Associations

Peter goes home restless, the remains of his sandwich tucked away in the fridge for later since his mind is swirling around far too much to consider stomaching it.

He collapses onto his bed, the springs creaking and groaning under the sudden weight. The sun still hasn’t set, but the light shining through his window has a dusky orange glow. He smooshes his face into his covers, the loud sigh he lets out getting muffled. He has his suit on underneath his clothes, but his thoughts are already drifting too much for him to contemplate removing it.

He’s contrite, if he’s being honest. A hint of genuine mortification having sprung up as soon as the words had left his mouth back in the alley. He’d known that Joe wasn’t comfortable with telling him anything too personal, and a name’s pretty much just that. Yeah, they’ve moved up from meeting once or twice a week to nearly every day over the past few months, but it was basically just Peter talking about himself and his life. He cringed. God, that sounded narcissistic, but it wasn’t like that, really. The guy didn’t want to talk about himself, and there was only so much Peter could go on about robotics and physics and chemistry and quantum mechanics before it probably got to be overwhelming. At least because Peter definitely wasn’t the best at articulating his thoughts concisely, so mixing that with complex linguistics was best left undone.

The thing was, though, it didn’t matter that Joe didn’t talk about himself all that much. That didn’t mean Peter was practically talking to a wall or something. Their conversations had been kind of stilted, the first few times - he could readily admit as much. But, as the days - weeks, months - went by, they’d both opened up more to each other. Peter, with telling more personal anecdotes about his life - excluding the whole Spider-Man thing, obviously - and Joe, with how his responses and questions and even concerns changed from simple hums or monosyllabic replies to actual full sentences and reactions that were more than just a small twitch of a muscle.

He’d felt himself drawn to the man, that first day. It was like his spidey sense, how it’d help lead him to trouble or, more often, avoid it. If it was related, though, it didn't feel like a warning as it usually would've. He wasn’t lying when he told Joe that he thought he was a good guy. That he deserved more than what he had. 

And it started becoming one of the best parts of his day. Finishing patrol, getting the same Cuban sandwiches from Delmar’s that he always got - two for each of them - and winding down in a dingy alley doorstop with a practical stranger that he shouldn’t’ve been taking as much comfort in being in the presence of as he definitely did. 

It wasn’t just about himself, though. It felt important, almost, to be able to be there for the man; to see him come out of his shell, in a way. He didn’t really think the saying fit, but it was the closest parallel he could think of. It made him recall the first time Joe cracked a joke on Peter’s expense, and how Peter had laughed so hard he’d choked, chest heaving and abdominals burning from the strength of it, and the look of tentatively amused confusion clear by the little twist of Joe’s lips, tilted upwards but still looking kind of like a frown, just made him laugh even harder. The combination of Joe giving a stab at humor, unwittingly or not, and how he didn’t clam up afterwards had made Peter so disproportionately elated that he couldn’t stop guffawing until his stomach cramped so hard he'd had to double over.

It felt like a turning point, a kind of break in a level of tension he hadn’t even noticed present, having thought it’d more or less faded away after the first couple of weeks. 

It was as if he was watching Joe… develop. Which sounded kind of weird, but was no less true. New quirks kept popping up, and it didn’t feel quite right to place the cause completely on just that Joe was taking comfort in his presence. Like how his accent became more pronounced, Brooklyn clear in it. Or how he started having an odd bit of slang woven into his talk, words like pal and hooch and even dame, a couple of times. 

Then there were things that probably really were just because Joe felt alright enough to loosen up. Like his laugh, not often present but still showing through a smile on the occasion Peter said something that was either funny or stupid enough to make it bubble up past the tight yet not as tight hold Joe had on it. Or like his posture, which still never lost its stiff set that only someone with a keen eye could see but seemed to relax ever so minutely somewhere midway through their meal. 

And Peter knew that there were reasons for the presence of all the secrecy and the mystery, the wariness and the rigidity. And he understood that he probably wouldn’t be finding them out - not any time soon, at least. 

He didn’t mind. Despite their frequent meets and Peter’s shared tales, Joe hadn’t really, truly opened up to him, and Peter didn’t hold him to it, either. He wasn’t talking with Joe to get something out of it, not in the sense of gaining intel, at least - satiating some kind of morbid, selfish curiosity. No. He went up to Joe that first time on what truly was sort of a whim, though it felt like more by the strange sensation that’d reverberated across his mind. It was that feeling that kept him going back to the alley every day after the first time with an extra sandwich in his pack until the man was there again on day five. 

He could give a million different excuses as to why - he was just looking out for him, being someone on the streets; he looked like he could do with an extra meal; he wanted to keep an eye on him - but they’d all fall flat. Yes, Peter definitely would’ve given up his meal to a homeless man if he passed by them on his way home - he’d done it before, multiple times. Yes, the man clearly did look like it wouldn’t hurt him to have an extra bite to eat despite how clearly fit he was. Yes, he also looked mighty suspicious with how he kept his hat tipped low so as to shade his eyes from view and with how he kept his gloves and jacket on even in the heat. But none of those could add up together to make the whole reason for why Peter went to him the first time, let alone why he came back. Honestly, he still couldn’t fully piece together the thoughts of why to himself, just some of the little parts that fit the picture. 

At least some of it truly did have to do with how the man was a bit of a contradiction, an anomaly. Like with how he seemed hesitant to reach out to Peter, but in a way that was both towards Peter and himself. With how he kept his head tucked down in front of Peter but never told him to go. With how his rare bouts of laughter would almost always cut themselves short, mouth snapping shut and posture looking unsteady and unsure. With how he rarely ever failed to be there when Peter dropped by, but was always all tense lines and measured breaths when he first turned the corner. With how he seemed neutral to most of Peter’s idle chatter but his lips would set in a rigid, almost pained line when Peter started talking about certain heroes. A certain hero.

There was so much else that Peter could pick at and turn over and over in his head until the rough edges were smoothed into overanalyzed thoughts, but it never did him much good. Joe was a conundrum, and Peter could readily admit it, but it didn’t particularly matter to him, in the sense that it didn’t affect how Peter saw him. Because he knew that Joe was good. By the way he let himself untense in the near hour or so they spent just hanging out, by the way every action and reaction he gave was genuine - regardless of whether that meant him being uncomfortable or content -  and, Peter could readily admit, by the way his own spidey senses hadn’t gone off a single damn time when he was with him.

And Peter knew that was saying a lot. It didn’t take a genius to tell that Joe had gone through some stuff. As in, stuff that your everyday member of society didn’t go through. He was bulky, for one. Not overweight or anything, no. He was pure muscle, clear to see even through the tough leather of his jacket and dark blue of his jeans. As for his face, Peter never did really get a look at his eyes - maybe once, a flash of greyish blue that might’ve just been a trick of the light - but he’d caught a glance at the bags under them on more than one occasion, too dark to be explained away as just shadows from his low brimmed cap. They were the long term kind, and showed a kind of bone deep weariness that could only come from a multitude of restless nights, countless reasons as to why but the vast majority unpleasant. Another thing that was impossible not to notice was how one of his arms, the left one, made the faintest humming and whirs when he shifted around, and the technologically inclined part of Peter’s mind was dying to ask about it but his rational processing held him back. Lastly, though, was that there were occasions that Joe left before Peter, finishing up his sandwiches in a few large, hasty bites, apologizing for not being able to stay longer because he had a night shift somewhere or other. And every time, he stood with a smooth sort of grace, looking almost relaxed but in a way that held an underlying sense of readiness to take action. The main thing about it, though? Peter never heard his footsteps as he walked away. 

Regardless, Peter had found a sort of unwitting camaraderie, almost, in the man. All the information that he’d compiled into a untidy little mess in some corner of his brain had put up a rough sort of image, but it was enough. Joe had been through some shit - probably done some shit - and now he was trying to leave it behind. Because that had to be what he was doing. The secrecy? The hesitancy? Never showing his face, always being on edge. Peter had no doubts Joe would be looking over his shoulder if they weren’t already in some alley where there couldn’t be someone at his back because there was a full on brick wall there. And, sure, Peter wasn’t trying to leave behind anything. He did get the whole secrecy thing, in a way, with the hidden identity part of his own life, but it didn’t force him to leave everything. And he’d definitely made some enemies in the past year - what, with taking down actual drug cartels and gangs - but that was the whole point of his double life. Peter didn’t have to run away because as soon as he was out of the suit, he could turn off that little switch that meant high alert. He could go home, greet Aunt May, and rest easy in the knowledge that he’d gone another day without putting her in any danger since nobody - not even her - knew. 

He wondered if Joe had anyone like that. Someone he felt the need to protect, or just someone he cared for, at least. Peter was pretty sure he did.

On rare occasions, Joe would mention some innocuous detail of his own life, usually a comparison to something Peter had brought up. Most often, the little tidbits were always related to 'this guy' he knew. Never gave a name for him, never even suggested it was the same person, really, but it was easy enough to tell, even with how infrequently he was brought up, with how the inflection of Joe's voice would shift into something less present - like all his focus was taken up by the reminiscence. Other times, Joe would just kind of zone out. Peter would bet that he had a far off kind of look in his eyes, if he could see them. He always seemed morose, almost unsure, when it happened, and he wasn’t as quick to talk in the minutes thereafter. 

It’d resolved something inside Peter. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, his own resolution was, but for now, it meant sticking with the guy. Being there for him because he knew no one else was - even if Joe had someone he was thinking of, it wasn’t someone with him now, that was clear - and just seeing where life led to. Maybe he’d never be able to help Joe more than this, with a couple of sandwiches and some conversation. Maybe Joe would tell him one day - about his life, his past, his possible future - and ask for Peter to either help or maybe just be a part of it. Or maybe he’d just be gone, one day, Peter stopping by for who knows how many days, weeks, months at the alley every night with a couple extra sandwiches and a growing sense of resignation that he forced to turn into a hope that maybe Joe had found help elsewhere.

Now, Peter hopes he didn’t just blow it.

The front door opens, and a couple seconds later, Aunt May calls, “Peter?” from down the hall.

He hoists himself up off the bed, stumbling over to his door, more groggy than he expected from just having lied there and contemplated for a bit, but the sky has already turned dark, he realizes belatedly. 

“Welcome home, May,” he replies, walking over to the kitchen area, where he hears her rummaging in the fridge.

She turns around as he pads across the living room carpet. “Hey Pete, you’re home early,” she notes, tilting her head in a way that makes her messy bun flop sideways. 

He huffs, shrugging his shoulders and giving a weak smile as he comes to a stop in front of her. “Just tired, I guess,” he hedges. He’s always kind of avoided explaining why he’s out so late all the time, giving some lame excuse that he’s at club, or at Ned’s, or at the library. It comes out a bit forced, he knows, and he knows she knows it too.

Proving as much, she raises an eyebrow. Then she wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, I can see why with that smell,” she says pointedly, contorting her face in an expression of disgust that’s far too exaggerated to be genuine. 

He snorts, pouting in mock offense. “I smell like a flower,” he retorts.

“Yeah, maybe that Rafflesia one,” May rebuts, turning around and shaking her head.

He makes a noise of confusion, and she gives a tittering sort of sound, pulling out a box of cheerios from the cupboard.

“The corpse flower,” she expands.

“Wow,” he deadpans. “Thanks, May.”

“I try,” she replies airily, another little laugh escaping her as she grabs the milk.

He rolls his eyes, but heads to the bathroom, muttering, “yeah, yeah,” and then picking up his volume a bit, calling over his shoulder, “Cereal’s a breakfast food, May,” and snorting when she grumbles good naturedly in response.

-

He’s clearly still not over it the next day, though, seeing as Ned gives him this concerned look that makes Peter thunk his head against his desk in resignation. 

“What’s wrong Peter?” he asks.

“I-”

“Yeah, what’s wrong,” Flash mockingly interrupts, a couple of their classmates snickering behind him.

Peter rolls his eyes at the desk, forehead still pressed against it. “Nothing, Flash,” he mutters.

“Nothing, Flash,” Flash echoes, voice high and reedy. A few more students laugh. 

MJ doesn’t bother looking up from her novel, but she tilts her head in their direction. “Are you five?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious and like she expects a serious answer despite how her voice only pitches slightly compared to the usual flat monotone it is.

Flash sneers at her, but the bell rings, cutting off any response. 

Ms. Wilson claps her hands. “All right, class, settle down!”

-

It’s lunch when Ned confronts him again, at their secluded table in the corner of the cafeteria. The only person nearby is MJ, as per usual. She doesn’t spare them a glance - also as per usual. 

“Seriously, man. You look, like, constipated or something,” Ned says. This does get MJ to look up interestedly, eyes set intensely on Peter’s face. He flushes slightly but frowns, giving her as hard of a glare as he can muster. She shrugs back, but he can see the corner of her lip twitch up and he just knows the notebook that magically appeared in her hand is about to get a new crisis face addition. 

He sighs wearily, poking at the sad remnants of the meatloaf he’d been pushing around his tray for the past five minutes. “It’s nothing,” he dismisses.

Ned rolls his eyes, stabbing his fork into a grape, the mushy fruit splattering juice all over the little cup it’s in. “It’s not nothing,” he insists. 

Peter shrugs, then hesitates. If he could just word it so as to not give anything away  - because there’s no way he’s telling Ned he’s been meeting up with some older dude late at night, especially not without accidentally giving away some little hint or clue towards his own reasonings for being out - maybe… He chews on his lip, tossing the idea around for a couple more seconds before deciding to give it a shot. “So there’s this… person,” he starts. Ned nods his head encouragingly. “I… we’re kinda close? I guess. We talk a lot. Or, well. I talk a lot.” He huffs, rubbing at the back of his neck frustratedly before trying again. “I think - I know I crossed a line, like, something they didn’t wanna talk about, and I’m worried I messed everything up now,” he admits, dragging his hand down his face.

Ned gives him a funny look. “Is this girl trouble?” he asks bluntly.

Peter looks at him, both indignant and mortified as he flushes red and waves his hands around spastically. “NO! J-They’re not - no!” 

“They, huh?” MJ muses.

“They?” Ned echoes curiously. He tilts his head, pursing his lips. “Boy trouble?”

Peter lets out a strangled scream, slamming his forehead against the table and muffling his face into his sleeve, trays rattling. He hears MJ snort. It doesn’t help. 

He gives himself a few seconds to calm down before lifting his head up. There’s definitely a red mark above his brows, but he doesn’t really care at this point. His soul is not fully attached to his body right now. He inhales deeply, and exhales through his mouth. “No, Ned,” he says calmly. “I am not having girl or boy troubles.”

Ned makes a noise of understanding. “Men troubles,” he says commiseratingly. 

Peter stares at him blankly, a faint smile forming on his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you, Ned,” he decides. “For making me realize what a bad idea this was.”

Ned reaches out and pats his hand, which is lying limply on the table. “No problem, dude,” he expresses, looking happy to have helped. He clearly doesn’t realize that ‘this’ refers to asking him for help in the first place. MJ sends Peter a knowing look, eyes glinting with amusement and an underlying shimmer of curiosity. 

-

Peter drags his patrol out that day, every swing between skyscrapers seeming to be a tick of the clock bringing him closer to a finality he hopes won’t happen. He stops in a Publix parking lot to help a couple of people who’d taken it upon themselves to carry all their groceries to their car without a cart. He webs an attempted mugger to the side of a dumpster, handing the other dude’s wallet back to him and maybe taking a couple of pictures with him. He stopped a car burglar, webbing the wrench out of his hand and sticking his feet to the concrete. He was pretty sure that he stopped another mugging before it could even happen too, because some shady looking dudes kind of creeping on this twitchy guy in front of them jerked their hands up in surrender just because he was swinging by. So. Yeah. Pretty normal day.

All good things must come to an end, though. He pulls off his mask, hair sticking up wildly and feeling a faint twinge of envy like he does every time when he thinks about how Captain America’s hair somehow stays immaculate despite how it definitely eludes some law of physics or the natural order by there not even being a single strand out of place even after just taking off that tight helmet. It defies logic.

He sighs, peeling his rucksack off the brick alley’s wall and stuffing his boots and mask into it while pulling out his civies. His sneakers feel a bit too tight, but they have for a while now. His pinky toes have long since formed thick calluses on their sides, and the material on the outer edges of his sneakers have worn thin. He hasn’t told May, though. His part time shift at Delmar’s on the weekends and occasionally on Mondays helps, but he shells out most of his cash right back to the place with the daily sandwiches, and he doesn’t want her to worry. 

He trudges down the street, lights shining down on him from their posts with little flickering shadows of moths interspersed between. Delmar’s is still open, just like he knew it would be. 

He pushes the door in and hears the familiar chimes that signify a customer’s entrance, the sound now grating on his ears. 

Whatever he’s feeling, or at least some part of it, must be showing on his face by the way Delmar’s brows scrunch in concern. “You alright, Pedro?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he dismisses, but it falls flat. 

Delmar gives him a look, but doesn’t say anything else about it, already setting to work on the sandwiches without prompting. 

There’s a low hum from the oven toaster as the bread’s heated up, and it only serves to further hike up the tension on Peter’s shoulders. He jolts at the squeaky sound that comes from Delmar opening it back up, but the man thankfully has his back turned to Peter, so he doesn’t notice.

He watches silently as Delmar wraps up the four sandwiches and pushes the palm of his hand down onto the tops, smooshing them flat. The man turns around and holds out the bag full of the sandwiches and a pack of gummies out to Peter.

“Um.” Peter takes the bag somewhat hesitantly. “I haven’t paid yet,” he points out.

Delmar shrugs. “I didn’t give you pay for overtime last week.”

Peter stares at him, lips parting slightly before he scoffs out a laugh. “I was there, like, five extra minutes!” he retorts.

“Sounds good for the usual and some of those gomas you like,” Delmar replies nonchalantly.

“I…”

Delmar rolls his eyes, making a shooing motion. “Go,” he huffs. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he dismisses.

Peter does leave, albeit feeling a bit confused yet oddly comforted, but the feelings quickly revert to the apprehension that’d been building up all day.

He’s not gonna be there, he tells himself, trying to to come to terms with the fact that he’d been avoiding all day. I screwed up and put him off. He probably thinks I’ve just been trying to figure him out this whole time. 

He hangs his head, pace slowing. A thought, unbidden, rises. Why do I even care?

It gets beat down right away, an influx of reasonings crushing it down to nothing. All those thoughts that’d roiled across his mind the night before just went to show that, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he held a sense of solidarity, companionship, with Joe. It didn’t really matter that he was older - it’s not like friendship was decided by age. If anything, Peter felt like he could relate to him more than people his own age, with all the secrecy and hidden selves and having to be on guard around others when they could find you out. Having already been in the whole hero/vigilante business for two years, he’d seen a lot of things, not all pleasant. Sure, his usual after school to evening patrols were mostly filled with petty robberies and helping out civilians in everyday tasks, but he’s seen the dark underbelly of society more than once, especially when he goes back out after his meals with Joe, continuing his patrol until nearly dawn. 

He’s fought against killers, against rapists, against gangs. He’s seen the victims of them all, helped them stay safe and tried to comfort them as best he could until the police or the paramedics arrived. He’s come too late, before. More than once. It broke something inside of him, the first time.

He’d been a little under four months in on the whole Spider-Man deal, and he saw someone jump. He couldn’t catch them, and they were gone to the world by the time he reached their side on the cold, hard ground, blood splattered across concrete and bones sticking out at odd angles through flesh. He’d run away, bile rising up from his throat and burning against the back of his mouth, tears of frustration, of failure, of a deep, raw anguish stinging at his eyes.

He took a week off from patrol, then. 

Afterwards, though, he came back with a vengeance. He vowed to be faster, stronger. To stop the next one and to protect others from falling at the hands of others as well. He’d started patrolling longer hours, often doing multiple patrols a day, squeezing in homework between them and sleep during class. He’d burnt out, eventually, of course, and after three separate interventions hosted by Aunt May, the final being attended by a worried Ned as well, he’d taken a step back. A small one, yes, but still a step back. 

He got smarter about his methods. He didn’t just swing around willy-nilly all the time, though his patrols in the earlier hours did tend to be more reliant on audio and visuals than those late at night. But that was where his attention shifted, because it was after dark when crime truly reared its ugly head. Kind of a cliché, really, but that’s how it was. 

He did actual research on where he was going to go, most nights. His methods weren’t exactly the most… legal, but, if hacking into police comms and data bases was what it took, then that’s all there was to it. Ned had magic hands when it came to that kind of stuff, and he’d taught Peter more than just a thing or too. But, although some small part of Peter mourned not being able to ask his friend for help, he wouldn’t risk him. Not now, not ever. So he relied on his own still somewhat decent and steadily improving skills to parse through the security and find what he needed. It led to more than one night spent staking out and taking down illegal warehouse supply depots and gangs, all wrapped up in webs with a cheery sticky note left behind for the cops to roll their eyes at.

This wasn’t to say that he hadn’t been taking his role seriously beforehand. No, he’d known about responsibility long before then. When he first took to his position in earnest, holding up the mantle of Spider-Man, was when he’d first truly began. After Uncle Ben. 

The rest was more of a development. A sort of jading that spurred him to advance his action to past that of the label of ‘Neighborhood Friendly Spider-Man.’ Not that he was taking the title off, and, in fact, most people still saw him as just exactly that, especially since the police weren’t really incentivized to give him credit for his more ‘complex’ take downs involving gangs or drug busts or even the occasional serial killer or two. 

So when people thought of Spider-Man, they thought of the guy who’d help old ladies cross the street, maybe take down the occasional mugger while saying a comedic quip that really did nothing but antagonize the other guy. But that’s about it, and Peter was more than happy to let it stay that way. He was in the limelight, yeah, but still not under the harsh spotlight that the bigshot superheroes like the Avengers were. He was a local guy - and yes, he still was for the most part even with his other additional actions, but not at the same level, is all - and so people were more or less content to leave him be. And by people he meant the higher ups of the government, because J. Jonah Jameson certainly had no qualms about dragging his name through the mud and pinning his every action under a microscope. Like, come on, man. Spider-Man was seen holding a churro and somehow that translates to cultural appropriation? Nobody even knew his race even if that was a thing. Which it isn’t. Wasn’t. The point was that the churro was delicious and… we live in a society.

He’s approaching the alley now, and he slows his steps further until he’s practically going at a crawl by the time he peeks his head around the corner. 

Joe’s there, sitting on the stoop and exuding a sense of confounded exasperation, as if he knew Peter was lurking for a while before finally popping around.

Peter barely holds himself back from exclaiming ‘You’re here!’ but that also results in him blurting out the next thing that flashes across his mind.

“I have gummies!!!”

The corner of Joe’s lip quirks up, and he shakes his head in an almost fond looking way. “That’s great, pal.”

Peter’s glad that it’s dark out, because he has veritably turned into a tomato. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, shuffling forwards and rummaging through his to-go bag. He flings a couple of sandwiches and the gummies to Joe, who catches them with ease but only sets them down on his lap instead of starting up on any of them.

Peter tilts his head in a silent question, taking his usual seat on the ground a few steps away. It was unlike the man to seem so hesitant. Yes, he didn’t talk much and he was often at least somewhat on edge, but he always seemed to know what he was going to say or do.

“I dunno what ta do, Pete.” 

Well, Peter never claimed that he was good at reading people. “About what?”

Joe shrugs wearily, rubbing one gloved hand against his scruff. “Everything.”

“Ah.” 

Joe snorts softly, and he’s definitely rolling his eyes under the cap. “Yeah. Ah.”

And then Peter thinks of something that’s either super smart or horrendously stupid. Going by how he apparently is prone to making conjectures and rushing into things, it’s probably the latter. But Peter never claimed he was smart, either. “Hey Joe?” He bites nervously at his lip, continuing when Joe tilts his head up slightly. “I’ll tell you my secret - if you’ll tell me yours too.”

To outsiders, it wouldn’t seem like the man reacted much, if at all, to the proposition, but one: he and Peter have been hanging out together for more than three months now, and that consequently leads to point two: Peter’s enhanced vision means he’s pretty good at catching small tells and twitches, so he sees how Joe’s right hand increases in fidgeting at the fingertips while his left arm has gone completely still from the faint movements it'd been making before. He sees how the slight show of expression on Joe’s face has flattened.

That’s about all he sees, though, before Joe smoothes it all back out and responds, a bit of dry humor in his tone. “What’s this? An I’ll show you mine if you show me yours kinda deal?”

Peter flushes but doesn’t fall back on the out Joe gives him, pressing on. “I’m here for you man, and I know you'd have my back, too.”

Joe shakes his head, mouth twisting into a mimicry of a sneer. “You think I’ve got some lousy lil’ spiel about my life you c’n just, friend therapy away or some shit?” 

Peter ignores the taunt. “That’s not what I’m saying. I know that whatever you’ve got going on is big. And maybe you can handle it by yourself - I don’t doubt you can hold your own - but that’s the thing. You don’t have to. I… you’re important to me, alright?” He fidgets, huffs. “Honestly, you’re probably tied with Ned for the best friend position.” 

The joke’s meant to ease the tension, but neither of them are really smiling. 

“He’d be devastated,” Joe replies, deadpan.

Peter shrugs. “Ned’s awesome, really. I couldn’t ask for more. He’s there for me as much as he can be without knowing, but he doesn’t - wouldn’t - get it.” He hesitates. “Nobody knows my secret,” he admits.

He can tell Joe isn’t just brushing his revelation aside, even as the man scoffs and shifts so he’s facing away. A couple of minutes go by in silence, until Joe finally says, “You can’t help me,” voice low and gravelly - dangerous.

Peter doesn’t blink. “I can, and I will.” 

“Pete,” Joe begins with a sigh, tone dropping just as quickly as it'd come and now sounding more drained and resigned than anything.

Peter stops him short, flipping his hand so that his wrist is facing up and curling his middle and ring finger down to his palm in a swift movement that sends a web shooting out and snagging the gummies from Joe’s lap. Peter catches them as Joe’s head snaps to face him, the latter’s cap slipping back in a way that’s perilously close to revealing his eyes, posture rigid with a disbelieving sort of shock. “I’m Spider-Man,” Peter needlessly declares, letting an impish smile dance across his lips as he shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s what I do.”