Peter recalls the first day you rejected food in front of him. He hadn't picked up then that it might be a deeper issue; just figured you had eaten earlier. There were many nights when he returned home from patrol a lot later than dinner time, so he naturally assumed you had eaten without him.
But nights of refusing became days and days became weeks, and Peter was starting to get worried. He didn’t like the idea of you going hungry, of you falling asleep on an empty stomach. He knew that feeling all too well, when May could scrape just enough to keep the heat running, but not enough for groceries. It’s one of the reasons he works so hard now, making money outside of his super gig. He wants to keep himself and his lover warm and full.
But you aren’t eating, and it’s killing Peter.
He decides he’ll talk to you about it – bring it up as soon as you get home. He’ll ask you to make an appointment with someone who is better at words than he is. He’ll cook delicious, irresistible meals three times a day if it’s what you need.
There’s a pot of soup on the stovetop when you finally arrive home.
Peter hugs you tightly. He tries to ignore the way you tense in his arms. He tries to ignore the way you feel a little less soft, less cuddly. All sharp edges and cold skin. He kisses your forehead before he lets you go. “C’mere.”
He pulls you into the small kitchen and hopes the atmosphere is quiet enough for you. He’s got your comfort playlist on low volume through his bluetooth speakers. The overhead light is off – you’ve had a lot of headaches recently. Peter brought in his lamp from his bedroom, so that there’s an amber-like glow through the room. “Sit with me?”
You sigh, defeated. Frustration paints your features as you watch him scoop two bowls of soup. “Peter, I’m not–”
“It’s okay,” he says, voice wavering. He places the bowl of soup in front of you. “It’s bone broth and vegetables. There’s no salt, no butter, no oil, and I promise you one bowl won’t hurt you.”
Your face nearly crumbles, but you hold fast, lower lip wobbling. “Peter, I can’t. I’m doing so well.”
“But your head hurts,” Peter replies simply, unable to keep the pain out of his voice. “Your head hurts, and you’ve been so sad lately. I know how it feels to go to bed hungry and I can’t–” His voice breaks, and he struggles to keep the tears at bay. “I can’t stand by and let you do this to yourself, ___. I need you to eat. Just tonight. And tomorrow I can help you make an appointment with a specialist. Please,” He’s pleading now, begging you, but he feels no shame for it.
You spin your spoon in the soup. The spoon turns and turns, and you stay silent. Then, the spoon clacks against the bowl loudly, and it's the straw that breaks the camel's back because you bow your head and begin to cry.
“Baby, baby, baby, don't cry.” Peter has you in his arms before your tears can hit the counter. He holds your head to his chest. His fingers thread through your hair, gently untangling the knots that have accumulated throughout the day. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I said something wrong.”
“You didn’t,” you babble against his neck. He can feel your hot tears trail onto his collarbone beneath his shirt. “You didn’t. You’re too good for me, Peter. I’m so sorry you have to deal with this. I’m sorry you have to spoonfeed me like a fucking baby and I’m sorry I made you worry.”
“Shh,” Peter holds your shoulders steady beneath his lean and muscled arms. He rocks you gently from side to side. “Don’t apologize, okay? Please don’t. I love you and I want to take care of you no matter what that looks like, okay? If you need me to literally spoon feed you, I will. If you need me to go to a specialist with you, or make the appointment, I’ll do it. If you need me to shut up and hold you, I will.”
“Can you–” You hiccup, and Peter squeezes you tighter. “Can you make the appointment for me? Just the first time?”
“Of course,” he mumbles, soft lips against your temple. “Anything else?”
“Can you eat with me?” You push back to look in his eyes, and Peter wants to sink into the trust you have for him. He feels grounded here, knowing that you want him with you during a moment so vulnerable.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I can do that.”
The two of you sit across from each other. Peter takes a bite every time you do. And the soup isn’t salted, but it’s seasoned, and the flavors feel refreshing after so long without. You make it through half of the bowl, and Peter’s proud smile makes you think you can do this. You can get better.
He packs the rest of the soup into tupperware. You brush your teeth and he washes the dishes. He washes his face while you change your clothes.
When it’s all said and done, you’re pressed into Peter's side, belly full of soup, and heart full of him.
And things are going to get better. You can feel it.