we’re all screwed, because the Doc wasn’t able to get any food in you and you were drastically lighter when Reed and I showed up. We couldn’t even hook you up to a tube ‘cause your reflexes are still insane even when you’re out and you kept batting us away like flies. We eventually had to give up ‘cause you almost ripped your stitches.” 

Peter hadn’t thought of that. Using the hand not currently keeping Otto from bursting his eardrums, he lightly runs his hand across his side and the faint bumps of his ribs are, honestly, alarming. No wonder he was hungry. He hasn’t eaten in days, or drank much more than a few sips of water. 

The moment the door closes, Peter puts the com-set back in, “Otto, where are you?”

There’s silence. 

Then, “I may be at the lab, and might have been debating on hooking up the arms and going to find you. But I wouldn’t have hurt anyone! Just that douche who tried to kill you.” 

“Good,” Peter says, and Otto sputters a little, not expecting that answer, “My other suit is there, right?” After their misadventures of Otto throwing Peter around like a ragdoll, the suit had been torn and slightly damaged, so Peter had brought it to the lab in order to fix it. Normal sewing wouldn’t cut it for whatever the hell that thing was made of. 

(Peter thinks he can remember Granny saying something about Batman-grade material but he isn’t quite sure.)

“Peter, no.”

“Otto, I fight the bastard with the suit or without it. What’s your pick?”

“You’ve got folks lookin’ out for you right now. No way they let you go. And no way they can’t handle this shit themselves!” 

Peter sits up and grunts. His stomach aches and his fingers still feel vaguely tingly, but his healing factor isn’t anything to scoff at and the damage in his arm is mostly internal so he isn’t at a risk of bursting any stitches there. Just his torso. Peter’s also spent a lot of time resting and not straining the injuries, and even if he hasn’t been able to eat - which would have sped up the healing even further - he’s still good enough, “Kraven’s after me. Not them. But if he finds where the kid is first…” Peter trails off and lets Otto come to his own conclusions. 

Looking on the bedside table, Peter spots his web-shooters, which had been helpfully left there alongside the com-set. He grabs them.

Distantly, from his place on the bedside table as Peter leaves the com-set behind, he thinks he can hear Otto say, “I’m gonna get punched in the face by a superhero for this.”

Then Peter jumps out the window.

Peter is wearing one of Johnny’s pajama shirts and pants, and it’s so fucking weird to swing without the suit that Peter almost drops himself instantly. 

That, and the fact that the first swing stretches Peter’s barely-healed stitches enough that he would have passed out in pain had he not felt, well, worse. 

It’s not as bad as getting hit by a train, and Peter had fought Mysterio’s bitch-ass after that, and Kraven was no Mysterio. He wasn’t (what felt like) a thousand drones firing at him, and while there is a sort of looming dread when Peter thinks about Kraven trying to go after Miles or Vinny or Gwen, it’s less intense than when Mysterio was going after Peter’s whole class, because this time Peter isn’t alone. 

He makes sure to swing through public spaces and only feels a little (read: majorly) stupid about the fact that he stole one of the soft purple pillowcases he’d been lying on and put it over his head as a temporary mask. 

Peter might not be in the suit, but Spider-Man is the only person who swings through New York other than Miles, and he makes sure to clarify that he is not the younger Spidey by dropping down directly in front of one of his favorite street stalls and saying, “Hey Mister Buckwall! The usual, please.”  

“Spider-Man?” The word sounds like a question, but he isn’t questioning whether or not Peter is Spider-Man. His hands are already making the food anyway - Peter can hear the sound of him moving. Instead, it is concern in his voice, a question of “Should you really be out?” and probably also a bit of “What the hell are you wearing?” 

Peter can’t see through the pillowcase - apparently Reed is the type to splurge on the really nice quality pillowcases, even in his guest bedrooms - but he can tell when his usual hotdog is handed out, and Peter takes it with a shrug, “Folks I care about are in danger as long as Kraven’s out there. He got me once… but hopefully won’t happen again.” 

A slighter shiver runs down Peter’s spine, but it’s not a feeling of danger. 

He’s just cold.

Someone to his left says, “Yo, Spidey, borrow my jacket,” and then there is something soft being pushed in Peter’s free arm. 

Someone else - to his right this time - says, “Do y’need the asshole to know y’er up ‘n kickin’? I can make a post. Tell ‘em where y’re headed?” 

Another person says, “You’ve got this Spidey! Be careful.”

There are other voices - there’s a crowd forming, but they don’t crowd him - and there are people saying, “Thank you!” and “Beat his ass!” and “Can we help?” as Peter shrugs on the jacket. As soon as one of his hands is free, there’s a cool water bottle being pressed into it. A familiar voice says, “Be safe,” and it’s Flash Thompson from Midtown High School. Peter could recognize his voice anywhere, and the moment is so surreal that Peter thinks he could cry or maybe melt into the ground and cease to exist. He thinks he might, later. He puts the water bottle in one of the deep pockets of the jacket - it’s good quality, warm and cozy, and makes Peter think of handwarmers and May, Ben’s scarf that he had always made sure to wrap around Peter’s neck when it was cold, and also Johnny, with his perpetually warm hands, and maybe a but of Gwen or maybe Vinny, who must have grabbed onto Peter’s freezing and numb hands to find his pulse, and then saved his life when they found one that was far to weak - and sends off a web. 

Mister Buckwall always puts Spider-Man’s hotdog in one tray, and then tapes another on top of it, so that none of his condiments or added extras go flying when he's swinging. Peter never asked him to do that - would have never thought of it - but Mister Buckwall did it anyway. 

Just because he could.

Peter takes a brief pitstop to eat his hotdog - he really needs to get something in his system, and a hotdog isn’t much but it’s more than nothing - then continues on his way, making sure to swing low and in populated areas. He waves, he nods, and people look so fucking relieved to see him while also being scared out of their wits. Not of him - they aren’t afraid of him, Peter can tell that much - but for him. They saw the news stories and pictures that showed his blood all over a skyscraper window, how it had probably dripped down, and they know that Kraven had escaped. They are all terrified of Spider-Man - of Peter - pushing too hard and getting killed. 

“Be careful Spidey!”

“Take a break!” 

“Don’t get hurt!”

“Please, Spider-Man….

Be safe.”

Be safe, be safe, be safe, be safe.

Every little well-wish sticks with Peter, every call he can hear shouted from the sidewalks and out the windows of cars and buildings as Peter swings by, but it’s “be safe” that bounces around his head and beats in his heart like a drum.

Be safe, be safe, be safe, be safe.

It’s a hope, a wish, a prayer, a dream. 

It’s two words - two simple words - and they-

Please, Peter, be safe.

-still manage to destroy him a million times over. 

Because “be safe” doesn’t mean that Peter needs to win, doesn’t mean “Save the world” or “We’re counting on you” or “You have to do this.”

It’s a hope, wish, prayer, dream: a need for Peter to be safe. To stay out of danger. To, if he has to go into danger, prioritize his own well-being first. 

And Peter isn’t in the suit. 

People are offering their - hope, wish, prayer, dream - care to a gangly dude with a purple pillowcase over his head and Johnny’s Deadpool themed pajamas that Wade had gotten him for his birthday as a gag gift.

It’s the farthest Peter could be from a suit, but they still know it's him regardless, still trust Spider-Man - trust Peter - despite the unprofessionality, and all they want is for him to be safe. 

Be safe, Flash had said. Be safe, May had said. Be safe, MJ and Ned and Johnny and Miles and Matt had said to Peter so many times, but Peter thinks that, for the first time, he’s actually listening.

Peter arrives at the meeting spot first, which is an abandoned subway tunnel in the middle of who-fucking-cares, and it’s drafty and cold but Peter can’t feel it: not with the jacket he had been so generously lent. 

(And it was lent. Peter will make sure the person gets it back.)

His bare feet, however, are chilled and numb against the concrete. 

Otto arrives soon after, huffing and puffing, and Peter has taken the duffle bag from his hands before Otto has even entirely slowed to a stop. 

“This is probably… one of your worst… ideas,” Otto gets out in between huffs of air, “Also… fuck you… Are you sure I couldn’t have used the robot arms? Would’ve been faster.”

“And when you show up on the news,” Peter counters as he begins to change, “Guess who is the only person in the world with a pending patent for robotic arms?”

“Maybe they were stolen from me?”

“Otto-” Peter cuts himself off with a curse as he pulls off his shirt and looks at the spottings of blood that had soaked through the bandages wrapped around his torso. It wasn’t surprising that he’d ripped his stitches while swinging, but it was annoying. 

“Fucking hell,” Otto swears, “You can’t- you already- you’re gonna die, man, if you keep going like this.”

“This won’t kill me,” Peter bites out through gritted teeth, partly to keep his hiss of pain from escaping as he pulls on the top part of the suit, and partly out of unjustified annoyance, “Not even close.” Peter’s been through worse. He’s done worse. It’s not a big deal, and he has a plan anyway. He’s going to be safe.

“No, Peter.” Otto puts a hand on Peter’s arm and Peter freezes under him, but all Otto does is help Peter put on the suit without pulling as much on his injuries despite his furious expression, “I mean this,” he gestures at all of Peter with one hand, then goes back to helping, “Will kill you. One day. Not the fighting, or Spider-Man, or being a vigilante, but your fucking… You can take breaks, y’know? You’re gonna kill yourself over some stupid D-tier asshole with a spear when you could take two more days to rest and take care of shit then. And if it’s not Kraven, then it’ll be someone else. It’ll be a bank robber when you have a concussion, or some lucky bastard with a gun after a long night, or in our goddamn lab when you try to work with broken ribs and blurry vision and you fuck up somewhere.”

Otto’s hands are gentle as he helps Peter fit the mask over his head, and secures it to the suit so that Peter doesn’t have to stretch his arms behind him and pull even further at his already-ruptured stitches.

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Otto mutters, and Peter thinks he stops breathing for a second. Thinks he can’t breathe, can’t think, and if Otto notices that he’s gone too far, he doesn’t turn back, “Because you think you have to be everything. Everywhere. But you’re enough: you’ve always been enough.”

Peter’s stillness breaks, and he wrenches himself away from Otto as soon as the suit is fully on, “Okay,” he rasps, “Y’made you’re fucking point. Fuck, Otto. I gotta go.” 

He turns his back to Otto, takes one stormy-step away, and stops. 

Peter’s tired of leaving things unsaid. 

“It’s not like I’m trying to run myself into the ground.”

And maybe Otto knows he went too far. Maybe he knows that some of those frustrations are too big to lay on Peter’s shoulders alone. And he says, “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

“It was. But it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Otto murmurs, “I know you’re doing your best. I’m just. Worried. Be safe.”

Be safe.

Peter is not running away. He isn’t. He isn’t running away from - too much too much too much - Otto’s words, his soft “Be safe”, and the sound of Otto murmuring into the com-set in his ear when Peter should have been out of reach, the quiet confirmation, “He’s on his way.”

Peter isn’t running. 

(He’s swinging.)

Peter bursts out onto the street and scares about thirty loitering pigeons in the process. He isn’t in his Spider-Man suit, but the one he got from Granny back in Gotham, and he hasn’t flown with this suit since he crawled into a burning building and then crawled back out with far too many bodies. He’s bloodied up this suit before, and he hasn’t even fought yet but he’s still already managed to bloody it up again. It hasn’t soaked through the fabric yet; the tight compression of the kevlar is better than the Spider-Man suit at keeping bodily fluids inside the suit, rather than leaking everywhere. 

When he’d brought the duffle bag to the lab, it still had the original bright green gloves and vest inside of it, and even though Otto had brought along the black gloves Peter had been using during his nightly patrols as someone unnamed and unknown, Peter hadn’t even considered using them.

Right now, Peter wasn’t unnamed, even though New York City might not know that. Right now, Peter was Mister or Missus or Mx. Green, because even though Peter had been stuck in Gotham and without Spider-Man, he was still Peter. 

And Peter got shit done.

Peter was trusted. 

Peter was Peter, and that had been enough - somehow - because people had trusted him with their kids, with their groceries, with their time and their days and their lives, even though it was Gotham and Peter was a stranger and they had every reason to distrust him. 

But. 

But Peter was Peter.

And Peter was Spider-Man, and Mister Green, and an unnamed and unnoticed person who had been dismantling drug rings and thwarting operations and sticking their nose where it generally doesn’t belong for months now. Peter had gone unnamed because he had felt like a name was too much. That Spider-Man - and the expectations, the weight, the pressure - had been too much, too overwhelming, and utterly incomprehensible. 

But the same thing had happened in Gotham: people trusting him even when they had no reason to.

And today Peter stopped in front of a hotdog stand in pajamas and a pillowcase and people had given him water and food and a jacket and they hadn’t cared that Peter wasn’t in the suit. All they cared about was the fact that it had been Peter (even if they didn’t know his name).

Peter doesn’t get it, not entirely, but he thinks of Jenny pressing a protein bar into his hand and her saying “You take care of us all. Let me do this.” He thinks of Becca telling him her story, of the loose way she walked, because even though they’d never met before, the name Spider-Man meant something. 

Means something. 

But it wasn’t just the name. A name is just a term. It’s the person, the feelings, that Spider-Man contains - that Spider-Man provides a neat and tidy label for - that truly means something.

Because Vinny and Gwen had found Peter bleeding out in an alleyway and hadn’t thought twice before bringing Peter into their home, onto their couch, and Gwen had given Peter blood to keep his body alive. She’d given him blood, Vinny had given him life, a second chance, Becca had given Peter her story, and Jenny had given him sustenance.

They all gave Spider-Man their trust. 

And it’s a lot. And Peter doesn’t quite understand. 

But… he supposes that he doesn’t really need to, either. 

Because they trust him, and, as Peter lands atop the head of the Statue of Liberty, and fumbles on the landing, feels the warmth of his blood spread outward and threaten to make the dark green of the kevlar darker, he thinks that is more than enough.

The thing about Peter is that he can’t sit still when the people he cares about are in danger.

The thing about Kraven is that he knows that.

So Kraven stabbed Spider-Man in the gut, tore apart his arm, and practically killed him in order to weaken his prey. 

To make it limp. 

And Kravenn knows that his presence - his mere existence - threatens the younger Spider-Man’s safety, because if Kraven goes after one Spider-Man, who is to say he won’t go after both? There is an implicit threat and pressure that Kraven knows he exerts through simply existing. 

The thing about Kraven is that he does his research.

So he knew Spider-Man would get out of bed and start moving before he was ready, and he’s relying on that in order to win - he needs Spider-Man to limp, to bleed, to leave a trail - and Peter is all-too-ready to give him one. 

The thing about Peter is that he does his research, too. 

Because of the fact Kraven is relying on catching Spider-Man off-guard, catching him when he’s weak, then Kraven can’t exactly set a trap just anywhere and wait for Spider-Man to coincidently walk into it. Instead, he’s relying on Spider-Man to set the scene of the fight. 

Normally, prey would go somewhere they know well. 

So Peter goes where he’s least expected and where Kraven will have, undoubtedly, already predicted will be the setting for their final confrontation. 

The thing about Peter is that he loves to subvert expectations.

The thing about Kraven is that he knows that.

All Peter had to do was make it obvious what direction he was headed, and Kraven will take care of the rest: he thinks that he has outsmarted Spider-Man. He thinks that Spider-Man is going, on purpose, to a location that he never goes to in order to force Kraven out into unfamiliar and therefore untrappable territory, to force a conflict now instead of later, so that even though Kraven is forcing Spider-Man to take to the field before he is healed, at least he can have the advantage of choosing the location. Of making it somewhere unexpected. But - ha, jokes on Spider-Man - Kraven has already predicted this, and so it will be him who has the upper hand.

The thing about Kraven is that he’s kind of obnoxious.

And Kraven is right: that is exactly what Peter is doing. Peter never goes to the Statue of Liberty because of the negative memories the place has - it’s where his life fell apart, after all - and as Spider-Man, Peter has made it a purpose to avoid the area. 

(Something about swinging silently in a place that had once been filled with the noise of three Spider-Men just feels wrong.)

The thing about Kraven and Peter is that they are both too smart for their own good. 

Kraven just thinks his genius is, well, genius, and that he’s always one step ahead, and Peter is the sort of genius who lets his opponent think they are one step ahead, and twists their assurance to be in his favor.

(Peter has a headache. The thing about Peter is that he tends to talk circles around himself more than anyone else.)

There are good reasons for Kraven to spring on Peter immediately after arriving at the Statue of Liberty or wait until Peter has settled down enough to start feeling safe. Or maybe he’ll lurk closer and closer until Peter’s nerves start singing, and wait until he’s tense enough that he’s jumping at every sound. 

The only thing Peter is sure about is that Kraven will not wait until tomorrow: he’ll wait for the moment when Peter is at his weakest, the moment when his guard is the lowest, and he’ll think that he can take down Spider-Man because Peter’s never shown off his fun little party trick of being able to crush concrete with his pointer fingers or lift a parking garage off of his back.

Peter doesn’t have all day - doesn’t want to wait all day either - so he clenches his side and hisses through his teeth, low and pained, like he’s trying to keep the sound from escaping. He stumbles forward, one step then two, starts to fall, and catches himself on the rim of Miss Liberty’s crown. Peters pushes away from the crowd and stands upward, even as his shoulders hunch over, and he pretends not to notice the bloodstained handprint that he left behind. He pauses, lets himself deliberate, and then - haultingly - reaches up toward his ear, as if there were still a com-set there, and stills his hand at the sound of Kraven’s voice. 

“Spider-Man is sending for back-up, huh? Never thought I would see the day,” He spits the words, like Peter's show of weakness is a disgrace to him, and perhaps it is: to be spending so much time hunting weak and pathetic prey, “Did I scare you out of hiding, little spider?”

Peter bites back an instinctive, “Suck my dick, jerkwad,” and allows a pained grunt to slip through his teeth as he forces his back to straighten, although the hand clenched around his torso, holding in his own blood, does not fall, “Did you do anything to Spider-Man?” Peter doesn’t need to clarify who he is talking about. 

Kraven laughs, like anything about the situation is funny, “I did not have to harm the baby spider: not when you have been flushed out from a bit of nerves.”

“What poison did you use?” Peter asks, and clenches his hand tighter, “I couldn’t figure it out. Driving me crazy.”

“Something light,” Kraven raises an eyebrow, and he might have been charming if he hadn’t been wearing just a loincloth and a vest… alongside the fact that he is actively hunting Peter and threatening Miles, of course. “Nothing crazy. Enough to slow your healing. Based on previous observations, your injuries should have kept you bedridden for a week or more.”

Kraven doesn’t know that his prior observations are based upon a Spider-Man that was actively starving due to not being able to afford food, as well as a Spider-Man that would do shitty patch up jobs on himself and then keep working after. Kraven has no basis for a Spider-Man that’s seen a doctor, that’s been healthy, that’s stronger than ever. 

(Kraven doesn’t know that Peter got hit by a train, that he’s been caught in the Green Goblin’s blast radius, that he’s gone through more shit than a man with a spear could ever throw at him.)

But Peter doesn’t say that. Instead he says, “Yeah, well, you didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“No,” Kraven agrees, “No I did not.”

And Peter sits down.

Kraven’s anger is hot and instant, but he hides it well aside from the spittle that flies from his mouth as he asks, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Resting,” Peter says, closing his eyes, although Kraven can’t see the action, “Swinging here took a lot out of me.”

Kraven readies his hunting knife, and Peter doesn’t move. He throws his knife an inch to the left of Peter’s head - and Peter knows he missed on purpose, because Kraven doesn't miss - and Peter doesn’t even flinch. 

“C’mon man,” Peter goads, “Take this seriously. Pretty lame for you to miss a sitting duck.” 

“Sitting!” The word explodes out of Kraven, “You! You!”

Peter flips him off.

Kraven rushes forward.

Or, well, he tries to rush forward, but instead he starts to fall flat on his face when his feet don’t move, and the only reason he doesn’t faceplant is because Kraven catches himself on his muscular arms, his feet and legs bent at an awkward angle. 

“Nice job, Spider-Man,” Peter calls out from his seated position, and it’s like a call to arms. Miles lands on one of Miss Liberty’s spikes, and it’s so reminiscent of the last fight Peter had on Lady Liberty’s head that Peter is glad he isn’t looking, glad he can’t see, because he might be able to face those memories one day but for now all Peter can think about is the brothers and life that he lost in this very location just a few years ago. But his senses have always been keen, and so Peter tracks every movement that occurs around him through feel and hearing alone. 

Miles is on one of the spikes of the crown and Matt appears like an apparition beside Peter, kneeling down and adding his hands as extra pressure to help slow the bleeding. 

Kraven slices through Miles’ webs and stands up. He attempts, once more, to charge towards Peter, but perhaps Peter has been overestimating Kraven’s mind because he should have been aware by now that they are not alone. His body bounces backwards as Kraven hits the invisible force field that surrounds him, and Sue appears in between one blink and the next.

She’s furious. 

Johnny’s there too, but he’s not nearly as stealthy as Matt (who can hear everything and knows how to not be heard), Sue (she can literally go invisible), and Miles (who has been trained by Peter himself, and who can also go invisible), so he had to stay at the base of the statue until Kraven emerged. As the sounds of Kraven’s fury became louder, however, Johnny must have taken it as a sign that he was good to show his face. 

The entirety of Peter’s right side is engulfed in warmth as Johnny lands beside him, and then the warmth is gone in a rush as Johnny cuts the fire. 

Then Johnny is crouching down, pushing his head into the crook of Peter’s neck, and Peter can hear him mumble, “Stop giving me heart attacks.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologizes, and he means it, “But I knew you guys would have my back. Help me up?”

“Don’t fucking move,” Matt barks out, “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Tore yer fucking stitches.” 

Peter shrugs, “Not really.”

“Not really??” Johnny repeats, incredulous, “I don’t have your freaky-good vision but I can see the literal bloodbath down your side.”

“Not mine. Help me up.” Peter isn’t paying attention to Kraven. Not really. His danger sense hadn’t gone off the entire time he’s been at the Statue of Liberty since Sue, Matt, and Miles have also been here the whole time. Peter’s never been alone. “Y’know the person on the com-set that I left?”

Johnny nods, frowns a little, “Your weird guy who told me to gather some ‘super sneaky back-up’ and meet here? That you were gonna be stupid and draw Kraven’s attention? And, pause, what the fuck do you mean not your blood, P-” Johnny cuts himself off, and Peter’s glad. He doesn’t need a second identity reveal, “Spidey, whose blood is it??”

“That’s the one!” Peter doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t want to see the past overlaid atop the present, “He brought some of the extra blood that I stored with him when he brought my suit. I pulled my stitches, yeah, but it’s not so bad. Just a bit of spotting. I put a blood bag under the suit and popped it at some point during the swing over. Then,” Peter shrugs, “Y’know. Acted.”

“So you aren’t currently bleeding out?” Matt is the one who asks. He doesn’t pull his hands away until Peter verbally confirms that Yes, he is totally fine and not bleeding out. Then he pulls away and punches Peter in the shoulder. It’s not as hard as it could have been, “You brat. We were fuckin’ terrified, listening to you stagger around up here. And the smell of your blood, fuck.” Matt shakes his head and starts to drag a hand across his face but Peter darts out and grabs his wrist before he can make contact.

“Might not wanna do that. All my blood on your hands, and stuff.”

“Air is saturated with the smell of your blood. ‘M gonna throw up,” Matt mutters under his breath. 

“It’s handled here,” Peter offers, “You don’t have to-”

“Like hell am I leaving!” Matt thunders, offended that Peter would even think that he would just… disappear, “Fucking hell. Douchebag.”

Johnny helps Peter stand, because while he may not be bleeding out he is incredibly sore and also nauseous from memories and the smell of his own blood. Leaning into Johnny’s side, Peter takes the time to bury his face in Johnny’s shoulder this time around, “I wanna eat, shower, cuddle, and sleep. In that order. Maybe some of them at the same time.”

“Then talk. After. Tell me what’s going on. About the new suit, about Spider-Man disappearing - the truth this time - about why the hell you felt like you had to go out the window instead of just asking me to help to my face. I would have said yes. It’s a good plan. I care about Miles too, y’know, you aren’t alone there. We all… we all would have helped. If you asked.” Johnny’s not expecting an answer now, and Peter loves him so much as he sinks deeper into his side. Johnny’s not accusatory, not placing blame, just asking.

“Then talk,” Peter agrees, “Plus you’re gonna have to tell me what Kraven’s face is doing later on. I bet he’s pissing his pants. Sue sounds terrifying.”

“Spider-Man is also quite pissed off too,” Matt adds, “I think he dented Liberty’s head.

The situation is so entirely absurd that Peter has to laugh.

Peter eats, showers, and falls asleep with his ear against Johnny’s chest, listening to his heartbeat (after Reed re-does his stitches) as Johnny runs his fingers through Peter’s damp hair. 

And then, some time later, they talk. They cry. (They being Peter’s family, sans Miles, because Peter refuses to dump an ounce of his own emotional burdens onto Miles and will continue to do so until Miles is, like, at least twenty-five and emotionally mature and steady. Nevermind the fact that Peter isn’t even twenty-five himself.) It’s a lot and not enough - nothing can ever be enough, Peter’s so fucking tired - but it is, at the same time. Because something settles. A piece of his soul doesn’t click back into place, but it’s close. There are less gaps inside of him.

Peter is curled up against Johnny’s side on one of the oversized couches in the Baxter Building when, after a few minutes of quiet contemplation from across all boards, Johnny interrupts the silence, “Why does someone have bags of your blood?”

“They what?” Wade’s voice is about five octaves higher than normal, and if Reed didn’t have a “no weapons on the furniture” rule, he would have probably started slashing. What he would be slashing, exactly, Peter wasn’t sure, but slashing felt like a very accurate Wade-response, “Pete, Spidey, dude, I’ll kill them for you, don’t fucking worry.”

“Not worried,” Peter clarifies, before Wade can get up, “I gave him my blood.”

“Under duress?” Reed asks, which, fair. Peter is pretty stingy about his blood after all.

“Not under duress. More for ease. The guy is my boss - y’know how I mentioned that I work at a lab? - and his lab is pretty central to where I patrol so he let me store some there in case I ever need a quick transfusion. Plus,” Peter shrugs, “We’ve been debating on studying it. Opening up Pandora's Box.”

“Pandora’s Box did not have a great ending,” Johnny mumbles under his breath, then, louder, says, “So you’re saying you took - I dunno - fucking years to tell us your identity, but your boss just, what, knows?”

Johnny says it like it’s a joke, but Peter knows those tricks. He invented those tricks. He can hear the underlying hurt in Johnny’s voice. 

“It’s complicated, but, like, long story short,” Matt groans, and Peter pauses for a moment, “...Problem?”

“Everytime we’re comfortably sitting on these couches, you say something like “long story short” and then drop a teaser trailer to the most tragic backstory ever,” Matt complains, and Reed stretches out a rubbery arm to whack the back of Matt’s head lightly.

“At least he’s telling us?” Reed tries to defend, and Peter appreciates the attempt - really, he does - but Matt is horribly on the nose.

So Peter ignores the fact that Matt said anything and continues, “Long story short, when the multiversal collision thingy happened - I mentioned that before, right? I can never remember. But I’m pretty sure I did when I told you everyone forgot I existed - a bunch of, like, villains from other worlds came through. And one was Doctor Octopus. Or Otto Octavius. And he was pretty chill - corrupted by some weird chip thingy in his robot limbs, so he didn’t really mean to be evil and try to kill me - so when I found him in this universe looking for a lab assistant - Pre-Octopus-Otto, too! - I applied.”

No one else seems to be reveling in the joy that is Peter finding Otto pre-Octopus. Tough crowd, “So I got the job, stopped him from turning evil, accidentally revealed my identity in the process, but he, like, promised not to turn evil so. Winners all around.”

…

“Peter what the fuck.” 

Peter isn’t sure who said it first - it seems to be a more general sentiment thrown around by most people in the room than any singular comment - but Reed is the one who seems the most upset, “I offered you a job as my lab assistant! And you turned me down! And now you’re working for someone else?” Reed, unlike most other people in the room, is also the only one focusing on the part where Peter was working in a lab with someone else, and is completely ignoring the details of who he’s working forAll Peter can do is shrug. Or, he would, if he wasn’t so cozy nestled under Johnny’s arm, “The money was good.”

“Mine would be better.”

“It felt weird to pay you back with your own money, though.”

Sue startles, “Pay us back?”

Groaning Johnny playfully shakes the arm wrapped around Peter, but it’s light enough that it doesn’t really jostle him, “Doofus here wants to pay us back for helping with his rent.”

“It’s only right! Besides, I wanted to have an independent source of money for, uhm. Later.” Peter haltingly finishes.

…Well now the hurt isn’t even hidden behind a joke as Johnny tenses beside him, “Do you think-?” 

Peter doesn’t let him finish, sensing he fucked up somewhere in there, “Y’know. ‘Cause it feels weird to ask you to move in with me when I’m on your brother-in-law's payroll.”

Silence. Matt is gaping, Sue is gaping, Reed is gaping. Wade looks so fucking smug and he opens his mouth to say something but Peter grabs a pillow and throws it at his head with uncanny accuracy and force. It’s a pillow, so it doesn’t hurt (Peter doesn’t want to hurt Wade anyway) but the sentiment is conveyed. 

Peter’s face is warm, but he’s not embarrassed - how could he be embarrassed about loving his partner? - so he’s confused as to why until he turns to look at Johnny and sees that his face is bright red. 

Also, his hair is on fire. 

“Hey champ,” Peter intones dryly, “Mind dampening the fire for a sec? If I burn my mouth on you again that’ll be really embarrassing in front of your family.”

If anything, the flames rise even higher. Wade is howling with laughter, and Sue grabs the nearest pillow to her and tries to stifle the sound of her snorting laughs with it. Johnny is trying to frown, but a smile keeps on pulling at his face, and he doesn’t even seem to notice the fact that people are laughing at them as he repeats, “Move in with you?”

“Well yeah,” Peter sits up, extracting himself from Johnny’s embrace so he (doesn’t burn) can look him in the eyes, “Eventually, yeah. I mean, if it was up to me I’d have asked you months ago but, y’know, I’m not gonna ask you to leave your family and your team. That’d be unfair of me. Plus it seemed kinda soon, and I didn’t want to make you nervous by moving too fast. So, I dunno,” Peter shrugs, “I figured if I could get a two bedroom, then you could, like, move some stuff in and stay the night when you had the chance. If you wanted to. Then I guess I’d move in here one day, if you ever wanted to move in for real.”

“Why would we move here?” Johnny asks, then rushes on to say, “Not that you aren’t welcome! But isn’t the whole point to, like, move out? Get our own place? Plus, Pete, you know I can fly right? Like, distance and commuting is not an issue. And why a two-bedroom? I love you, really, but, I cannot understand how your mind works sometimes, and I mean that so not-rudely-”

Peter grabs the front of Johnny’s shirt and kisses him - just a light peck on the lips, and Johnny’s still hot enough that it smarts slightly but it’s worth it - and it’s like everyone else has faded away. Peter looks Johnny directly in the eyes as he says, “I didn’t want to presume anything. Two bedrooms meant a guest bedroom which meant Johnny’s bedroom. To me.”

“Two bedrooms means Miles can stay over when his parents go out of town or if he needs help with a science project. Or that Matt has a place to crash if he’s in our part of the city. And Wade can pop in and chill. To me.” Johnny doesn’t waver. He doesn’t hesitate, “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.”

There isn’t any laughter, or gaping, or gasps, or any sort of reaction from the peanut gallery. Peter thinks that he heard Ben ushering everyone out a few minutes ago and mentally thanks him. 

Their hands find each other, and Peter holds on tight. 

And then Johnny laughs in Peter’s face, but it’s not mean or cruel.

“What?” Peter asks, amused, a smile curling across his face. 

“I would move into a cardboard box with you, y’know. If you asked.”

And Peter has to laugh too, because, “I guess I didn’t. Ask or know. But I’m not surprised. Wanna move in?”

The answer, Peter supposes, has always been yes.

The day after Kraven gets taken down by Sue Storm on the top of the Statue of Liberty, the Daily Bugle releases an article with the headline photo featuring Spider-Man with a pillowcase on his head and a person identified as one Eugene Thompson pressing a water bottle into his hand. Spider-Man is wearing someone’s borrowed jacket and holding a hotdog in his other hand. The picture is obviously from a cell-phone, and it’s one of the Bugle’s most successful articles. The headline is, “Masked Menace Who Destroyed Warehouse Revealed to Be Spider-Man! Crisis Averted: How Else Has Our Hero Saved Our City?”

The article then goes on to list nearly fifty different cases that have been to the mysterious masked presence who had before gone unnamed. Fifty cases and instances were called in and reported overnight. No one had been reporting the moments or telling the exact truth out of fear, but now folks in prison were saying, “I got taken down by Spider-Man!” and folks in the street were saying “I caught a glimpse of Spider-Man!” and “Spider-Man caught the person who pick-pocketed me!” and “I didn’t realize that was Spidey!” and now that the mystery of who has disappeared, so too went the silent fear. 

Now, instead of fear, people speculated and wondered what undercover missions their Spider-Man had undertaken, and what forced him to hide away from the public eye. 

For weeks after, more and more people reported their run-ins with the mysterious unnamed figure dating back months, and someone who had once been terrifying in their anonymity was now just… Spider-Man. 

Their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

(The suit isn’t Spider-Man, Peter realizes, but rather a signifier of him: proof that help is on the way. It’s a comfort when someone sees the Spider-Man suit because they know that Peter is coming. Or, well, considering they don’t know Peter, they know that the person inside the suit is coming to help. They know him. They trust him. It’s not strange: they’ve known him for years.)

One person, a caller on a morning radio show, says that, “It’s hard to be afraid of Spidey. He’s Spidey, after all. Our hero. We’ve practically watched him grow up: footie pajamas to now. He must have been a kid when he started, and we all sat by and let a kid get shot at for our sake. And now he’s all gone and grown, but he hasn’t left us behind. Hasn’t let us down. So, like I said, it’s hard to be afraid once you know it’s him. ‘Cause he’s just… a person. Y’know? Some random person under that mask who had the power, and who took on the responsibility. Would any of us have done the same?” 

The caller after that, who sounds suspiciously like Spider-Man, says only one thing, “I try.”

And that’s all Spider-Man can do: try.

Because so often - so fucking often - Peter feels like he falls short. Like the weight, the pressure, the name… he feels as though it’ll suffocate him like tons of concrete, like a parking garage, like the sky. 

But Peter is also reminded - so fucking often - that he’s doing enough. That the reason Spider-Man is trusted isn’t because he’s Spider-Man, because of the red and blue suit, but because of the person underneath. 

Because there is a heart that beats behind every single one of Spider-Man’s actions: a heart that keeps on going, in spite of the odds.

Spider-Man…

Peters always gets back up, after all.

So often, being Spider-Man is a lot.

But more often than not - all the time, really - Spider-Man is just Peter. So all he’s got to do is just keep on being Peter.

And things will be okay.

In the aftermath, Miles tells Peter, “I don’t know how to be Spider-Man because I’m not you. I’m not Spider-Man because I can’t be you.”

And all Peter can say to that is, “Of course you’re not me. You’re you: you’re Miles. And that’s more than enough: that’s all anyone can ask for, really.”

Peter hopes that this time around, Spider-Man won’t have to feel worthless for so long before realizing it’s not Spider-Man that matters - the name, the suit, the pressure, the weight - but the person underneath. Miles. Peter thinks that Tony tried to tell him that, once, tried to force Peter to understand that it wasn’t the suit that made the hero, but between getting crushed by a building and feeling alone and abandoned, the message hadn’t quite stuck. 

…Peter’s trying to do better.

He thinks he is doing better, because Miles hugs him tight and a month later the Morales family shows up at Peter’s same-old-same-old apartment, only now it’s Johnny and Peter’s apartment, and Mr. Morales is holding a plate of cookies.

Miles tells him, “I want to be my own Spider-Man,” and also, “I want to be an artist,” and they’re two different things but they are both Miles and that’s all Peter has ever wanted. And Peter cries when Miles tells him he got accepted into a boarding school where he can pursue art, be an artist, be him. He’s going to go home on the weekends, “But,” Miles asks, like it’s even a question, “Can I stop by for dinner here sometimes, too?” He hugs Miles and he cries (not sobs, not screams, just a few tears slipping down his cheeks because he’s so fucking happy) and he smiles and Mrs. Morales tells him, hand on her husband’s arm, as Johnny asks Miles about his new school, “It’s going to be okay. Our boy is strong. He’s had a lot of good heroes.”