Archive of Our Own ^beta

Okay, so, maybe Peter Parker had a tendency to get kidnapped.

And maybe Johnny Storm had a tendency of saving him. 

It didn’t mean anything at all, but the thugs who’d tied him to a chair would not listen to his reasoning. 

“I know what it looks like,” Peter told them for the fifth time, “but I actually don’t know Johnny Storm. I’m just his photographer, man. He hires me for those calendars people like to buy—”

Thug One, as Peter had dubbed him earlier when four of them had cornered him on the street and forced him into their van, rolled his eyes and grunted in a very annoyed manner. “Shut it already, would you? We’ve seen the papers. If you were just the photographer, Storm wouldn’t always come in guns blazin’ to rescue ya.”

Peter slumped in his chair. The damn papers. He would forever regret the night that Johnny had chased after him, insisting on seeing the photos Peter had taken of him so he could give his stamp of approval. All it took was one paparazzi photo and the right amount of speculation about who Peter was to get the rumors flying. 

As soon as #superheroboyfriend , #JohnnyStormBF , and #bibiJohnnyStorm started trending, Peter knew his life was over. Then a bunch of amateurs thought they’d take him to an abandoned warehouse the following week to try and get a ransom out of Peter’s non-existent boyfriend. It had been a low moment in his career; had he been able to put on his suit, they never would have gotten close to him. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do as Peter Parker unless he wanted his face plastered all over the news for an entirely different reason. 

He’d figured he could just hang out for a while until the idiots finally got it through their thick skulls that he and Johnny weren’t an item and let him go—or made a mistake so he could believably escape as his civilian self. Unfortunately, his plan had been foiled by none other than the Human Torch himself rocketing through the window and taking out Peter’s captors. 

This would be all well and good, but the paparazzi that followed Johnny everywhere also got a picture of the flying fireball carrying Peter to safety. Which… was quite the blow to Peter’s ego, if he was being honest. 

The papers the following morning very prettily avoided calling Peter a damsel in distress; Twitter wasn’t so kind. All Peter could do was watch in despair. 

Months later, the fanfare hadn’t died down and Peter had been taken for ransom no less than eight—eight!—times. It was getting out of hand; he hadn’t even garnered this much attention from villains as Spider-Man. If it didn’t provide so much juicy gossip for the Bugle , Peter suspected Jameson would have fired him long ago for his sudden lack of Spider-Man pictures. 

In short, Peter’s wallet and stomach were very empty, and he was very over being Johnny’s not-boyfriend. 

“The papers,” he said helplessly, “are wrong .”

Thug One didn’t believe him, and neither did his fellow thugs, if the way they guffawed at him was proof. Thug Four even winked and blew Peter a kiss. He made a disgusted face back. 

“Fine,” he huffed, “don’t believe me. But the ransom better be steep, because I’m worth it. Actually, double whatever it is and give me a cut. Let’s say thirty percent. Without me, this whole operation wouldn’t exist.”

“I’m pretty sure hostages aren’t supposed to demand a portion of the goods, Pete,” a new voice said, and Peter had a retort on the tip of his tongue but was rudely interrupted when Johnny burst into flames and flew towards Thugs Two and Four. 

Peter sighed as the blond started punching and blasting his way to victory. Storm wasn’t a bad fighter, far from it, but Peter couldn’t help but compare his performance to Spider-Man’s. Storm was used to aliens and high-stakes battles; Peter was mildly concerned that he’d hit someone a little too hard with those fireballs. 

Tugging gently at the ropes binding his wrists to the arms of the chair, Peter considered freeing himself. He decided against it with some regret; he wouldn’t compromise his secret identity to save his pride, even if he didn’t have much left. 

Within minutes, the kidnappers were all either unconscious or surrendering. Johnny turned to Peter and jogged over, worry clouding his sky-blue eyes. Peter tried his best to look like a scared, grateful civilian, but based on the look on Johnny’s face, it had come across more as what-took-you-so-long .

The hero stopped in front of Peter and huffed, but there was some amusement on his face now. “You… you’re really not impressed by the whole superpowers thing, are you?”

In response, Peter just shrugged. “Listen, it’s New York. Everyone has big dreams here—mine include making the rent. Let’s just wrap this up so I can hunt down Spider-Man and snap his picture.” It was no secret that he sold those photos to the Bugle . 

Johnny raised a brow, but he began working on the knots on Peter’s wrists. “You could take pictures of me instead,” he suggested with a wicked grin, and Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Sorry, but JJJ won’t pay as much for a picture of you. He likes keeping ‘the Web-Slinging Menace’ on his front page if he can help it. Thinks it sways the public’s opinion.”

“Spidey does good work,” Johnny defended without real conviction; Spider-Man and the Human Torch rarely interacted, but Peter still appreciated the comment. 

Once the ropes were untied, Peter stood up and stretched. He eyed the other man carefully. Thanks to his enhanced hearing, he could tell the cops were on their way, which meant that the Human Torch was about to offer Peter a ride home. 

“I’ll walk,” Peter told him. 

“We’re in New Jersey.”

New Jersey, really? Had the ride been that long? Peter had been so busy fuming over his bad luck that he hadn’t paid much attention to where they were going or how long they drove. Still…

“It’ll be good exercise.”

Without asking permission, Johnny scooped Peter into his arms bridal style. “Just shut up and hold on, Parker.”

Peter wanted to say that he stubbornly kept his arms at his sides, but the truth was that he did not trust the Human Torch not to drop him. His hands were clasped tightly behind Johnny’s neck the entire ride; the last of Peter’s dignity struggled to remain intact. 

An hour later, Johnny touched down outside of Peter’s apartment building. He flashed a blinding smile at Peter. “Enjoy the ride?”

Peter narrowed his eyes and refused to respond, instead stomping all the way up to his apartment. He could practically hear Aunt May’s voice in his head telling him he was being childish, but it felt good to regain a little bit of control over the situation. 

He should have known it wouldn’t last, though. Just like all the other times he’d been kidnapped for Johnny’s ransom, there was a knock at the window not five minutes later. A glance to his right confirmed his suspicions: the Human Torch, his lower body ablaze, was hovering outside his window, a bouquet of flowers in his outstretched hand. 

Aunt May hadn’t raised an animal, so Peter went over and opened the window. 

“I know we go over this every time I get kidnapped,” he said, brow arched, “but the whole bringing me flowers thing doesn’t help the dating rumors.”

His complaint was met with a not-so-innocent shrug. “How else am I supposed to say ‘Sorry you were put in a life-threatening situation because people think we’re dating?’”

“Just like that,” Peter said firmly, but he took the flowers anyway. Red roses. What an asshole. “Go away before you’re caught on camera.” Again , he thought privately. 

But because Johnny Storm could never let anyone else have the last word, he winked and blew Peter a kiss before rocketing away. Peter was left leaning out of the window, face pink with indignation, clutching a massive bouquet of roses. 

It was also the face that greeted Peter the next morning when he looked at his notifications. A very lovesick expression, or so the rest of the world thought. Peter spent the rest of the morning fantasizing different ways to strangle Johnny and trying to convince Aunt May that he absolutely should not bring the Human Torch over for lunch.

… 

If Peter were a lesser man, Johnny would be a dead man by now. 

It had been a beautiful day—Peter hadn’t been nabbed from the streets in a solid week , the sun was shining, the weather was pleasantly cool, and he’d just sold some spectacular pictures to Jameson and received a little extra cash. Life was good. 

Until, of course, the black van pulled up beside him. Really, Peter thought sourly, it was like the criminal population of New York got all their best tricks from really old detective dramas. 

“Just once,” he informed the guy in a low-brim hat and trenchcoat stalking towards him, “I’d like to be kidnapped by someone with a little creativity.”

Trenchcoat Guy only faltered slightly before plunging the needle into Peter’s neck. The drugs weren’t meant for an enhanced individual, so Peter resigned himself to another day of playing Helpless Civilian. As he pretended to pass out he deliberately slurred his words: “‘M not Johnny’s boyfr’d.” It was important to him that this point got across. 

Trenchcoat Guy just dragged him to the van. Peter wondered why he even bothered anymore. 

This time, Peter was taken to an abandoned factory, thankfully still in the state. Trenchcoat Guy and his two lackeys tied him tightly to a chair—again with the creativity—except Peter could hear some fumbling with equipment after they’d finished. His chin on his chest (he wished he had a better idea of how long the drugs they’d given him were supposed to last), Peter listened intently. There was a small beep, and then he felt someone’s hand on his head. 

A camera, Peter guessed. Well, it made things a little more interesting, at least. 

“Johnny Storm.” The man behind Peter spoke loudly and confidently, like he thought he had the upper hand. Peter wondered if it was Trenchcoat Guy, and if it was, if he’d taken off the coat for this little video. He hoped not. “We have Peter Parker. He’s unharmed—for now. If you want to ensure his safety, you’ll follow these instructions.”

Peter wanted to roll his eyes, but he had just enough sense to realize that his little act would be up if he did. When Maybe-Trenchcoat-Guy demanded a million in cash, restraining an eyeroll was even harder for Peter, but he managed. Barely. 

When the camera was shut off, Peter deemed it an appropriate time to pretend like the drugs were wearing off. He groaned, squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut, blinked blearily, made a show of tugging at his restraints. “Who’re you?” he asked, trying to hit a convincing low tone. “What do you want?”

Trenchcoat Guy—without the trenchcoat, Peter realized with some disappointment—grinned at him. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. If your boyfriend cares as much as we think he does, you’ll be out of here in no time. What do you think, are you worth a million bucks to him?”

The answer to that question was a firm no. Peter was fairly certain that no one, other than his aunt, thought he was worth more than, say, twenty. “I think the whole ‘kidnapping for ransom’ thing is a little overdone,” he said instead. “And anyway, what’s up with everyone going after the Human Torch lately? Most of his enemies are intergalactic.”

“What, you mean go local?” Trenchcoat Guy frowned. “Like Spider-Man? We can’t ask him for money, the guy’s completely broke.”

Well. He hadn’t realized all the greaseballs in New York could tell so easily. Was it the costume? It was probably the costume. He couldn’t afford a tailor, so some of the more recent patchups had been… interesting. 

“I’m just saying,” Peter continued, because he really liked digging himself deeper holes to die in, “that killing Spider-Man is probably more news-worthy. Jameson might even pay you for your service to the city.” Peter… Peter really missed the action. And despised getting kidnapped. 

“Nah, we don’t kill,” Trenchcoat Guy told him. Then he looked at Peter and frowned. “I know you’re the photographer for Jameson—what, you need a cut of the dough? Boyfriend won’t help you out? Suppose I could send you a couple twenties.”

Forty dollars out of a million? Peter would take it. “Sure,” he agreed. “Maybe—maybe hold a knife to my throat, really sell the idea when he gets here—”

Trenchcoat Guy looked alarmed—concerned, even—but before he could ask if Peter needed counselling (or retract his offer), a voice interrupted. 

“You know, I’m starting to get a little concerned about how eager you are to conspire with your kidnappers, Pete.”

Johnny Storm, arriving in the nick of time once again to save the day. Peter sighed heavily as Trenchcoat Guy and his two lackeys shouted and tried to fight back. Another business deal ruined. He gave Torch the stinkeye until the kidnappers were subdued. 

Johnny’s blue eyes were dancing with an emotion Peter couldn’t name as he walked slowly over to Peter. “You… you’re really something, Parker, you know that?”

“I’ve been told I’m special,” Peter quipped, and then he tugged at the ropes on his wrists. “Mind helping a fellow out?”

Johnny made quick work of the knots. Peter rubbed his wrists for show, eyeing the other man with thinly-veiled suspicion. “I can—”

“Too late!” The Human Torch cheerfully scooped Peter into his arms before he could finish his protest, and then they were flying above the city. Peter’s arms were wrapped tightly around Johnny’s neck; he could feel the heat from the flames covering the lower half of Johnny’s body on his forearms. 

It wasn’t that Peter feared heights; far from it, in fact. Swinging through the city and dancing with gravity were some of his favorite pastimes. No, the problem was that, in this situation, Peter didn’t have any control. If Johnny dropped him… he hoped he could find a building to aim a web at. 

This wasn’t his first time flying with Johnny, but this time, Peter leaned his head out to look around. Far below them, the city passed in a blur. They were above the clouds, hidden from all cameras. The knowledge made some part of Peter relax, and he tilted his head towards the sky. The wind whipped his hair in all directions, stinging his face—it was a completely different sensation without the mask, and he barely even noticed the grin splitting across his face. 

His grip on Johnny’s neck loosened just a bit. 

Johnny dropped him off on the fire escape this time. Peter slid a little clumsily out of his arms and over the railing, but he figured his dismount wasn’t too embarrassing. He glanced at Johnny over his shoulder. 

“Thanks, Flame Brain.”

Johnny arched a brow. “Charming. Real charming, Pete.” There was no malice in the words. It was only after Johnny flew away that Peter even registered the nickname. 

… 

There were, admittedly, some things that Peter Parker could improve upon. 

He should call Aunt May more. Take out the trash more often. Eat more than Chinese takeout five days a week. Probably stop torturing his villains with bad puns—he could work harder on his material, but he never did. 

However, he didn’t think any of his flaws warranted this: dangling upside down by his ankles over a vat of… something green that was alarmingly neon. 

Well, he’d asked for more creativity, hadn’t he? He should also work on jinxing himself less. 

It was beginning to dawn on Peter that this whole “kidnap Johnny Storm’s boyfriend” business could actually be dangerous. It had been annoying before, sure, but he was Spider-Man—he’d never considered himself to be in much danger. He knew how to handle a hostage situation. 

This, though—his kidnappers weren’t looking for a quick buck. They wanted Reed Richards’ cooperation to build some doomsday device, and they’d grabbed the only person close to the Fantastic Four that regularly walked the streets—or so they thought. 

Peter knew he wasn’t worth a million bucks to Johnny, but he doubted he was even worth two to Reed Richards. His chances weren’t looking great. 

His captors were a few feet away. There were about ten of them that he could see, and they weren’t wearing trenchcoats. They were dressed all in black, head to toe; he couldn’t make out any distinguishing features. He suspected that they had used some sort of image distorter to hide in the crowds when they’d nabbed him from the streets, so the cameras in the area wouldn’t exactly help Johnny figure out his location. 

He cringed at the realization that he… might actually need saving this time. He was chained pretty tightly, and he was close enough to the vat of poisonous goo that he didn’t want to risk falling even an inch. 

Most people didn’t survive radiation exposure a first time. He didn’t want to test his luck with a second—the fumes were already making him lightheaded. 

Peter craned his neck to the right, trying to catch the eye of the nearest person guarding him. “Hey,” he hissed. “ Hey. ”

Their head tilted just a little in Peter’s direction, face covered by a black mask and creepy white eyes. He hoped the Spider-Man mask wasn’t nearly as disturbing, but pushed the thought down for the time being. 

“I’m not actually the Human Torch’s boyfriend,” he told them. “It’s just the media blowing things out of proportion. His family hired me once to take pictures for a magazine, he wanted to see them before I left—his sister had already given her stamp of approval, so I’m not sure why it mattered that much—and the paparazzi snapped a picture and wrote a fake headline. That’s the truth. So, you kinda kidnapped the wrong guy.”

Mx. Mask, as Peter had decided to call this particular captor, just stared at him for several long moments. Eventually, they opened their mouth and spoke, a modulator distorting their voice: “Shut up.”

Well. He’d been hoping for a little more than that, admittedly. 

“I’m not kidding,” Peter tried again. “This is a waste of everyone’s time—and if I’m being honest, the blood’s kind of rushing to my head—”

Two seconds later, there was a gag placed firmly over his mouth. When he tried to communicate using only complicated eyerolls, a blindfold quickly followed. 

Peter wasn’t the best at judging the passage of time, but he’d guess that it took another hour before he heard any sort of commotion. His head was pounding from being upside down for so long, but he pushed through the pain and listened closely to see where the sound was coming from. His enhanced senses were able to pick up voices—voices Peter recognized . 

The Fantastic Four had arrived. 

His kidnappers acted quickly. There were gunshots and shouting; Peter’s muscles tensed, and he struggled to keep himself from ripping out of the chains. If he fell even a little bit, he would compromise himself—not to mention give away a secret he’d spent ten years protecting. He needed to trust the others to get him out. 

Now it was just a waiting game. He decided very quickly that he hated it—but maybe he’d just gotten used to only relying on himself. It was a lonely thought, and Peter wished he hadn’t had it while dangling over some unknown substance, waiting for Johnny Storm to come save him. 

“I gotcha, Parker.”

The gravelly voice ripped Peter from his thoughts, and big, rough hands suddenly grabbed him around the chest. He nearly panicked before placing the voice: Ben Grimm. A flash of disappointment sparked in his chest, but he pushed it away. He could try and analyze that later. 

The Thing crushed the chains suspending Peter and pulled him to safety. It should have been disorienting with the blindfold, but Peter was so used to flipping through the city that he took the change in stride. He found his feet easily and shimmied out of the rest of the chains. As soon as his hands were free, he pulled the gag out. 

“You know,” he called to Ben over the sounds of the battle, his fingers working at the knotted blindfold, “Johnny’s a lot quippier when he nabs me back. Your entrance was particularly lackluster.” He pulled the blindfold off, then blinked as his words washed over him. He looked up, wide-eyed, at a surprised Thing. 

“I hate that I just said that,” Peter told him. “Please, please let’s pretend I never said that. It’s the blood rushing to my head.”

A huge smile broke over the Thing’s face as he clapped Peter on the back; his knees buckled. “Whatever you say, lover boy. I’ll get you to your beau in just a minute.”

Peter felt his face get hot. He wanted to protest Ben Grimm’s words, but he couldn’t deny that he’d sounded… horribly obsessed with Johnny. Honestly, what had possessed him—why had he envisioned Johnny removing those chains—

“Miss me, baby?” 

Overhead, the Human Torch was shooting balls of flame at the kidnappers. Ben’s solid form was enough to shield Peter from most of the bullets fired their way, and Johnny was very efficient in taking out the rest. Across the room, Reed Richards and Susan Storm were making quick work of the others. Reed was stretched around several struggling figures, and Sue’s force fields trapped many more. Ben, still shielding Peter, raised his giant fists and clobbered anyone who came close. 

Well, it must be nice to be part of a team. There was a brief moment where Peter let himself wish that he had that—someone to watch his six. Someone to share the workload with.

Then he shook his head and reminded himself that all of his relationships had ended up in flames. 

Speaking of. “You wish, Torchie,” he called up to Johnny. “Mind wrapping this up? I was on my way to this great taco place when they nabbed me—”

Even through the flames, Peter could see the dazzling smile Johnny sent his way. When he landed—leaving the cleanup to the rest of the Four—and retracted his fire, though, Peter could see the worry in his bright blue eyes. “Really, though, Parker… they didn’t hurt you?”

A flippant comment was on the tip of his tongue, but something made Peter swallow it. He wouldn’t make fun of Johnny for being worried. Hell, it’d been a close enough call that he’d been doubting his chances. And he knew about his superpowers.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “They’ll have to try harder than that to knock a New Yorker down.” A weak retort, maybe, but it eased some of the tension in Johnny’s shoulders anyway. 

Johnny grinned at him, something clouding his features very briefly—relief, Peter thought. Then he was clapping Peter on the back and saying something that Peter didn’t pay much attention to, his head still reeling from the close call. It was fine, though. Johnny was probably just flirting again. He tended to do that after kidnappings. 

“Seriously, Pete, what’s a guy like me gotta do to keep a guy like you safe?”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “Stop buying me flowers,” he said without thinking, and he flushed horribly when the Invisible Woman jerked her head around to stare at him in surprise. Her eyes flickered between him and her brother, and Peter decided he wanted to be home. “Well, if that’s all, Torch—”

“Say no more!” Arms wrapped around Peter, and before he could protest, Johnny Storm was rocketing them into the night sky. Peter complained loudly, but he was secretly glad of the warmth Johnny provided; it would have been a very cold walk to the train, or, God forbid, a taxi. 

And there was a small part of Peter—a very small part—that sort of liked the view. 

When Johnny finally set him down on the fire escape, Peter was… beat. He hadn’t realized it before, but the events of the last few weeks were catching up to him. He suppressed a yawn and raised a hand to Johnny, half in thanks, half in farewell, and turned to go inside. 

Johnny caught his hand. 

Feeling much more awake, Peter turned back around. Johnny was clutching the railing with the hand that wasn’t gripping Peter’s, and there was a hesitance in his eyes that Peter didn’t think he’d seen in the other man’s face before. More surprising than that, though, was the light pink dusting his cheeks and nose. 

It was a soft color, Peter thought, like pastel. It was the opposite of the bright, vibrant Johnny Storm he was used to, and maybe that was why Peter stayed rooted to the ground. 

For a few moments, all they did was stare at each other. The bright city lights both illuminated Johnny’s face and cast it in shadow, and Peter felt frustrated that he couldn’t read whatever expression the other man was wearing. Still, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t pull away. There was a tension between them that Peter wasn’t brave enough—or, maybe, stupid enough—to break. 

Finally, there was a tightening around his fingers. “Seriously,” Johnny started, hoarsely, “what’s a guy like me gotta do to keep a guy like you safe?”

Oh. Oh. Peter swallowed, at a loss. “I can take care of myself,” is what he settled on. It wasn’t chastising; it was a reminder. “Believe it or not, I’m a tough guy.”

“Well, yeah.” Johnny shook his head, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “I mean, you were nearly a radioactive popsicle” —Peter choked on his laugh— “and you’re not even shaken.”

He was shaking, trembling , but not for the reasons Johnny probably thought he should be. There was a voice in the back of his mind telling him to just leave—shrug, smile, and throw himself into his apartment. Run from the conversation, because this was… this wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a show for the paparazzi. This was more real than anything else in Peter’s life so far. 

He pulled his hand away and stuffed it in his pocket. “Tough as nails, remember?” he said, pretending like he didn’t see Johnny’s eyes flash. It shouldn’t have made his chest hurt like it did. He looked away. “Don’t sweat it. Not the worst night I’ve ever had, if you’ll believe it.”

“Domestic terrorists are nothing compared to working for Jameson?” Johnny’s quip wasn’t as upbeat as usual, but Peter pounced on it anyway. This—this was familiar territory. 

“You guessed it, hot stuff. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s getting a bit nippy out here.” He rubbed his hands up and down his arms for emphasis, but Johnny got the hint. Flames erupted around the lower half of his body and the majority of his torso. 

He gave a quick nod to Peter. “Try not to get kidnapped again. You realize you can run away from them, right?” 

Peter ran his hands through his hair and shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t have a good answer to that, but he wasn’t about to admit it to Johnny. “Yeah, well, where’s the fun in that?”

A small huff escaped Johnny’s lips; Peter thought he saw sparks dancing along the tips of Johnny’s hair. “You… you’re the strangest guy I’ve ever met.”

He didn’t know the half of it. Peter raised his brows. “Flattery will get you nowhere.” Then he cleared his throat, remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying talking to the Human Torch on his fire escape at midnight. “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”

“Yeah.” Johnny rose a few inches into the air. “I hope so, Parker.”

He rocketed into the night before Peter could think of a response. 

…

The next night belonged to Spider-Man. 

Really, it had been too long since Peter went out, but the recent weeks had been quiet. The most exciting things to happen were his kidnappings—and that wasn’t the kind of action he was looking for. No, Peter needed to be back out in his city, doing what he did best. 

If he did a few unnecessary stunts while he swung through the air, then, well, he’d blame it on his restlessness of the last few weeks. 

The next few hours of the night revitalized Peter in a way nothing else did. The thrill of the chase, his momentary weightlessness when he reached the peak of an arc—he lived for it. He forgot during his busy days just how much he needed to feel alive. All his stress and confusion over Johnny Storm finally faded into the background as Spider-Man made his return. 

But it was still a quiet night. Peter swung through the city, but aside from a few attempted muggings and a botched ATM robbery, he had nothing to show for it. He called it quits around four in the morning, grabbing a bite to go from a twenty-four hour diner and settling in on a rooftop. He pulled his mask up to eat, even though the wind nipped at his face, and resigned himself to a mild case of boredom. 

His thoughts drifted to Johnny.

Peter groaned out loud, pulling his knees to his chest and dropping his head against them. The entire point of tonight was to forget, however briefly, about his last few encounters with the other man. And yet… 

Peter, eyes still shielded by his mask, glanced up across the city. From his vantage point on the rooftop, it was easy to see the Baxter Building stretching towards the sky. Peter allowed himself a moment to take it in; it truly was an impressive building, and it marked something incredible—it housed four of New York’s most beloved heroes. Peter couldn’t pretend he’d never been a little jealous of the Fantastic Four—the city loved them, Jameson wasn’t breathing down their necks, and at the end of the day, they had a family to turn to. People to unload on if the day wasn’t so great. People they could be honest with… about every part of themselves. 

A team, but a family. 

It was on a barren rooftop in the earliest hours of the morning, far above the cars and people of Queens, that Peter realized he was lonely. 

It wasn’t until another hour had passed that Peter finally drew his gaze away from the Baxter Building. His dinner had gone cold a while ago, but he found that he just didn’t have the appetite he usually did. He wrapped it back up to put in his fridge—breakfast, or maybe lunch if he’d forgotten to replenish the pantry again. 

The swing back to his apartment was uneventful, but Peter still felt bone-weary as he sluggishly changed out of his suit and into a too-big T-shirt, then fell into bed. He slipped his hands underneath his pillow, relishing the feel of the cool sheets, and buried his face in it. The bed still felt too big.

Peter turned his head to the side just enough to eye his phone. It was on the nightstand in all its cracked-screen glory, and Peter planned on going straight to sleep, but something made him grab it. The next thing he knew, he’d sent a text to May: Do you mind if I come over for dinner tomorrow night?

He’d been neglecting his family too much recently. His heart a little less heavy, Peter closed his eyes and rested.

…

As he’d suspected, when Peter woke a few hours later there was an enthusiastic answer from Aunt May. He let himself feel guilty for a moment; he needed to make more of an effort to call her, but it had been ages since he’d visited. May shouldn’t have been second priority to Spider-Man, and Peter resolved to do better from then on. But for now: Aunt May’s. 

Peter grabbed the least wrinkled button-down shirt he could find—a powder blue that he suspected wasn’t as charming on him as his aunt had always claimed—and threw a nice jacket over top of it. May’s place wasn’t far by train, but Peter made sure to leave extra early, knowing his luck. On a whim, he bought a bouquet of peonies to say both “I love you” and “I’m sorry.”

When he arrived on his aunt’s doorstep and the door opened before he could even knock, Peter knew the bouquet wasn’t enough of an apology. May looked so relieved to see him that Peter couldn’t stop the guilt from overwhelming him. He really needed to make more of an effort to call. 

“Peter!” May’s arms wrapped around his torso, crushing the flowers between their bodies. “I’m so glad you could make it—you’ve had me so worried , Peter.”

There was disapproval in her gaze; blue eyes slightly narrowed in scolding. Peter coughed awkwardly and rubbed at the back of his neck—a response to nervousness that May had insisted more than once he’d picked up from Ben. “Sorry, Aunt May,” he said honestly. “I know I haven’t been… the best nephew lately.”

It was the understatement of the century, but May’s gaze still softened. He really didn’t deserve her. “Oh, that’s enough of that, dear… There’s no use in wasting time on apologies. Come in, I have lunch ready.”

So Peter followed her inside. His childhood home hadn’t changed much since he moved out; the hall was decorated with the same pictures, the same floorboards creaked, Ben’s coat still hung on the rack, waiting for him to shrug it on before heading out to work—as it had done for a decade, now. 

He’d loved that worn coat so much that neither May nor Peter had had the heart to suggest getting rid of it. 

Peter’s eyes lingered on it for just a moment, as they always did, before he headed into the kitchen to grab a vase for the slightly worse-for-wear flowers. As he filled it with water, he glanced into the living room. There was a new quilt draped over the couch, he noticed. Otherwise, it was like he’d never left. 

After setting the vase down in the hall, Peter returned to the kitchen table, where May was laying out a casserole that smelled magnificent . He was looking forward to the luxury that was home cooked food—his diet consisted mainly of cheap takeout. He dug in eagerly, compliments to May slipping out in between bites. She was amused by him, if the crinkling of her eyes was any indication, so he supposed he hadn’t screwed up too badly. 

Of course, he should have been prepared for her interrogation. May was nothing if not skilled at revenge. 

“I saw you next to that Johnny Storm boy in a magazine the other day,” she said casually, and Peter choked on his casserole. 

“Right,” he replied once he’d finished coughing, face still red—from the lack of air, obviously. “Yes, that’s… that’s been happening lately. It’s all just speculation, May—the papers like to make a story out of him, you know, and I happened to get caught in a shot.”

“You should invite him to dinner,” she mused, completely ignoring his previous statement. “He seems like a very nice young man—never mind some of the more… distasteful stories about him—and it seems like he’s quite taken with you.” 

She quirked her brow in a way that made Peter certain she could see right through him. He cleared his throat and looked around, desperate for a distraction, but was unsuccessful in finding one. He took a sip of the coffee May had prepared, wincing when he realized there was just a little too much sugar, and tried to ignore his reddening face. 

“I don’t know that he’s taken with me, Aunt May,” Peter muttered. “It’s sort of his job to save my a—me.”

May straightened up, and Peter realized belatedly that he’d been avoiding the tabloid articles—they might not have mentioned kidnappings, just speculated about his relationship with Johnny. Aunt May might not have had any ideas about the dangers he’d faced… until now. 

“What do you mean?”

He tried to play it off. He grinned. “Let’s just say… I’m sick of people trying to shoot me, run me over, or blow me up.”

Smooth, Parker. 

Aunt May’s eyes were wide with alarm. Peter anxiously reached across the table and grabbed her hands. “Kidding! Kidding, May. Aunt May, Aunt May… I wasn’t run over or blown up. Promise. It was a bad joke, I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hands and heaved out a sigh. “I just didn’t want you to worry. The truth is, ever since that first paparazzi photo, some of the… rougher folks in the neighborhood have gotten the wrong idea about me and the Human Torch. But…” He swallowed his pride. “Johnny Storm’s always flown in and saved me just in time. I’ve never been hurt, May.”

Silence followed his words as May digested what he’d said. His aunt wasn’t stupid; she was well aware of the dangers in the city—knew them firsthand—and the repeated kidnapping of her nephew would hardly put her mind at rest, whether he had a superpowered guardian or not. Peter knew that flashes of an armed robbery would be flitting through her mind—a gunshot, a scream, a family ruined. 

Sometimes, Peter was amazed she’d ever let him out of the house after that. They were both fully aware that they were the only family they had left. 

May hummed in thought, her gaze stuck on their intertwined hands. There was sadness in her expression, but resignation, too—like she wasn’t really surprised by what he was telling her. He knew her well enough to know that he’d scared her, more than she was letting on. He hated scaring her—hated disappointing her. 

“You know I love you,” he tacked on belatedly, desperately, “right? I love you so much, May.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped her, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. His aunt looked at him fondly—though the sadness wasn’t completely void of her expression—and she patted his hand. “I know. I love you too, Peter. And I know I can’t stop you—I just fear…” She trailed off, but her words were enough to make Peter’s chest constrict with guilt. “I just want some peace and quiet. But you’re like Ben—nothing’s quiet with the Parker men around.” 

She was talking to herself now, lost in the land of before . When Ben ran off in the night with a whisper about duty and a kiss to May and Peter and a badge on his chest. “But then, quiet is boring after a while—and this old bird has some life in her, still.” She smiled bravely at Peter, and he was caught up again in amazement of her. 

“I promise,” he said, “that I’ll try not to get kidnapped again.”

She actually snorted at him. “Dear, you want to be wrapped up in this. Or…” A mischievous glint sparked in her eye, and she released his hands to grab a magazine off of the table behind her. She slid it over to him. “Wrapped up in this .”

On the cover was Peter in Johnny’s arms, clutching him like he was hanging on for dear life. WHIRLWIND ROMANCE: JOHNNY STORM AND HIS NEW LOVE was splashed across the top. 

He was mortified. “Aunt May ,” he protested. “This—this isn’t—we’re not!”

She just raised her eyebrows at him, amusement apparent. “Don’t try and fool me, Peter, I raised you. Not once in this whole conversation have you tried to tell me you don’t care for this boy.” She paused, then reached out to pinch his cheek as she went in for the kill. “Not that I blame you, dear. If I was twenty years younger—”

“May!”

…

As the days grew colder, the kidnapping attempts became less frequent. Peter supposed that even criminals didn’t want to be out longer than necessary. Of course, that suited him just fine. He was more than happy with the change of pace. 

Patrols picked up again. Jameson, in a strange bout of festivity, gave him a little extra for his pictures. May sent him a new coat—one that actually kept him warm when he ventured outside of his apartment. It put Peter in an oddly good mood, considering he normally spent the winter bundled under blankets and cursing anyone with good cheer. 

He should have known it couldn’t last. 

It happened so quickly. One moment, Peter was walking through the streets, breathing in the aroma of the hot chocolate he’d treated himself to without a care in the world, and the next he realized that the figure in the black coat was following him. 

His spidey sense was going off insistently, and Peter had the unsettling feeling that whoever this person was, they were much more sinister than his previous kidnappers. He didn’t want to be nabbed by this one. 

So he started running. He raced—at a human pace—through the streets, pushing through crowds and racing across cars in the way only a true New Yorker could. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t lose his tail—and Peter was fairly sure a taxi had clipped their leg without slowing them down. His heart skipped a beat, and he took another sharp turn—then another—then another—slipping on ice and partially blinded by snow.

His tail was gaining. Peter found himself in Central Park— in Central goddamn Park . There were too many people around. In an effort to dodge a little girl who’d darted in his path, he lost his footing and nearly tripped, regaining it—

Only to trip on his own shoelaces and go sprawling to the ground. Parker Luck strikes again, he thought as he spat out a mouthful of dirty snow. He tried to scramble to his feet, but he’d wasted time; a strong, freezing hand grabbed him by the collar and wrenched him upwards. Peter gagged as the fabric of his coat tightened around his neck, trying in vain to get his legs under him. His gloveless hands, red from the cold, tried to pry the hand away from his throat. His fingers connected with something hard, something metallic , and then the pieces fell into place. 

Heart in his throat, Peter raised his gaze to find Victor von Doom giving him a cold glare from beneath his hood. Spider-Man had fought with Doctor Doom on a few occasions, but Peter Parker had never come face-to-face with a supervillain. He was frozen with indecision, doubt—fear. Far in the back of his mind, though, uncertainty tried to get his attention. Why would Doctor Doom—arguably the Fantastic Four’s most formidable villain—bother with Peter Parker? And give chase on foot when he had all that technology at his disposal? 

Doom tightened his grip on his collar, and then Peter’s question was answered. There was a ripple as the metal on Doom’s face warped, and then Peter was staring into a ridged green face: a Skrull. 

Around them, a crowd had gathered. New Yorkers and tourists with their cameras out, recording—maybe livestreaming—the event. Skrull Doom sneered at him. 

“This is the human that the Fantastic Four protect?” he rasped. “Pathetic.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, his voice choked. “So you should probably just let me go.”

The alien ignored him, and Peter wracked his brain for information on the Skrulls, maybe a weakness he could exploit as his civilian self. Nothing was coming to mind, though, and it was getting difficult to concentrate with his airway compromised. 

“You will serve a great purpose,” the Skrull told him, like it was an honor to have his windpipe crushed. “When I kill you, the Fantastic Four will leave their building unattended. They will come for Doctor Doom, and then the Skrulls will take over the Baxter Building! This planet will be ours!”

Peter wanted to tell him that Reed Richards actually wasn’t the supreme ruler of Earth and that trashing Reed’s home wouldn’t mean anything, but his attempt at speaking was garbled. He could only watch as the Skrull stole Doom’s face once more and straightened up, bearing his metal face and addressing the crowd. 

“Tell the Fantastic Four,” he said, hauling Peter up by his neck, “that I, Doctor Doom, will take everything they hold dear—starting with this one!”

And he threw Peter backwards into the lake. 

Even though it was winter, the lake was far from frozen over; Peter instantly broke through the thin layer of ice that had managed to form on the surface, and the freezing water immediately knocked the remaining breath from his lungs. In the next instant, pain—it overwhelmed him, breaking any focus he might have had. He thrashed in the water, trying to orient himself, but it was no use—the cold burned, burned so much that Peter was certain he was fire, and his lungs were aching, shrivelling, collapsing—it was dark—was he sinking or floating—?

And then he was being pulled. Hands gripping his ankle, then his wrist, and then his head was breaking the surface. 

Peter retched, gagged, coughed, but at the same time was trying desperately to inhale. He sputtered a few times, shaking violently. He was dimly aware that the park was mostly empty now, and he caught a glimpse of the Skrull incapacitated through his streaming eyes. Someone was pulling Peter onto the snow, and he was too exhausted to do anything but let them. He concentrated on breathing, still desperate for air. 

Eventually, he became aware enough to realize someone was speaking to him. 

“—ker? Peter Parker? Reed, is he—is he—”

“Alive,” Peter croaked, and then hands were on his shoulders. He blinked, unfocused, until he could make out Johnny Storm’s very worried face. Warmth radiated from Johnny’s hands, and Peter couldn’t stop the hum from escaping him; he wanted to sink into that warmth. He was beyond cold. Was he still shaking?

Then Reed Richards’ face came into view, and wow, Peter wished he was more coherent for this. 

“I like your brain,” he told Reed. 

Johnny’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

Reed, thankfully, just smiled at Peter indulgently and told Johnny to take him to the Baxter Building. Johnny gathered him in his arms; Peter curled into the heat and didn’t bother being embarrassed about it. Maybe there would be another picture of this on a magazine cover. He hoped Aunt May wouldn’t see it too soon. 

And then Peter remembered something. “Skrulls,” he muttered. “He… he wanted—”

“We got them,” Johnny answered. His voice was raised slightly; they were flying so quickly through the city and the rush filled Peter's ears. Like the water. But he wasn’t going to think about the water. 

Peter tried to come up with a response, but they reached the Baxter Building before he thought of one. Johnny wasted no time in placing Peter on something soft—a mattress or couch, Peter thought—and then Johnny’s hands were on his coat. 

“I think it’s about time you got out of those clothes,” Johnny muttered as his fingers worked the buttons. Were his hands trembling? It might have been Peter’s imagination. “We have to get you warmed up. Sue’s turned up the heat already; she’ll bring dry clothes…”

“My coat,” Peter blurted out. His brain was too waterlogged to make sense of all his very complicated emotions, or really follow what was happening, but May came into his mind suddenly and insistently. “My a-aunt just got it for me—sh-she’ll be upset if I r-ruined it alread-already.”

“Okay,” Johnny said. He sounded distressed. “Okay. We have to take it slow, okay? Peter?”

“S-slowly,” Peter agreed. He was really shivering now, which he vaguely remembered was a good sign. “Blank-blankets.”

After nodding, Johnny helped Peter strip out of his wet clothes. Peter’s limbs were slow and clumsy from the cold, so he was secretly glad for the other man’s help. Once Peter had pulled on the dry clothes Sue brought in, Johnny got to work wrapping Peter in the blankets she’d had the foresight to bring too. Peter was… beyond exhausted. Still, as he slowly warmed up, the fogginess in his brain cleared away. He became much more aware of his surroundings—like Johnny’s hand, supercharged with heat, combing through his hair and evaporating the water still clinging to it. 

After a few minutes, Peter turned his head so he could look Johnny in the eyes. The other man was strangely subdued, a worried crease on his forehead as he gazed down at Peter. A warm feeling blossomed in Peter’s chest—yearning, perhaps. 

Whatever it was, he pushed it aside; it was something to ponder later. “What happened?” 

Johnny’s eyes flickered over to him. “Oh, uh…” Wordlessly, Johnny took his phone from his pocket and handed it to Peter, a video already pulled up. Keeping as much of his body under the blankets as possible, Peter hit replay. 

The footage wasn’t the best quality—the camera kept shaking, like someone was trying to balance multiple things in their hands as they filmed—but he could clearly see himself in front of a lake in the Skrull’s hold. He watched as the Skrull leaned in towards his face, then sent the message to the Four… and then throw Peter into the water. 

Peter shivered involuntarily as he remembered how he’d nearly drowned. His mouth grew dry; as the video went on, he could hear people screaming in alarm, but no one was brave enough to risk crossing the supposed Doctor Doom’s path. It was minutes before Johnny, blazing, finally dove into the water. Reed entered the scene a second later, making quick work of the Skrull and the bystanders. Whoever took the footage lingered longer than most; the video ended when Johnny emerged from the water, blazing like an inferno and evaporating the water clinging to his body, with Peter’s half-conscious form in his arms. 

“I…” It was too much to process. He’d had brushes with death before as Spider-Man, but he’d never come this close to dying outside of the costume. He was a little angry with himself for not fighting back a little more, despite the witnesses at the scene. Aunt May could have seen this. She might be trying to get a hold of him right now—he was sure his phone hadn’t survived his sudden dip. 

And then there was Johnny, glowing like a thousand suns in that video and clutching Peter with an urgency he was scared to think too much about. He swallowed.

“I need to call my aunt,” he said.

…

“You know, Peter, this is twice in one month that you’ve been to visit—I think that’s a new record.”

He was back in May’s kitchen, this time bundled in multiple sweaters and knit blankets that she’d forced on him before he even walked through the door. It had only been a week since the near-drowning incident, and while Peter might normally protest her fragile treatment of him, the trembling of her hands quieted him. He couldn’t blame her in the slightest; his chest still tightened a little when he walked near water. 

He’d visited at her insistence; even though she’d been calling to check on him every night, he knew it did nothing to assuage her worry. He winced at her gentle chastising. “Sorry, May. I’ll try to come around more,” he promised. 

He was on edge, but it had nothing to do with his aunt. His eyes darted towards the other guest at the table. 

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Parker. I’ll make sure he comes by before New Year’s.” Johnny Storm grinned at them both, and Peter mentally sighed. 

It was all over once he’d called May from Johnny’s phone and she saved his number. The second she invited Johnny to dinner, Peter knew he was a goner. It was just like his aunt to enlist a superhero celebrity in keeping Peter in line. 

I’m happy to be alive , Peter reminded himself. I can survive the next two hours . 

It would, undoubtedly, be the toughest battle he’d yet to face, but he could do it. Probably.

May beamed at Johnny, and Peter sank a little deeper into his seat. “Thank you, dear. You know, I worry about him all alone in his apartment—”

“I’m fine, May,” Peter interrupted, a blush taking over his features. “Really, I’ve told you, you don’t need to worry about me—”

“—and it would be lovely if someone would just check on him every once in a while. Since he won’t even let me know he’s alive. Or tell me he’s been kidnapped by men in masks more than once .” Here, she leveled Peter with a sharp glare and a perfectly arched brow. 

Feeling fifteen again, he hunched his shoulders sheepishly. “I… admit that was not my best moment, Aunt May.” She continued to glare. “Or… week. Month? Months.”

Finally, a small huff of laughter escaped her. She stood up and walked over to Peter, scooping up his plate with one hand and running her other through his thick mop of curls. He was almost embarrassed that Johnny was witnessing this display of motherly affection, but he’d figured out in his late teens that May just wanted him close in a way he couldn’t be anymore, and, well—who was he to deny her this? Besides, when he glanced over at Johnny, there was something almost wistful about his expression. 

“That’s really my fault, Mrs. Parker. They, uh, nabbed him to get at me and my family.” Johnny rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, sparks dancing over the tips of his hair. “I’m really sorry—”

“Oh, dear, don’t you start. I’m glad Peter has more people in his life—he needs them. You’ll stop by, won’t you?”

Johnny and Peter’s eyes met across the table. May moved to fill Peter’s plate once more—it would be his third helping—but Peter made no move to stop her, strangely invested in hearing Johnny’s answer. 

“Yeah,” the other man said after a beat, not breaking eye contact with Peter. “If he’ll have me.”

This, Peter remembered, was why he wore a mask; he was a coward without it. Face to face with Johnny, his mouth went dry. If he’ll have me. He recalled his revelation on the rooftop and realized that, yes, a part of him… craved the company. 

“Sure,” he found himself saying. He glanced between Johnny and May. “I could use a little social interaction. Or so May seems to think,” he couldn’t help but tack on. 

A blinding grin stretched across Johnny’s face, but May leaned in front of Peter to set  his plate down and flick the side of his face before he could really get a good look. “You’re as cuddly as a cactus, Peter,” she murmured, but there was something pleased about her tone that made Peter sure he’d made the right call for once. 

After dinner, Peter volunteered to do the dishes. It was something he had in common with Ben; when they were stressed or needed to think, they washed plates. As he collected the dinnerware from the table, however, he heard his aunt whisper to Johnny as she led him into the living room: “I can tell he likes you. My Peter, he likes being kept on his toes—don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

He could hear the smile in Johnny’s response. “Yeah, well, your nephew really is something. I’ve never met anyone who can bounce back like he can. I don’t think anything scares him.”

“Oh, he scares, all right. He’s just too stubborn to show it.”

Peter snorted to himself and ran a self-conscious hand through his hair, if only to distract himself from the emotions that bubbled up at those words. He’d let May have her time with Johnny (she’d have gotten him alone at some point, and frankly, it was a miracle it’d taken her this long), but he still tried to rush the dishes so he could get back to playing damage control. But his thoughts soon slowed him down. 

Johnny and May were in the living room of his childhood home, probably chatting about him. It was—bizarre, now that he was really thinking about it. Two lives colliding, even though May and Johnny had no idea he had two lives. Peter’s eyes trailed down his arm to his wrists, bare where he’d pushed up his sleeves: his web shooters glinted guiltily. A secret only he held—a burden only he bore. He’d tried to share it once, but Gwen—

The water scalded him, and he shut it off, hands shaking. She haunted him just as much as Ben, but she still managed to take him by surprise. He pressed his fingers to his lips and closed his eyes, trying to let the memories run their course; he knew, logically, that this was not indicative of how worthy he was of loneliness. That what had happened to Gwen was a tragedy, and that she would want him to be happy again. It was a conversation he’d had once with May, and one he’d had many times with the therapist she’d paid for him to see the first few months after her death. Even so, Gwen always seemed to flood his memory when he was finally considering letting someone else in. Like a reminder of the worst. 

But he remembered her light. A twinkling in her eyes when she found something really funny, the shine of her smile when she had something to be proud of, the way she could light up a room—light up his world—just by being in it… 

There was a similar light in Johnny. Less subtle, less attuned to Peter specifically, but still—there. Not his powers; this light was present in the little glimpses of Johnny that Peter had seen over the past few months. It was flowers on a fire escape; it was the mischievous glint in his eyes before he blasted off with Peter in his arms; it was the relief in his voice as he bantered with Peter mid-fight; it was his glee at finding a friend in May.

It was the worry that drew his brow together as Peter lay injured in front of him, and in his gentle touch as he pulled the water from Peter’s hair. It was in these pieces of Johnny that couldn’t be found in a photo or a celebrity gossip rag or even in Johnny’s own Instagram bio. It was simply Johnny Storm, and Peter could admit that it was a light he felt drawn toward. 

Breathing in deeply, Peter lowered his hand to the counter in front of him. He gripped it tightly; not enough to crack it, of course, but enough to help ground himself. Gwen was gone, but there were people here, he reminded himself. He had May. And now… maybe he had Johnny, too.

If he’ll have me.

Yeah, Peter… Peter would have him, in whatever way he could. 

Stepping into the living room was the bravest thing he’d ever done. It was like he was seeing Johnny in a new light; as someone who would stick around, instead of someone to disappear once Peter had played his part in their life. It would take some getting used to, waiting for Johnny to come by, not just expecting him to leave. It was a change that Peter found himself looking forward to. 

His good mood dampened, however, when he saw what May had propped open on her lap. “Aunt May,” he said slowly, eyes widening, “please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

“Peter!” she greeted, her cheeks pink from what he was sure was the remnants of her laughter, most likely at his expense. “There you are. I was just showing Johnny here some of this scrapbook from when you were younger—look, this is you at the science fair. It took Ben forever to do your bowtie—”

“ Thank you , Aunt May! He’s had enough, I’m sure.” Peter rushed to grab the scrapbook from her hands, but she and Johnny were already chuckling to themselves. Peter remembered the picture, too; his six-year-old self, glasses too big for his face, grinning gap-toothed as he puffed out his chest to proudly display a blue ribbon. 

Ben, behind him, with just as proud a grin. As though he’d won himself. Peter snapped the book closed. 

“If it makes any difference,” Johnny called as Peter moved to place the book back on its shelf, “you were a pretty adorable kid.”

Peter knocked into the lampshade and scowled as it set Johnny and May off again. He half turned, one hand still steadying the lamp he’d almost sent toppling, and pointed at them both. “This,” he said, “is exactly why I didn’t invite him over before now, May. You love ganging up on me.”

May opened her mouth to deny his accusations, but Johnny beat her to it. “You’ve been wanting to invite me over?” he asked in delight. 

“Of course!” May smiled warmly at Johnny, taking his hands in hers. Peter wanted to remain disgruntled, but something about the sight warmed him. Maybe he could handle a Human Torch–Aunt May teamup. “Ever since I saw Peter in that magazine, I just knew I had to meet the boy who’d swept him off his feet. It’s the talk of my book club.”

“Well,” Johnny said, beaming brightly, “we can’t disappoint the book club .”

Yeah, Peter could learn to live with this.

“Next time you save him, dear, make sure they get a shot of you kissing his cheek. Ruth doesn’t believe the rumors, and I’m itching to prove her wrong—she told me my casserole was dry, you know.”

Or maybe not. Still, he couldn’t resist the tiny smile that crept across his face as Johnny promised he would.

…

The next time Peter saw Johnny, it was on a bus. 

Peter had been frowning at his cracked laptop screen, working on editing some of the pictures he had for Jameson—his mask had torn in a few, and although the tuft of hair showing wasn’t enough to reveal him as Peter Parker, he didn’t want to give Jameson any more clues than necessary—when someone suddenly dropped into the seat beside him and threw an arm over his shoulders. 

He jumped and slammed his laptop closed (probably cracking the screen further) before turning to see Johnny’s blue eyes dancing with mirth. Peter gaped a moment and scanned the bus. His spidey sense hadn’t alerted him to any danger, but if Johnny was here…

“Relax,” the blond told him, a blue baseball cap pulled low over his eyes—a poor attempt at a disguise, Peter realized belatedly. “You’d think an alien was about to jump your ass, or something.”

No one seemed suspicious. In fact, the one person he wanted to keep an eye on was a girl in her early years of high school that was eyeing Johnny like his name was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. He turned to the other man, disbelieving. 

“Well, that’s… that would be on-brand for us.”

After considering that a moment, Johnny tilted his head in acquiescence. “Right. But really, Pete, loosen up. I just… wanted to say hi.”

“Hi,” Peter repeated, feeling a little dumb. “Uh. How did you—”

“And to give you these,” Johnny interrupted, and he thrusted a bouquet of crumpled, slightly singed sunflowers into Peter’s startled hands. “I’m a little behind on apology flowers when it comes to kidnappings.”

Peter stared down at the flowers. So. They talked outside of threats to his life, now. Cool. “You really didn’t have to—”

“Oh! Nearly forgot.” Johnny took out his phone, pulled Peter close, and pressed his lips to Peter’s cheek. Peter felt his face go up in flames. “Gotta get May that picture to show Ruth.”

He showed Peter the picture he took, like he was waiting for a stamp of approval. Peter looked and saw his own face, slightly startled, though thankfully not yet red, and Johnny with his eyes squeezed shut and his lips pursed. The tops of the sunflowers were visible. 

“May would like that,” Peter found himself saying, and Johnny grinned and sent it off. Then he managed to convince Peter to give over his number; a moment later, Peter felt his phone vibrate, and he knew he’d received the photo, too. 

That’s when everything went downhill. 

“Oh, you’re Peter Parker!” The girl Peter had spotted earlier shrieked suddenly, pointing at him and attracting the attention of everyone on the bus. Then she turned to Johnny, eyes wide and excited. “So you’re Johnny Storm!”

“That,” Johnny whispered, “is our cue.”

Peter was already pulling the cord for the electric bell. They were racing out the doors as soon as they opened, and the girl must have posted something , because the paparazzi had somehow found them moments after they stepped onto the street. Peter kept pace with Johnny, clutching his broken laptop to his chest and internally grumbling about being recognized before the superhero next to him. 

The hot head beside him didn’t share in his bad mood; Johnny’s eyes were sparkling with the thrill of the chase, and Peter reminded himself that this was the man who raced the cars he built for fun. He even laughed when they turned a corner, and Peter felt his annoyance slipping away. 

Really, if he took away the cameras and the man beside him, it was almost like swinging. 

Eventually, they managed to lose the paparazzi. Johnny stopped in an alley, hands on his knees and breathing heavily, but he looked up at Peter with this grin . “Nothing… nothing like a morning sprint through the city, huh?”

Peter wasn’t out of breath in the least, but he leaned against a building for show. “Sure, Flamebrain,” he said. He was grinning too. “If you say so.”

Still reeling from their race, Johnny and Peter just stared at each other for a minute. Peter took the opportunity to take the Torch in, debating internally with himself—though what about, he wasn’t sure. He just felt… conflicted. 

And then his mouth was moving, and he’d come to a decision. “You know, my apartment isn’t far from here.”

And even though Johnny had certainly memorized Peter’s address by now, he acted surprised and waved a hand at Peter, the smile never leaving his eyes and that ridiculous baseball cap crooked on his head. “Lead the way.”

So Peter did. He never did this—he didn’t just invite people up , especially without desperately cleaning first—but he was strangely lacking in nerves as he tugged Johnny along by the wrist. Maybe it was because Johnny had seen him half-drowned. Maybe it was because May had already shown her approval. 

Or maybe he was just tired of hiding so much of himself. He was a slob. He could show Johnny that. 

But he still warned the other man before he unlocked the door. “It’s not much,” he said, tossing the keys up and down in his hand. “Just so you know.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “My bed isn’t solid gold, you know.”

If that was supposed to put him at ease, it failed, but Peter laughed anyway and pushed the door open. To his surprise, the apartment wasn’t that bad—there were a couple stray pizza boxes on the tiny table in the center of the room, but there didn’t seem to be any health code violations. He’d definitely lived in worse filth. 

But he had forgotten about the many, many flowers in makeshift vases he’d put on odd surfaces to try and keep them in the sun. That, however, was Johnny’s fault, so he refused to be embarrassed. At all. 

“It’s not much,” he said again, turning around to see how Johnny was receiving his living space. He was a little nervous now—he always hated waiting to be judged—but Johnny just threw himself onto the second-hand couch. 

“I like it,” he announced. “It’s very you.”

That gave Peter pause. “Messy?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. His gaze caught on a pair of underwear near his open bedroom door, and he tried to surreptitiously kick it out of view. “Plain?”

“Unapologetic,” Johnny answered, and he seemed genuine enough. “Like… you’re not trying to be anything you’re not.”

Peter looked around his apartment critically, but he thought he understood what Johnny meant. There wasn’t any modern art on the walls, he only had furniture he used regularly, and there were no fake potted plants. There were take-out containers on random surfaces and a few science textbooks he’d managed to obtain carefully arranged on a tiny bookshelf, and he had some pictures of May and Harry and MJ. A few of Gwen. 

But there was one part of his life that you couldn’t guess from his apartment alone, and he felt a little squirm of guilt as he replied, “I guess. Too many jewels in your family home? Scented bath soap? A regularly cleaned carpet?”

Johnny looked a little alarmed at that last one, and he eyed the carpet with sudden suspicion. “What’s on the carpet?”

“Eh.” Peter scrunched his face as he considered. “I clean it myself when it gets bad, but—blood, maybe.”

“Blood,” Johnny repeated. He was clearly trying to hold back a laugh, even as he shook his head in exasperation. “What’s a photographer doing bleeding all over his own carpet?”

Maybe the universe didn’t have it out for Peter, because Johnny’s phone rang at that moment and saved him from having to try and answer. 

“Oh, it’s Sue. I have to take this, do you mind?” Johnny bit his lip, and Peter ignored the way it made his stomach flip. “Last time I ignored her call, she—well, invisibility isn’t always fun.”

Peter itched for the rest of that story, but he just told Johnny to use the kitchen. And that he’d make up the couch because it was getting late and the couch wasn’t actually uncomfortable and did Johnny want to stay the night? He’d inspect the carpet for bloodstains first. 

And Johnny laughed and said he’d love that.

It was a good thing the tasks kept Peter’s hands busy, because he suddenly didn’t know what to do with them. His eyes caught one of the pictures of Gwen on the wall, and it was almost like she was looking at him knowingly. Her go on, then was practically audible. Shaking his head, Peter grabbed some spare blankets from his closet and got to work setting up the couch. He stopped halfway through to inspect the carpet, which he’d meant to do from the start, and was pleased to realize it was blood-free. He resumed his work on the couch. 

Once it was finished, however, there was nothing to distract him from the conversation he could very well hear, thanks to his super senses. 

“Yeah, Sue, I’m staying at Peter’s tonight… yeah, the photographer. Uh-huh… Well, we got recognized on the bus and I figured this was a good way to lay low, at least.”

Here, Johnny’s voice dropped slightly. Peter fluffed the pillows, trying in vain to block out the conversation while simultaneously wanting to eavesdrop. Johnny was moving around in the kitchen; pacing, maybe. His voice reached Peter’s ears once more, but a little quieter. More hesitant. 

“I get that, Sue, but what am I supposed to do? Falling in love wasn’t my plan, but here I am. And sis, he… he kept the flowers. That has to mean something , right?”

Oh. Oh . Peter’s heart was thumping wildly, and he felt—weirdly hot. Like he was floating as his stomach plummeted to the floor. Johnny loved him. 

The pieces were falling into place. Johnny excitedly agreeing to come to dinner with Peter’s aunt; Johnny afraid when Peter took an involuntary ice bath; Johnny never failing to come to his rescue, even though the Fantastic Four rarely operated on street level. The bus visit. The innocent kiss on the cheek. The many, many flowers. 

Johnny Storm had fallen in love with him sometime between the frequent kidnappings and Peter hadn’t even noticed. 

He was so occupied by his thoughts that he missed the rest of Johnny’s conversation with his sister, which was probably a good thing. His brain was already short-circuiting. 

Peter did know one thing: now that he knew Johnny loved him, his guilt at keeping his alter-ego a secret increased greatly. He didn’t think he owed Johnny the information, but Johnny loving him without actually knowing him just didn’t sit well with Peter. Like he’d be living a lie if he didn’t come clean. And hadn’t Johnny just told Peter that he liked that Peter was so honest about who he was? 

It bothered him enough that when Johnny poked his head back into the room and offered to order a pizza, Peter let him put pineapple on it. 

If he was too quiet during their informal dinner, Johnny didn’t mention it. He just ate his monstrosity of a pizza happily, shooting Peter the occasional smile. Peter tried not to stare. 

Afterward, Johnny thanked Peter for the couch bed and Peter shuffled into his bedroom, confused and worn out but wide awake. He leaned against the door as it closed with a soft click , sighing softly, and tugged at his hair with his right hand. There was one question on his mind, occupying every thought: Did he trust Johnny?

The answer didn’t really require any consideration. Peter knew instinctively—a gut feeling reminiscent of his spidey sense—that Johnny would not yell his identity from the rooftops. But still… opening up to someone, willingly giving up his most coveted secret, was unimaginable. He’d never come clean to anyone before; the few people who’d known both of his identities had come across them by accident. He didn’t know how to break the news to anyone. 

Peter shivered and pulled away from the door. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, like his inner conflict was sucking all the strength from him. Falling into bed, Peter curled onto his side and stared at the wall; sleep felt so far away. In fact, it continued to elude him until the early hours of the morning, when he fell into a fitful half-slumber that he usually only fell victim to when he’d been badly injured. Johnny never quite left his thoughts. 

When Peter woke up too early to sunlight streaming through his curtainless windows, he still hadn’t come up with a solution he was satisfied with. If he told Johnny who he really was, his identity was at risk; by extension, Aunt May was at risk. If he continued to stay quiet… how close would he and Johnny grow? How long could he justify the deception? The thought of building a relationship based on murky half-truths made his stomach squirm. 

He was so caught up in his head that he forgot Johnny might still be in the apartment. When he exited his room after changing his shirt (he’d fallen asleep in his clothes), he startled when he heard noises in the kitchen. Belatedly, he realized he could smell turkey bacon, recognizable because it was a favorite of Peter's growing up. He poked his head through the doorway, and his eyes widened when his gaze found Johnny. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” Johnny waved a spatula in Peter’s direction, dripping with what looked like pancake batter, in greeting. He was wearing a Christmas apron that Peter vaguely recognized as Gwen’s that featured a sprig of mistletoe and the words kiss the cook written beneath it. “I hope you don’t mind, but I bought some groceries and figured I’d make breakfast. You had, like, one egg in your fridge and crappy instant coffee on the counter.”

As someone who lived on crappy instant coffee, Peter took offense. He couldn’t really argue the sad state of the egg, though. “I… was planning on going out,” he said weakly. He squinted at Johnny’s sunny smile. “You’re not a morning person, are you?” he asked warily. 

“I do my best culinary work in the mornings,” Johnny replied. 

“Gross, that’s… that’s disgusting.” Peter wrinkled his nose and rubbed at his eyes. “Gah. I need that crappy instant coffee. It’s too early to… be alive.” 

Instead, Johnny picked up a nearby mug and held it out to Peter. It was filled to the brim with steaming coffee containing just a splash of cream, based on the color. Peter took it eagerly in both hands, sighing at the warmth and the way the caffeine staved off his incoming headache. 

Johnny watched him, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I stopped for actual coffee, too,” he drawled, and Peter didn’t care if he was being mocked right now—if he got an actual pot of coffee out of the deal, Johnny could stay at his apartment as long as he wanted. He told him so between sips. 

In response, Johnny steered Peter over to a chair, sat him down, and placed a plate of blueberry pancakes and turkey bacon in front of him. 

“Kosher,” Johnny promised. “Your aunt mentioned you’re both Jewish.”

Coffee and pancakes. Peter was dangerously close to falling in love. He swallowed thickly and managed to croak, “You did your research.”

Johnny shrugged and turned back to the stove. “Ben’s Jewish. I’m used to it.”

Peter stuffed a bite in his mouth so he could avoid answering, and then he was stuffing his face because it was that good . Johnny Storm could cook. Who knew? “Wow, this is—I wasn’t expecting it to be this good.”

A laugh, lighthearted and free, slipped out of Johnny. “I’m no genius like Reed, but I cook a mean meal.” He flipped a pancake to show off his point, and Peter’s heart thudded in his chest. He swallowed painfully, suddenly anxious. He recalled the words he’d heard last night: falling in love wasn’t my plan.

“You asked last night,” Peter said suddenly, his mouth moving without his permission, “why a photographer would have blood on his carpet.”

Like he could sense the atmosphere in the room changing, Johnny shut off the stove. He cocked a brow at Peter, but he seemed wary. “You don’t have to tell me,” he murmured, like he suddenly didn’t want to know. 

“I do, though.” He knew it was the truth as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Just… stay here. I’ll be right back.” He stood from the table, hands trembling, and retrieved his mask from his bedroom. The journey back to the kitchen felt like eons, and Peter tried not to feel like Johnny’s reaction determined the fate of the world. 

But it did determine the fate of his world. He could back out now. He could pretend like he’d had a momentary slip of the tongue, or that he couldn’t find what he was looking for, or proclaim that it had all been a joke and he never had blood on his carpet. He could go back to breakfast and eat those delicious pancakes and pretend that everything was fine. 

After a millisecond of hesitation, Peter handed Johnny the mask.

The Human Torch didn’t say anything for a moment. He frowned at the red fabric, turning it over in his hands, finally unfolding it to reveal the white eyes of the Spider-Man mask. And it was just Johnny and Peter in the kitchen, with Spider-Man between them.

As the silence persisted, Peter knew with a sinking feeling that the distance was too great.

“This…” Johnny drew the words out, like they were painful in his mouth. “This is…”

“Spider-Man’s.” Peter dug his nails into the palms of his hands. “I’m not… just a photographer,” he added unnecessarily. 

“I’ll say,” Johnny said through a heavy exhale. He stared into the eyes of the mask for a few more seconds before suddenly thrusting the mask back into Peter’s hands; he barely caught it. When he looked back at Johnny, there was a stiff smile on his face. “So you’re a superhero. That’s cool.”

Peter frowned. “I… guess.” He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to decide on his next words. “Listen, I just figured it was better to tell you now. Rip the bandaid off, you know?” He rubbed the back of his neck. That fake smile was still plastered on Johnny’s face, and Peter couldn’t figure out why. “You get it, right? Better now before you find out when—when there’s an alien attack, or something.”

“Yeah, totally,” Johnny said. “I totally get the superhero thing. The being in danger thing.”

“That’s… great?” It didn’t seem great. In fact, something was breaking behind Johnny’s eyes, and Peter had no idea how to fix it. What had broken?

“Yeah,” Johnny repeated. “This is cool. So, Spidey” —Peter winced; it had been so nice to hear someone other than Aunt May call him by his name— “I guess I’ll see you around in the city. I’ve got to get going—Fantastic Four stuff—you know how it is. Enjoy the food.” 

Johnny hurried to the fire escape, but he turned right before he exited. “Oh, and hey—your secret’s safe with me. I know how closely you guard your secret.” He mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key, and then he was shouting “Flame on!” and blazing out of the apartment.

That left Peter standing in his kitchen, scorch marks on his carpet and half of his heart in his white-knuckled grip.

…

He didn’t see Johnny after that. Days, then weeks went by, but Peter and the Human Torch didn’t cross paths again. Peter was kidnapped three times since that morning in his apartment; Ben Grimm came for him each time. Peter and his kidnappers got the hint after that.

The media was another story. He’d thought that they’d settle down without any photos to back up the rumors of Peter’s supposed romance; if anything, the stories increased in frequency, each wilder than the next. One morning, Peter and Johnny were having a lover’s spat. Two days later, Johnny was seeing someone on the side. The next week, Peter had been kidnapped and it was actually his clone walking around the city, Johnny consumed in a quest to find his lost lover. Today, Johnny was struggling to escape a betrothal to alien royalty and Peter was weeping in the background. 

It should have made him laugh, or furious, or both. But ever since Johnny ran out on him, Peter hadn’t really felt much of anything. 

He’d hoped that they’d run into each other as Spider-Man and the Human Torch; maybe it was Peter Parker Johnny had a problem with. But his hopes were dashed when multiple nights passed without any sign of the other hero. 

The hardest part wasn’t that Johnny was gone—it was that he hadn’t said why . Peter hadn’t recognized it in himself before, but he’d been a little excited to let another hero know who he really was; no one in their business was close to him, and he’d thought he’d finally have someone—a friend at the very least—who understood what it was like . MJ and Harry were great, but they couldn’t stitch him up when he was thrown into a car from a block away. They didn’t understand what it was like to be responsible for the lives of so many people. He couldn’t go to them and cry when he was just a little too slow to save someone. 

But Johnny clearly didn’t want to be that person. Which begged Peter’s next question: What about the revelation of Spider-Man made Peter suddenly so unappealing? Nothing about Peter had technically changed. 

Peter thought Johnny would understand that, too. 

As he always did when he needed to clear his head, Peter slipped on the suit and searched for criminals he could punch. Luckily for him, the night was far from quiet—he stopped a couple ATM robberies, saved a cat from a tree, and even foiled an attempted kidnapping. A few hours later, Peter’s ribs and hands were aching, but he was breathing easier than he had in weeks. 

He really, really should have known it wouldn’t last. 

It was approaching one in the morning when Peter’s phone started going off. He pulled it out of one of the hidden pockets in his suit as he swung, lazily swiping up and hitting one of the many news notifications. Johnny’s name dominated the headline, but that wasn’t so unusual. He nearly put his phone away when one word stood out in his peripheral: Octopus .

Peter nearly crashed into the side of a building, but he managed to maneuver out of the way at the last second. His heart beating in his throat, he hurriedly opened the article. JOHNNY STORM TAKEN BY DOCTOR OCTOPUS . 

Ice flooded Peter’s veins and choked his lungs; live video footage accompanied the headline. Peter recognized the building as an old hideout of the Enforcers’. Johnny wasn’t visible, but that didn’t matter. If Doc Ock had taken Johnny, he wanted Spider-Man’s attention. 

Well, now he had it. Peter sprung from the side of the building, shooting off a line of webbing and swinging faster than he ever had before. He relied solely on his spidey sense not to crash; he barely even registered the journey, he was so worried for Johnny. 

Fifteen minutes later, Peter reached the building. He crouched on a neighboring rooftop, frowning at the news helicopters and vans. If he was spotted, he’d lose the element of surprise. He wasn’t sure why Doc had kidnapped Johnny of all people, but he knew him well enough to know time was of the essence. Sticking to the shadows, Peter made his way over to one of the open windows—with a little help from a line of webbing and the underside of a helicopter. 

It was eerily silent inside. The lights were flickering in and out, like something out of a horror movie. Peter liked to think he wouldn’t run into a corn field if he was ever being chased by a masked figure who was a little too excited about his chainsaw, but he admitted to himself that he’d probably be the chick who investigated the door that was hanging suspiciously ajar. He was definitely dying first in any scenario, he thought as he crept through the hallways, straining his ears for a sign of Johnny. He wondered if all superheroes could identify with that archetype, or if it was just his own brand of stupidity. 

The lack of sound was incredibly unsettling, and if this was a horror movie, Peter thought there’d be a jump scare right about now. His spidey sense was buzzing in the back of his skull, unable to pinpoint the danger. Peter stretched his senses, but beyond the buzzing of the electric lights, there were no clues as to Johnny’s whereabouts. He was certain, though, that Johnny was on this floor. 

In an effort to keep the element of surprise, Peter leapt silently onto the ceiling, hanging on by his fingertips. As he approached the end of the hall, the tingling in the back of his head grew greater; he was getting close, then. He still couldn’t hear Johnny. 

When he reached the end of the hall, Peter stretched a hand out to pull the door open. It creaked softly, but Peter still tensed, waiting for some indication he’d been heard; the noise was deafening in the silence. Seconds ticked by without any other disturbance, so he considered himself in the all clear and moved ahead. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find on the other side of the door—a chained Johnny, perhaps, or a lab that was clearly concocting a deadly mixture of chemicals—but all he found was a single desk and a swivel chair. There was a potted plant in the corner, and a few pictures decorated the desk. Someone’s office, then. 

Peter paused as he took in the scene. It didn’t appear like the room had been disturbed, but something didn’t feel right. Peter dropped to the floor and walked cautiously toward the desk. With every step, his spidey sense screamed a little louder—in his experience, that was a good indicator that he was closing in on something important. 

In this case, it was Johnny Storm bound and gagged under the desk. 

Johnny’s blue eyes widened as Peter dropped to his knees. He was hyper-aware of his surroundings, just waiting for Doc Ock to make his appearance. Johnny was shaking his head insistently, but Peter took the villain-less opportunity to peel the duct tape from Johnny’s lips. 

“You have to get out of here,” Johnny hissed predictably. 

“I’ve heard that one before,” Peter murmured. Now that he could see Johnny was unharmed, the worry he’d been feeling was giving way to anger. He’d bared his soul to Johnny, and in return he’d been ghosted for weeks. He almost wished Johnny could see his scowl beneath the mask. 

“I’m serious,” Johnny insisted, completely missing the clipped tone of Peter’s voice. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Peter grabbed Johnny by the shoulders and turned him around, easy thanks to his impressive strength. “I know that you’ve gotten used to swooping in to save the day, but I am more than capable of handling this. You’re the one tied up.” He added the last part as he aggressively tugged at the ropes binding Johnny’s hands, snapping them on the first try. 

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you loud and clear—you don’t need me, you’ve never needed me.” There was a bitterness to Johnny’s voice that gave Peter pause, but before he could question it, Johnny had opened his mouth again. “But this is a trap fo you—”

“Clearly.”

“—that octopus guy is trying to catch you—”

“I know.”

“—so you need to—if you know then why did you come? ” Johnny demanded. He was standing now, rubbing his wrists and eyeing Peter like he’d grown six arms. Peter would know, because that had accidentally happened to him once. 

But he shook those memories from his head and considered how to answer Johnny. Doc Ock had obviously set a trap for him—Peter had known that from the very moment he’d seen the article. He could brush it off, say he’d willingly walked into a trap because that’s what heroes do—and that wouldn’t even be lying. He did this sort of thing all the time. But he knew, deep down, that wasn’t the reason he’d run so quickly to Johnny. 

Whether or not he was ready to admit that to someone who’d had no trouble running out of his life was another question entirely. For a moment, he seriously considered holding on to his anger and refusing to answer or giving a cheap one. But when he looked at Johnny, he saw how hunched over he was. How unsure. He saw the worry that drew his brow together. It was worry for Peter, which was infuriating because it didn’t explain why he’d tried to disappear all those weeks ago.

Peter was tired of guessing why. Maybe he should have expected their relationship to splinter; he’d lost plenty of people to Spider-Man before: Uncle Ben, Gwen. Why should Johnny have been any different?

He didn’t owe any more explanations, he told himself. He’d said his piece, and Johnny had made his own decision. But the longer Peter tried to brush off Johnny’s concern, the guiltier he felt. Finally, he let his shoulders slump. 

“The same reason you always came for me,” he answered, his voice low. He let out a hollow laugh, smiling self-deprecatingly beneath the mask. “Weren’t those traps for you? And it never stopped you from coming.” He remembered the last few kidnappings. “Well. Until recently.”

Regret flashed in Johnny’s blue eyes, and his voice wavered when he spoke. “The same reason?”

Peter might have responded, but just then his spidey sense gave a twinge of warning. He tilted his head to the side, listening carefully, and picked up the soft creak of metal arms quickly approaching. He hushed Johnny, breaking the bonds at the man’s feet and pulling him toward the door. 

“Time’s up,” he hissed. “Doc Ock is coming, we’ve got to get out of here because I really don’t feel like getting my ass kicked tonight—”

“About that.” Johnny placed a hand on Peter’s chest, effectively stopping his hasty retreat, and pulled down his collar to reveal a thin band of metal around Johnny's neck. “Power-suppressing collar. Octopus dude slapped it on me so I couldn’t burn through the restraints. I won’t be much help.”

Right. Normally Peter would just tug such a thing off, but he wouldn’t put it past his old friend to include some sort of fail safe. The last thing he wanted was to pull apart the collar and have it electrocute them both. It certainly complicated the escape plan, and there was almost no hope of sneaking past the press if they made it out without running into Doc Ock if he was also carrying New York’s most popular superhero celebrity.

Peter’s eye began to twitch. “We just need to make it to the window at the end of the hall—”

“ I was wondering when you’d get here, Spider-Man .”

Peter groaned even as he whirled around to face his foe. “Wait for me by the window,” he instructed, keeping his eyes on the villain even as he turned his head toward Johnny. “I’ll hold him off, just be ready to—hey!”

Doc Ock—very rudely in Peter’s opinion—lunged before he had finished speaking, his metal arms slicing through the air toward Peter’s face. He leapt out of the way, pushing Johnny in the direction of safety, and spun around. Doc Ock was moving again, and Peter went to counter his attack. He couldn’t spare a moment to locate Johnny, but he hoped the other man had the wits to get himself out of harm’s way and maybe call for help. 

Just a few minutes into the fight, it became clear to Peter that the doctor had come prepared to fight. His arms were made of stronger material than they were the last time the two had fought, and Doc’s movements were faster, more precise. It wasn’t long before Peter had taken a few too many blows, muscles shaking and his breathing coming out shallow. There was blood pooling in his mask, but he continued to leap around the arms as best he could. Doc Ock was spouting some nonsense about taking over the city and how Peter had met his doom—blah blah blah—and Peter took the opportunity to get a few of his own hits in. Unfortunately, they barely fazed Ock.

To make matters worse, Johnny was nowhere to be seen. Peter wished he could say with confidence that Johnny was waiting by the window, but Johnny Storm never did what he was told and Peter knew deep down that he was about to do something stupid. 

It was so frustrating, but there was also fond exasperation squeezing his chest. Peter wondered if he made Aunt May feel the same way, and he made yet another mental note to send her flowers. A lot of them.

Doc Ock was driving Peter further down the hallway. The doctor’s wild swings slammed into the walls, causing explosions of plaster, and dread began building in Peter’s stomach. They weren’t on the top floor, and if the fight compromised the structure of the building…

He had to find Johnny.

Peter shot two lines of webbing on either side of the doctor and launched himself at Ock’s head feet first. A metal arm came up to meet him, but Peter used some spider-inspired acrobatics to flip over it and kick Ock squarely in the jaw. Momentarily stunned, he stumbled back—the perfect opening for Peter to turn around and run to the exit. 

Of course, Johnny wasn’t there. Peter swore colorfully and spun around in a circle, searching, searching for a glimpse of blond hair or an idiotic face. He stuck his head out the window, hoping Johnny was standing on a ledge outside. No luck. 

Doc was thundering down the hall, and Peter made a decision. He swung his body out of the building, hoping to lure the villain out of the abandoned building and far enough away that Johnny could escape if he hadn’t already. Ribs throbbing, Peter swung onto the side of the building and started crawling. Immediately, a searchlight from one of the news helicopters blinded him. He squinted against the light and continued his ascent, praying Doc took the bait. 

He did. A scream from his spidey sense had Peter leaping to the side just as a chunk of brick hit the wall where he’d been a moment before. Peter shielded his face from the fragments that shot toward him, his heart in his throat. Finally, he reached the roof. 

And there was Johnny Storm, looking unbearably guilty. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Peter rasped, jogging over to the other man. “I told you to get out of here! No—I told you to wait by the window, but when you weren’t there—”

“I’m not going to leave you.” Johnny jutted his chin out stubbornly. 

“ You have no powers. ”

“Susan Storm is my sister—you think I can’t hold my own without my powers?”

“Not,” Peter said through gritted teeth, “when your adversary has four metal arms .”

He couldn’t believe Johnny’s nerve. There wasn’t any time to hide him, though, because Doc Ock pulled himself over the roof that very instant. Peter crouched into a defensive pose between the villain and Johnny, ignoring the ache in his ribs and… all of his appendages. He breathed in as deeply as his injuries would allow, still half-blinded by the lights, and waited for the doctor to make the first move. 

He didn’t disappoint. Three arms shot out toward Peter. He dodged the first one and caught the second, but the third hit his shoulder with a sickening crunch . Peter howled in pain, but he didn’t release his hold on Doc. The pain had distracted him, though; suddenly, Doc’s arms had wrapped around him, holding him in place—and in his spare arm, he was gripping Johnny. 

Dangling him over the edge of the roof. 

A wave of terror overtook Peter. Johnny was shouting insults and struggling in Octavius’ grip, furious at being caught. Peter wasn’t sure, but he might have screamed at Johnny to stop moving, images of Johnny falling and splattering on the pavement below flooding his brain. He strained against Octavius’ hold, but it only worsened the pain in his shoulder until he started seeing black spots at the edges of his vision. Peter forced himself to stop and think before he passed out. Johnny was still fighting uselessly, and Peter rolled his eyes hard and wished he could have fallen for someone who had possessed more than a scrap of common sense. 

Fallen. This time, when he sucked in a breath, it wasn’t because of the pain.

“Finally,” the doctor whispered, interrupting Peter’s revelation. “Spider-Man in my grasp.” 

Johnny didn’t seem to grasp the amount of danger they were in, so Peter swallowed thickly and bargained for Johnny’s life. It was almost calming to realize that he wouldn’t mind dying if it meant Johnny would be spared. 

It was also infuriating, because Peter was still angry with the other hero. If he survived this, he needed to sort out his priorities. 

“Listen, Doc, you can—” Peter wheezed as Ock’s arms constricted around his chest. “You can k-kill me, but let Storm go—he doesn’t need to be here. He isn’t worth the effort of killing, anyway. Trust me, I’m much more fun to—ow—to kill.” He winced as his bones ground together. His everything was broken, and he wasn’t having a good time. 

Octavius didn’t take the bait. He grinned slowly at Peter, enjoying his agony, and pulled Johnny a little closer to Peter… but out into empty air. Gave him a little shake that finally had Johnny yelping. 

“You’re correct that I care nothing for the Human Torch,” Doc told him. “Compared to you, he was very simple to catch.”

Johnny squawked indignantly, but Peter and Octavius ignored him. Peter narrowed his eyes, even though the movement was hidden by his mask. “Something tells me there’s a ‘but’ coming,” he muttered. 

Indeed— “But he is a nuisance, and I’m not a man who wastes his time.”

And then several things happened at once. 

Just as Octavius was about to drop Johnny several stories, the Human Torch brought a heavy piece of piping down on the villain’s head—something he must have maneuvered and grabbed while pretending to squirm in Ock’s grip. It dazed the doctor enough that he loosened his grip on Peter, who was finally able to break free of the mechanical arms. 

Peter shot several webs to restrain the arms, thick enough that Doc couldn’t break free even with his considerable strength. 

Johnny fell from the villain’s grasp. 

The spectators down below screamed. Peter screamed when Johnny’s golden hair vanished from sight. He didn’t even have to think—he flung himself off the roof. 

The cold night air clawed at him as he fell headfirst to the ground. He extended an arm, eyes wide and locked on Johnny, far below him and out of time and frantically trying to tear the collar from around his neck as he tumbled through the air. 

The abandoned building flashed and transformed to a bridge. It wasn’t Otto Octavius above him, it was the Green Goblin. It was Gwen beneath him. If he released the web, he knew he’d hear a snap.

The world was moving in slow motion. Peter adjusted his aim just slightly, and his web connected not with Johnny’s body, but a nearby building. Using more strength and agility than he knew he possessed, Peter used the web to thrust him through the air, catapulting him toward the ground. Relying more on instinct than senses, he changed trajectory and swung beneath Johnny, slamming into him but catching him awkwardly in his arms. He let go of the web at the peak of the arc, landing hard on a roof below him. 

Broken ankle, broken shoulder, fractured ribs, and countless other injuries screamed, but Peter could only look at Johnny. He was scared to lift his eyes to the other man’s face, certain in that moment that Johnny would be as dead as Gwen.

But a hand squeezed his bicep, and Peter let out a gasp. His eyes snapped to Johnny’s. His neck was bleeding where he’d scrambled to pull the collar off, and there was a wild look in his eyes that came from near-death experiences, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. Johnny’s lips twitched into an almost smile. 

“I guess,” he panted, letting his head fall back but never breaking eye contact with Peter, “the tables have really turned. Gotta say, don’t love being the damsel.”

It took a solid five seconds for Peter’s brain to connect the dots. He was holding Johnny much like he’d been held whenever the Human Torch would fly him back to his apartment, and the memory allowed his anger to bubble over his terror at almost losing Johnny. He dropped the other man without warning, then fell to the ground himself. He clutched at his shoulder, yanked off his mask because he knew the helicopters couldn’t get close enough to get a good shot of his face. 

“You’re a fucking awful damsel,” he growled around the blood in his mouth. Venom dripped from his words, and Johnny actually flinched—Peter was sure his face was a bloody, bruised mess. Hardly pretty. Far from attractive. Frightening. “I never fell off a fucking building .” 

It wouldn’t leave him alone. He could see Johnny in front of him, but his mind replayed the image of Johnny spinning through the air—powerless—Peter still holding his breath as Johnny danced the line between life and death.

So he was angry. Furious—at Johnny for leaving him when he was vulnerable, at himself for allowing Johnny to be put in danger, and Ock for throwing Johnny off a building , at Johnny again for joking when Peter had almost lost him. Like it was no big deal. 

Disbelief colored Johnny’s face. He scowled at Peter even as he crawled over to inspect the injuries he’d sustained in the fight. “Yeah—yeah, it was just so much fun to see you held at gunpoint and dangling over mystery chemicals.” Johnny’s hands and voice were trembling, but something about his tone forced Peter to look at him—really look at him. “I get it,” he said darkly, hands ghosting over Peter’s busted shoulder, “you don’t need me. You never needed me at all.” He laughed bitterly, and the sound was so wrong in Johnny’s mouth that Peter’s stomach twisted. “But it would have been nice to know you weren’t—you weren’t—”

Falling through air, Peter’s mind supplied, without a lifeline. 

For the first time, he considered Johnny’s point of view. He’d only known Peter Parker—in Johnny’s eyes, a photographer who was not used to guns or poison or kidnapping in general. Who didn’t possess super strength, or speed, or senses that warned of danger before it happened. Just a man who was all too easy to kill. 

A man Johnny had fallen in love with somewhere along the way. 

Peter thought about his own experience watching Johnny fall without the power to save himself. Thought about how Johnny had gone through the same thing multiple times and had still, somehow, held it together enough to joke and laugh with Peter. To develop a relationship. 

It left him breathless, but what made him sick was the thought of Johnny suddenly finding out that Peter hadn’t really been stuck in those situations at all. That the danger he’d been in was danger that he’d allowed himself to be placed in while protecting his identity. 

Peter leaned back, face pale. “I scared you,” he said dumbly. “You were mad because…”

He couldn’t finish, but Johnny could. “Because you made me think I’d almost lost you so many times .” He glared at Peter. After a minute, though, some of the anger simmered out. “I mean… the day you almost drowned? I’ve never been that scared.”

The admission was hollow, almost ashamed. Peter shook his head slowly, the fury he’d been holding onto for weeks dissipating at the knowledge that Johnny’s response hadn’t been out of cruelty or disinterest; he’d been scared. Scared and hurt. 

“The drowning thing,” Peter admitted, “was real.”

Johnny’s head dropped into his hands. “I didn’t need to know that,” he groaned. Then he peeked between his fingers, brow furrowed. “You thought… you thought I was upset that you were Spider-Man?”

Cheeks suddenly burning, Peter looked guiltily down at the mask clutched in his hands. “I’ve lost people to it before,” he said vaguely. And then, because Johnny had been so honest with him: “For weeks I’ve been mad at you. I was… I’d hoped that you’d understand, you know? I’ve never had anyone who understood before. So when you left the apartment…” He trailed off, but the mix of horror and exasperation in Johnny’s eyes told Peter that he’d been understood. Peter swallowed. “I didn’t mean to do that to you. Scare you, lie to you. My identity… it keeps May safe—”

“I get that part,” Johnny interrupted. “And I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah.” Peter rubbed a hand over his brow, wincing when he reopened a cut on his forehead. “Yeah, I know. Wow, we make a pair.” Something else Johnny had said suddenly stuck out in Peter’s mind, and he reached out and grabbed Johnny’s hand, startling them both. 

“I do need you,” he blurted out after a minute of panicked silence. He flushed, then tried to explain his meaning. “Well, maybe I don’t need you to catch me all the time or fly me back to my apartment, but—May would miss you, and I hate disappointing my aunt.”

Way to go, Parker. 

But Johnny was beaming. It took Peter by surprise, and then Johnny was laughing. 

“That’s the worst way of saying I love you that I’ve ever heard,” Johnny told him, wiping away a tear. “But I’ll take it.”

Peter grinned at him, and for once, he didn’t try and protest that love had nothing to do with it. 

“Now.” Johnny stood and held out a hand to Peter. “I’m taking you to the Baxter Building. You look like absolute shit—I’ve honestly never seen anyone with so many bruises—and I’d like to get this collar off sooner rather than later. Check up with Reed it is.”

Peter almost argued that he just needed rest, but his attempt to stand up nearly resulted in him losing consciousness—Johnny raised a brow when he caught him, daring Peter to protest. 

“A small one,” Peter allowed, jaw clenched through the pain that was finally making itself known full-force. “A fast check up.”

Johnny just shoved Peter’s mask back on his head and helped Peter over to the stairwell on the other side of the roof.

…

One week later, Johnny was sitting on Peter’s couch, his phone in one hand and a slice of pizza dangling from the other. His legs were in Peter’s lap because Johnny was a couch hog and Peter refused to be booted from his own furniture. 

“We’re trending on Twitter,” Johnny told him, grinning.

Peter frowned sharply. “Why?” Things had been quiet since the Rooftop Incident (as he’d dubbed it). He hadn’t been kidnapped, and neither had Johnny.

He had gotten the shovel talk from Sue Storm, which was hands-down the most terrifying conversation of Peter’s life. He hadn’t even had the courage to tell Sue that he wasn’t even technically dating her brother (even if he wanted to be).

“We were photographed walking off of the train,” Johnny told him. “From the angle of the picture, it looks like we were holding hands.”

“Well.” Peter grumpily returned to his book, more annoyed this time at the invasion of privacy than the rumors spread about him and Johnny. “More ammunition against Ruth, I suppose. May’ll be happy.”

“The post says we’re secret lovers. Our tiff is over, but we’re hiding from the world.”

Something in Johnny’s voice made Peter look over. Johnny was gazing at him in a way that told Peter he had dropped a very important hint. Peter wracked his brain for something to say. For the right thing to say.

He set down his book. “Are you… asking if we are?”

Johnny’s eyes were back on his phone, but Peter knew his focus was still on their conversation. “Well, we know we’d die for each other—tried and true theory—but in this business, that might not mean much.”

“I wouldn’t die for Wolverine,” Peter told him solemnly. 

“...It’s a lot harder to kill him.”

“Exactly. He could survive without my sacrifice.”

Johnny snorted, but Peter was finished messing with him. He waited until he’d caught Johnny’s eye, then spoke. “Listen, I’m not… great at this sort of thing. It’s not easy for me to get close to people.” He took a deep breath, then reached out and grabbed Johnny’s hand. “But I know… I know that you drive me a little crazy. And I know that… that when I’m with you… I feel…”

“Alive,” Johnny finished for him, his face soft with understanding. 

Peter nodded, relieved. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I haven’t felt that in a long time.”

Johnny sat up, swinging his legs off of Peter, but never releasing Peter’s hand. He was so close. “I don’t mind. I don’t mind , Pete.”

“Oh,” Peter breathed.

“Yeah,” Johnny replied. 

One of them must have moved in first, or maybe they started together, but Peter’s lips were pressed to Johnny’s, and something—a missing piece—slid into place. 

He pulled away when he heard a camera shutter. Confused, he looked around, pausing when he saw Johnny typing furiously on his phone. By the time Peter had recovered enough from the kiss to put the pieces together, Johnny had already hit ‘post’. 

“Hey!” Peter snatched the phone from Johnny’s hands, eyes widening when he saw the screen filled with the two of them lip-locked and the words It’s official!

And there, at the bottom: #bibiJohnnyStorm #superheroboyfriend #JohnnyStormBF #ParkerStorm

Peter threw a pillow at his boyfriend, but he didn’t really mind it. Not when Johnny’s laughter was filling his apartment and making everything a little bit brighter. 

A slow smile spread over Peter’s face, and he pulled Johnny in for another kiss. The first of many, many more to come.