Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter was getting pretty sick of breaking up with Wade.

They orbited around each other like planets, gravitationally drawing themselves together, like, every other month. When things were good, they were amazing. Peter couldn't imagine being more in love and comfortable with another human being. 

But then things imploded and their cosmic paths crashed in fiery chaos. Someone would start a stupid dispute that led to them ghosting one another until they made the decision to cut things off for good. 

Again. Every other fucking month. 

For being sometimes-boyfriends, they argued like they were teenagers. But they weren't; they were 24 and 38, and Wade admittedly made Peter feel like the most special person in New York, and like total shit. 

They'd done it again. Separated. It wasn't some big blowout this time, but Wade had made a joke that got on Peter's nerves after a team up with Daredevil, and Peter was already having a bad day. One of them had gotten emotional, and harsh things were said. After a building argument, they'd both decided they weren't in the headspace to do this again. 

Things were supposed to be fun. They were supposed to understand and support one another. And neither could take the stress of it turning sour. Wade was the type to literally- and figuratively- try to blow up his problems; a result of years of poor coping skills and being an unrestrained, stubborn jerk. And Peter was…

Well, most confrontations ended with him webbing off in search of crime that required a destructive hand to deal with. Peter was terrifyingly good at being that source of strength at times. Other times, he just wallowed in his own self-pity and threw himself into his school and his work. Primarily his poorly paying photography job and even worse paying barista job.

There's a phone booth on the right end of the street 4 blocks up that has its receiver disconnected. 

Peter's tongue tasted like fake hazelnut and canola oil, which he knew his coffee shop had mixed in their oatmilk to make it froth up. He didn't mind it most of the time. Even right now, he'd rather suffer through the oily, chemical concoction in his mouth than throw away the precious caffeine that kept him standing. 

The construction crew up ahead has a screwdriver sitting on the ground. It'll definitely go through a shoe if it gets stepped on. 

It was cold out, and the bite of the wind chilled Peter's nose far past comfort. If he pulled his scarf up over it, then he'd be blocked from his coffee, and. Well. That was an entirely new cycle he'd be forced to participate in. 

My cell phone is about to ring.  

Peter dragged it out of his pocket a moment before the caller ID popped up on screen. It spelled out Robbie Robertson. Shit. 

I'm officially late for work in 15 seconds. 

"Parker?"  

"I know, I know." Peter sunk into his oversized bomber jacket and scarf, searching for any relief from the cold and the discomfort in his head. He felt congested, but…like, mentally. Like his neurons had caught a cold and they were overclocked to break through the blockage. The memory of Wade cursing him out last night made it a lot harder to break out of the funk. "Sorry, Robbie. I'm just down the street." 

"Barista job keep you again?" Robbie guessed. 

"A few minutes late." Peter grimaced with an apologetic tone. "But I'll be there in a sec. J.J.J. pissed yet?" 

"He'll get over it. Don’t stress out." Robbie contemplated on the other end of the phone. Peter listened harder, to catch any muted conversation on his end. So when Robbie cleared his throat, it felt like Peter had been shot in the ear. He bit back a groan of pain, dropping his head towards the pavement. 

The sidewalk has a small drop up ahead. 

"Parker?" 

Peter must have gone silent as he focused on satisfying his Spider sense with the reassurance that yes he could see the pavement gap and yes he could manage to overstep it. He perked up again, jostling his brains. "I'll be there soon." He vowed hurriedly, and hung up before Robbie could question his distraction. 

He stared down at the cracked phone screen, trapped in muddled thought. He should check his heat tracker again, to count down the days he had. He should be working on figuring out what the hell he was going to do now that he and Wade had broken things off again. What he was definitely not going to do, though, was open the tracker. It stressed him out too much to see it printed across his screen. He was already in terrible shape emotionally, and now his spidey senses had decided to go off the fucking rails. 

Someone’s looking at me from across the street. 

Peter tightened his fist on his phone and shoved it away before it could become the next victim of his destructive coping. 

His heat was coming soon and fast. If it weren’t for sexist stereotypes insisting that omegas were always emotional thanks to their pre-heat, he’d almost blame his current turmoil on it. Wade was supposed to alpha him through it, as much as Peter would allow him to. Even if Peter’s pride and disdain for his body’s cycles prevented him from doing calming things- like surrounding himself with stupid pillows and clinging to an alpha like his life depended on it- Wade still helped in other ways. Peter would break into his room and steal his shirts to wear at home, or they’d sneak off into an alley tucked behind a dumpster to swap blow jobs. Despite all of his misgivings, Wade never made Peter feel bad about his omega designation. Not when Peter showed up crying- begrudgingly, Peter would admit that sometimes his preheat did make him emotional- at his doorstep, or when Peter spent days a needy mess in his bed. 

Wade was the one person that Peter trusted to fuck him through his heat. He did it well. Peter enjoyed himself sometimes, between the agonizing cramps and the emotional torture. But they were usually dating this time of year. It was the first time they’d broken up before the holidays. Usually they were both in better moods. 

It didn’t help that their break-up had been pretty harsh this time. Peter wasn’t going to beg him for his help. If Wade offered, he’d probably, definitely, maybe still turn him away. 

He could handle this alone. He could. Really. Even if his body wasn’t quite sure why he was both anxious and abandoned. 

If I don’t eat soon, I’ll get a headache later. 

“I know the dangers of low blood sugar.” Peter grumbled back to his spidey sense, but he downed his coffee and made a bee-line for the convenience store anyways. 

****

“We’re not buying.” 

Peter stared at Jameson. He looked at Robbie. He looked at Betty. He turned pleading eyes to the damn intern because he wasn’t mentally prepared to handle this. 

This…blasphemy. 

“You told me you didn’t want more Spider-Man this month.” Was Peter speaking calmly? He was trying to, but his hands were shaking. He shoved them in his jacket pockets. “So I didn’t take pictures of Spider-Man.” 

“You took pictures of garbage.” Jameson sniffed back, waving for Robbie to push the prints away from him. Like. He couldn’t even bear to touch them himself.

Peter’s hands were still shaking. 

He couldn’t not sell these. He needed rent.

"Daredevil, Deadpool, and Spider-Man teaming up to take down a prolific mobster is garbage." Peter repeated the insanity, staring Jameson down. He couldn't do this to Peter. Not after he married his Aunt. Not after his moving in was the reason Peter was stuck with such high rent bills. 

Garbage?

"You usually got a good eye, Parker." Jameson grunted back, spinning away in his chair. He wouldn't even look him in the eye and tell him to starve like a man. "These aren't it. I don't want this on my front page."

"You-" Peter snatched his photos back. The hair on his neck stood on end. His temper was being absolutely grated. "Then I’ll sell them somewhere else." He threatened. "You'll never see my prints again." 

Jameson finally met his gaze, calling his bluff. "Bring me something better. Not masked psychopaths running around in the dark." 

"Daredevil isn't exactly running around mid-day." Peter said bitterly. 

"Then you have nothing. Get out of here." 

Peter decided then that he absolutely was not bluffing. 

"Make sure you pick up your copy of the Bulletin." Peter grumbled as he turned to leave, clutching onto the last thing he had of value to hock off on anyone to pay his bills. 

***

Peter's text tone went off for the dozenth time in 10 minutes, and it was finally enough to make him check his phone. 

With a fitful hand, he seized the device from its webbed up position beside him on the ceiling, breaking its bonds. As predicted, he had 2 incoming conversations from the two nosiest girlfriends he ever had the pleasure to know.

From: MJ

Hey

U broke up with Wade??? 

What happened this time? 

Tiger come on and talk to me

Please? 

If you're ignoring me I'll tell Gwen and Har

Sometimes, he really regretted introducing the three. Ever since they'd formed their polyamorous relationship, Harry and Gwen betas while MJ was an alpha, they'd been a driving force behind Peter's misery. It didn't help that MJ and Wade were on texting terms, and she got all the updates about their fluctuating arguments and getting back together. 

Harry, the best man that Peter knew, hadn't taken the bait to torment and interrogate Peter, much to his relief. But Gwen didn't respect his ceiling-homework time, much less his privacy. 

From: Gwen

What about your heat cycle? Didn't you predict it would hit right after the expo?

It's not good for your health to get attached to an alpha and then stop midway through pre-heat. 

You should consider asking Wade for his help regardless. He cares about you, even when you're both acting like stubborn idiots. 

Peter tossed his phone across the room and webbed it with a thwip to the opposite wall. 

He loved his friends. He really did. But he was stressed enough about his wavering and uncertain future- including the very real possibility of homelessness- to entertain them bugging in on his business. 

He didn’t need lectures or questions. He needed to finish his advanced chemistry lab write-up that was due in the morning, which was the entire reason he was sitting upside down on his ceiling in the first place. 

His text tone dinged again, and Peter let out a string of agonized groans. It was gonna be a long night. 

*** 

Getting into the Bulletin was a lot easier than he expected. 

Nobody really questioned him. The office was busy. Everyone looked focused. A lot less on edge and suspicious than everyone was at the Bugle. Peter marched in with a Bugle in one hand- one of his better Spider-Man shots, to prove he already had a name- and his group selfies with Daredevil and Deadpool in the other, and searched for the most important looking person in the office, determined. 

He spotted her across the room, and picked his way over past bustling interns and overflowing desks. Someone shouted over to his right, but a quick glance told Peeter it was co-workers calling to one another, and not paying attention to him. So far, it seemed like he blended right in. Enough so that security wasn’t rushing him out the door. 

Approaching the woman he’d set as his destination, Peter managed an, "Excuse me." Immediately he cursed the quietness of his voice and the shy intonation, as he cleared his throat. 

The woman he was addressing, a blonde slender woman with a kind smile and big eyes, leaned up from the desk she was bent over. She gave him a once over with her gaze, before she spoke with a graveled tone. "Hi." 

"I'm Peter Parker," Peter quickly informed her. He paused, remembering the self-explanatory newspaper in his fingers, and moved to hold it out. 

"The Spider-Man guy." The woman answered without even a glance at the paper, her tone cool. The recognition made his cheeks darken. "I'm Karen Page. How can I help you, Peter Parker?"

"Photos?" Peter asked hopefully. "A drug bust right here in Hell's Kitchen last night. I uh, got some pretty close shots." 

"And the Bugle isn't buying." Karen guessed. 

Peter shrugged helplessly. "Can't print 3 vigilantes conspiring against the city. Might send people into a panic." 

Karen smiled, humored by the joke. Still watching him, she accepted the folder he had the team-up pictures in to flip through them. Manicured nails brushed each aside by the corners, picking them apart to glance at each with burning focus.

Peter held his breath tighter than his landlord clutched onto his impending eviction notice. 

"I'll admit, it's not our usual material." Karen said finally as she gazed up at him. "But they're good. It would be nice to see good headlines about Spider-Man and Daredevil out there." 

Peter felt immediately freed. 

"I can ask our boss about buying them," Karen continued, folding her arms. "But I'd need a story to go with it. Maybe you can give a witness statement?" 

Peter's body locked back up.  

"I don't really- I mean." Peter's palms felt sweaty. He shifted on his feet, feeling 15 and begging to sell his pictures all over again. "Words aren't my medium, you know?" 

"Look," Karen reached back towards the receptionist, getting one of her cards. She pressed it into Peter's palm. "I'll show these to my editor. If he approves, we can meet for coffee. You can tell me briefly what you saw as our anonymous source and I'll fill in the rest." She smiled smoothly. There was something in her eyes that Peter couldn't quite decipher. "Call me later?" 

Peter looked down at the card. He turned his eyes back up at her. His anxiety over finances was definitely overpowering his anxiety about retelling an event he was very present for. 

This is going to go wrong.  

Peter flashed her a flustered grin. "Absolutely, Ms. Page." 

***

Dr. Octavius's lectures didn't offer much of a solace from Peter's predicament. Despite the heavily loaded speeches that Peter's half exhausted mind struggled to keep up with on the best of days, he was forcibly aware of every small change in the classroom when his senses were on the fritz. 

Like the fact that the guy 2 rows down in front of Peter wouldn't stop scratching a spot on the back of his neck that was probably a rash if his spidey senses were right in their warning. A contagious one. Peter really hoped the guy didn't touch any door handles on his way out. 

Or that Harry was intently whispering to Gwen about Peter's clear distractedness, and that he was asking if Wade was the cause of it. 

The second his name was mentioned, Peter shot Harry an irritated look and shut him up for the rest of the hour. 

It didn't go smoothly after that. Peter would focus in for a minute or two on the review Dr. Octavius was presenting, only for someone to squeak their chair or for a car to honk down the street. It took all of his strength not to ditch the class altogether when the girl behind him opened her sour smelling green juice that nearly made him sick. 

By the time they were designated to head to their lab to put in hours on their engineering project for an upcoming Oscorp Expo, Peter felt like crawling out of his own skin. 

She's about to stumble.

The message was a sharp stinging in his spine, unrelenting in its nagging. If he didn't act on it, it'd get worse. It'd torment him until the stinging became a full body ache, like a joint that needed to be popped before he went insane. 

Peter didn't want to act on it. It was a stumble . She didn't need to be protected from every small inconvenience like his powers decided she did. 

"Gwen, hey," Peter was too weak not to alleviate the anxiety. His hand caught her elbow just as her ankle quirked, a slippery tile making her lose her balance for just a second, not even enough that it would have interrupted her stride or made her drop a paper. 

Gwen looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. Her eyes were all seeing. He hated that analyzing look. She was too damn good at it. 

"This happens every time, Pete." Gwen informed him as she stopped walking, and instead blocked the hallway with her stance and peered down her nose at him. 

"Good luck, buddy." Harry clapped his shoulder and continued down the hallway, but Gwen's look kept him from ditching out. 

"You need Wade, or you need to find someone that you'll be comfortable with." Gwen decided before Peter had a chance to argue it. "We all know how bad your heats get when you're alone. You already look terrible." 

Peter's eyebrows knit. "Thanks. But I'm not asking-"

"He wouldn't want you to go through this alone. You know that." Gwen said pointedly. "How many of these has he helped you through? How many times did you help him, even when things were rough?" 

"Like…" Peter's voice fell off. He wasn't going to dignify the rhetorical question with even a snarky response. "...I'm not asking Wade. Definitely not. I'll figure it out. I still have 2 weeks." 

Even Harry looked doubtful at Peter's answer, as he pointed out, "So you spent 2 weeks with Wade already, and you think you'll just be okay if you stop?" 

A scuffle behind them had Peter turning his head, catching sight of Dr. Octavius heading their direction. He stopped a moment to throw a judgemental eye over their lack of movement, and cleared his throat demandingly. 

"You're wasting time and resources. This expo won't wait for anyone." Dr. Octavius sniffed. 

"Yes, professor." Gwen smiled apologetically and headed them all towards the lab. 

Chapter Text

Working for the Bugle had been decent money. It monetized Peter’s nighttime antics— though each payday came at the cost of his pride. He enjoyed his coworkers for the most part, even if Betty had a tendency to meddle in his life and Robbie liked to ask too many questions for comfort. JJ had managed to grow more tolerable over the years. 

But it had never been enough to pay the bills. Peter had cycled through a dozen part-timer positions since he’d started college in an attempt to break even at the end of the month. His repeated unexplained absences and general issues with reliability had cost him each and every one. It was getting harder to get hired when his background checks came up with pages of terminations. 

The barista job had been a god-send of a find. It was a pricey enough menu that foot traffic was pretty limited, with most people electing to go to the cheaper chains down the block. His coworkers were awesome about covering for Peter when he needed it, too. Best of all, the owner was an omega, and she'd given him one look during orientation before telling him just to drop her a text when he'd be disappearing. 

Fridays meant Peter got to work with Sajani, one of the shift leads who had trained him, that he got along with pretty well. The downside was her scent. She was an alpha, and a strong-smelling one. When he was being torn up by preheat, it was the perfect concoction of anxiety-inducing pheromones that set him on edge. Mixed with the overbearing presence of coffee in the air, he was overstimulated by the time he'd clocked off. He spent far too long scrubbing his shaking hands in the sink, and the one thing to pull him away was-

The bell.

The chime of the entry bell let in Karen, her boots squeaking lightly against the tile, wet from the blustery weather. Stunning, tall, and as self assured as she had been in the Bulletin's office, she spotted Peter and flashed him a smile as she hung out in the doorway. He clumsily dried his hands on his apron and tossed it at an empty mop bucket, scrambling to get to his chair. A cup of black coffee sat at an empty table, steaming, and as bribe-worthy as he hoped it would be. 

Peter really needed to sell the photos. He was even willing to beg. And he was barely holding back the bile at the back of his throat from having to hang around this place for so long. His skin felt more steamed than the milk in the 7 dollar lattes. 

Karen stepped towards the table, finally releasing the door she'd been holding open for another customer. She didn't head to Peter right away. Instead, she turned to speak quietly towards the newcomer the second a white-and-red striped cane passed inside the shop. 

It was a man Peter didn't recognize, even from the Bulletin. He was taller than Karen, dark haired, with a nice dusting of stubble that sat flatteringly on his chin and neck. Tinted glasses on his face obscured his eyes, and Peter realized fairly quickly that he was blind. When he stepped in further to the store, Peter also realized the man was an alpha, setting his body on fire. 

Peter stared at him much longer than was polite. He was on edge from his own nerves, but more than that, Peter was distracted by the scent filling the coffee shop. It wasn't like the usual alphas that walked in off the street. It was rich, with wet cedar and deep cinnamon, like hot cocoa ordered in the rain, and something buzzed prickly down to Peter's fingertips. He wasn't a big fan of alphas, and it was a miracle he'd ever let Wade get close.  

He vaguely tuned in when Karen had led him towards the table, their arms intertwined, and realization of his dangerously wandering thoughts placated him. Peter prepared to smile and greet the man, when his senses warned him preemptively to stop in his tracks.

The man's eyebrows were furrowed. A distrusting curve of his lips and the tic of his jaw set Peter's nerves alight. His scent was strong, not just naturally, but as if he were on the offensive. Preparing to intimidate him.

He’s suspicious of me. 

"I hope you don't mind that I invited a colleague of mine along." Karen hummed when she approached with the man's cane tapping along the linoleum floor. "He has connections to the story. Curiosity got the better of him.”

"No, uh," Peter sat up and smoothed out the sleeve on his coffee cup out of stress. He hated to let his mind wander, especially when they ended up acting like this. Somehow, Peter would prefer he openly tell Peter he suspected him of being a criminal or something. "That's awesome. Great. Totally cool. I only got one coffee, though, um," he flashed her an awkward grin. "I'll get another one for Mr…" 

"There's no need." The man answered back, hands clutching onto the top of his cane, hard enough for his knuckles to go white.

"Murdock. Matt Murdock. He'd appreciate it. Thank you." Karen introduced, overpowering his protests, seemingly unaware of Matt's silent hostility. "Matt, this is Peter Parker." Then, quieter, she added, "He's the journalist that takes photos of Spider-Man for the Bugle." 

Peter recognized the name without prompt. He'd seen it attached to a dozen high profile cases. "And you're the lawyer that helps out the Avengers." Peter flashed them a cautious smile. He was on his feet a second later, not planning to stay long enough to hear a reply. 

Retreating towards the empty counter, Peter pressed his hands down onto the top, desperation on his face. Sajani, in all her sweetness, barely paid attention to his agony. 

"I thought you were meeting up with a journalist," Sajani mused as she set to work on pouring out another over-priced, brewed mug to pass over to him. "The guy in the suit one too?"

"A lawyer. A very well paid lawyer." Peter grimaced. "So either I'm in deep shit, or he's a big fan of vigilantes."

"At least he's cute?" Sajani grinned, a shit-eating quirk to her lips. "Come on, Parker. You have to think so, too. And a lawyer ? You struck gold."

Peter leveled her with a disbelieving gaze. "I think he's decided I'm the devil." He grumbled as he reached for the newly filled mug to cradle in his hands. "I'll pay for this later." 

"We both know you're not going to." Sajani hummed back. "Not all alphas are out to burn you, Pete. The reporter is definitely out of your league, though." 

"Thanks for the reminder." Peter muttered.

He made his way back to the table, gingerly lowering the mug down just in front of Matt. The man tilted his head at the scrape of it, giving Peter a curt nod. 

It was the best Peter was going to get, so he dropped back into his own chair. A thanks for me? Yeah, don't mention it.

"So, the story." Karen worked on pulling out her supplies: a tape recorder, which she clicked on and set between the three of them, and a handheld notebook with a worn down pen. She looked at him with expectant eyes but a kind smile that greatly contrasted against Matt's sharp expression. "Start from the beginning. Don’t spare any details.” 

Peter spared a glance to Matt, and shifted atop his chair as it squeaked under his weight. Matt hadn’t touched the mug yet, which just served to further amplify Peter’s annoyance.

“I received a tip that Tombstone’s crew was going to be moving a large amount of paraphernalia down at the docks,” Peter began hesitantly, finally dragging his gaze away from the lawyer to look at Karen again. She didn’t seem at all phased by the tension at the table, listening intently to his words. He found the strength to continue. “A coworker passed it to me. So I went. Daredevil and Deadpool showed up first and took out the guys on the ground, Spider-Man knocked out the men that were in the cars. I didn’t see much else that isn’t already in the pictures.”  

Peter paused after the lame recounting of the events, realizing he was done. Storytelling wasn’t exactly his primary art form, which he’d been honest about from the beginning. But his details certainly hadn’t been enough for Karen, who stared across at him with a pen still in her hand, and a smile on her face. 

“I may need a little more than that. Do you know what the paraphernalia they were transferring was?” Karen prompted when she saw Peter had no intention of continuing. “Maybe in your tip?” 

Peter knew exactly what it was. Wade had gone out of his way to rifle through the mass amount of heavy ammo and crystallized drugs until Peter had finally dragged him away from the duffles. 

He shook his head. “No, sorry. I didn’t get a good look.” 

Karen nodded, and scribbled on her notepad that was half obscured by blonde hair. “Was this your first time photographing Daredevil?” 

The question caught Peter off guard, though he was cautious not to let it reflect on his face. He sipped his coffee and spared a glance at the lawyer that sat stoically beside Karen, before answering. “Now that you mention it, yeah it was. He’s not the easiest guy to get to pose for you. Actually, I got lucky to be in the right place for these pictures.” 

“He looks good in them.” Karen commented offhandedly, and she turned her attention towards Matt. “They’re really nicely framed. Daredevil looks like a hero.” 

“I don’t believe he is.” Matt said flatly. 

Peter gave him an uneasy glance, his fingers tapping along the side of his mug. The buzzing warning along the base of his neck was ever present, and Peter wasn't sure if he'd be holding an NDA any moment. Still, Karen seemed friendly enough with Matt, and she was nice. 

Something in Peter, both rueful and nervous, pressed him to keep talking on the subject, if not just to spite Matt's attitude and stupidly good scent.

"He does look pretty heroic." Peter agreed as he leaned over the table, glancing at the photos. "But we've all heard the stories about him." 

Karen looked up at him. Peter smiled politely back, jaw tight.

"He beats up bad guys in the dead of night. Breaks into government buildings. Derails politicians." Peter considered. "But I think that's why he's awesome." 

That certainly caught Matt's attention. His head tilted towards Peter, listening. 

"Sure, some of the other crime-breakers are a little less violent. Maybe DD goes too far at times. But he's a good guy. He's working to protect his neighborhood. Keep the little guy safe. He does the work the Avengers won't touch. I didn't exactly go out to Hells Kitchen looking for him, but I'm glad I got to see him work." Peter sat back. He could sense Matt's tenseness and attention. He was pretty sure he'd struck a nerve, and it was just what Peter wanted. If someone was going to be the victim of his bad mood, it would be the alpha treating him like he was on trial. "He's quick, he's calm, he's controlled. Kind of an ass but it seems like an act. So, is he a hero? Maybe not. But I think that's a good thing." 

Karen was smiling when Peter looked up again. He didn't even bother to check Matt's reaction. Part of him didn't care much. "That didn't ruin my chances of selling the photos, did it? I really didn't choose you guys just to fawn over Daredevil. I just need to make rent." 

"I can work with what you've given me. I have a couple sources to tap into if I need more information." Karen reassured him, reaching to click the tape recorder off. "I won't have time to finalize the article with you before it goes out." 

"That's fine." Peter let out a relieved breath. “I’m not usually let in on the writing process, anyways.” 

 “Why’d you choose the Bulletin, then?” 

It was the first time Matt had directly questioned him, and it caught Peter off guard. “Huh?”

“There’s plenty of other papers in New York.” Matt continued on, a slight edge to his words, weary of whatever Peter would answer with. “Some with offices closer to your home. They’d probably buy your photos without asking for a coffee date. Why not them? Why did you go straight to Karen?” 

“Matt.” Karen whispered.

“Honestly?” Peter bit his lip. “My boss married my Aunt, I guess I’m still a little bitter about it, and he hates the head editor on the Bulletin. It seemed like a way to burn him. Karen was the first person I saw that looked like she wouldn’t turn me down.” 

There was a hushed silence that fell over at the confession. Matt sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Peter watched as Karen elbowed the lawyer discreetly under the table, a grin on her face. “See?” She laughed, and looked back at Peter. “I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence.” 

Sure enough, Matt seemed to lighten up just a bit. He shook his head and reached out to sip his coffee. He swallowed just a small sip before setting it back on the table. 

Peter couldn’t help a small grin. “Cold?” 

Matt gave a sound almost resembling a chuckle, nodding. “Very. I guess I shouldn’t have left it for so long.” 

***

“Ow ow ow.” 

If there was one thing that could kill Peter’s mood, it was a damn rift break-out. The prison was notorious for letting do-badders infiltrate their higher-ups, and then, whoops! Someone was being let out. Then they’d come begging Peter to clean up the villain’s mess— which he always did — until the next prisoner broke out which…they always did. 

It was a vicious circle, and Peter was a glutton for punishment. 

Peter dug fingers into the hole in his abdomen, searching for remaining shreds of metal, though all he managed to do was make a gnarly wound worse. He flicked the blood off his gloves and tested his body to see if it was debilitating enough not to stand, and despite the white-hot burn behind his eyes, he would make it home. 

His meeting with Karen had gone surprisingly well. Whatever way Peter had managed to offend Matt seemed to be forgiven by the end of the conversation. Matt had even made a few jokes, and Peter had started to think that maybe he wasn’t as rude as he had come across at first. 

They had just started to excuse themselves when the sirens started up across town, and Peter managed to slip out the back door to rush towards the scene Scorpion had been causing. 

Any good mood that Peter was in was stamped out with a big, green boot, as he’d nearly had his ribs cracked by Scorpion’s pulverizing tail.

But all bad things came to an end, and Peter got Scorpion detained again. He’d even managed to only get impaled in the stomach by Scorpion’s stinger, leaving him only slightly dizzy with blood loss. It was a miracle, especially with how badly Peter wanted to crawl out of his own body from the screaming of his spider-senses. 

Peter stepped towards the edge of the roof, shifting his weight hesitantly forward. He felt it then, a stabbing pain under his skin, and he choked out a groan that sent him dropping back towards the top of the roof. 

He’s not gonna let me fall. 

Peter’s brain failed to decide if it was a bad warning or not, the blood loss doing a number on his consciousness. A curled arm caught him before he could fall. His eyes tore down to the crimson, textured armor that covered a hand, and down to fingers that stood straight out so they didn’t touch his wound. 

“Careful,” A gruff voice said low near the top of Peter’s head, and he barely suppressed a shudder from running down his spine. “You need to get that stitched up. Your rib has a hairline fracture." 

Now, Peter had suffered from exsanguination a few times. The warm, sickly feeling had always been the easiest of it. But when he lost enough, he was a vomiting, disoriented mess. Life felt like a morbid nightmare, and he'd be lucky to make it home in that state. 

This? Kinda felt close to that. Peter was pretty sure he hadn't lost enough blood to hallucinate, but it wasn't exactly out of the question. 

A duck, and Peter had escaped the imprisoning hold on his back, leaving him to spin (trip) in a caged crouch. His eyes focused under his lenses and he made out the looming figure of the red antichrist gazing down. 

So. It really had been Daredevil. The vigilante that seemed annoyed by Peter on the best days had basically held him, and Peter wasn't exactly in the best shape to process that information. His stab-wound dulled in comparison to his confused panic, and he stared across for longer than he should have. 

“Don’t be stupid enough to run.” Daredevil muttered, his face stiff. 

Peter opened his lips to say something, paused, and— realizing they were alone— he did what was natural. 

In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have run, but he'd panicked a little. He was injured, and sick, and paranoid that he had sweat off his scent blockers during the shock of being stabbed. Besides, he and Daredevil weren't really friends. He wasn't ready for the man to smell his pre-heat pheromones and eventually probably track down his identity. 

He webbed his bloody hole shut and took off in a clumsy sprint towards the edge of the building. 

Peter dove off down, down, down into the lights, as they burned past his eyes as they blurred. His arm snapped up and a web caught his fall, sending him swimming through the curve of his arc. It ached to stretch his stomach muscles as his body lengthened, but he tensed up to fight some of the flexibility and protect himself. 

Peter liked to think of him and Daredevil as co-workers. Cohorts, at least. Men on equal footing- though Peter was entirely sure he could beat Daredevil in a fair fist fight. Daredevil was fast and strong but Peter was much more so. The debate hadn't really come up yet, but Peter was ready to defend his reasoning when the topic arose.

Despite any friendliness that usually involved a lack of threats on DD's end, he admittedly still scared the shit out of Peter. His stoic presence was the least inviting out of the city. Peter would rather be locked in a room with Frank Castle and Logan than share a rooftop with Daredevil for more than a few minutes. That wasn't something he said lightly, either. Frank Castle was one of the people Peter tried to avoid at all costs.

So, Peter didn't go looking for the Devil too often. A lot of the times they teamed up together, it was at Deadpool's suggestion (read as: he dragged Peter across the city to scream Daredevil's name on rooftops to summon him Bloody Mary style) or out of pure need. They worked well together, actually. Daredevil seemed to read Peter's movements within seconds, and Peter had fast enough reflexes to match Daredevil's craziest ideas. They didn’t hang out any longer than necessary when the fighting was over. Daredevil was usually out of sight before Peter could catch his breath. 

Getting back to his apartment, Peter dropped to the floor of his living room with a depleted first aid kit in hand, picking at the webbing to reveal the jagged wound. There were small, fading indents in Peter’s skin where the texture of the armor had pressed into spandex, and he tried to ignore the memory of the strong arm around his waist.

He felt sick. He felt needy. 

And he hated it. He just needed to survive the next few weeks. 

***

Work made it much harder to keep a steady mind when he was exhausted and sore. 

The stab wound was covered by a dried up and bloody bandage under Peter’s shirt, but he knew it would only take another day or two to heal. If he’d been eating a little better, it’d already be gone. Peter wasn’t in the business of self-care when it was so inconveniently expensive, so he settled for an open package of crackers that left crumbs all over his bed. 

It was crazy that MJ and Gwen always told him being a mess was keeping him from finding a partner. Peter thought he was perfectly classy. 

Sajani was in the back doing dishes, which left Peter to lean over the counter with falling eyelids, struggling to keep himself awake. He rehearsed the digits of Avogadro's number and Planck’s constant in hopes it would stimulate his brain into awakeness, but the fact he knew them by heart meant it put him further into sleep. He’d almost hunched entirely over to touch his forehead to the counter when the doorbell tinkled, and Peter shot up to attention. 

Matt stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place. The gray of his puffy jacket hid most of his neck and chin, though there was a clear, tense expression on his face. Red lenses obscured the eyes that Peter knew weren’t looking in his direction despite the curve of his face. He’d come back to the coffee shop that Peter had met him at the day before, and this time, he wasn’t with Karen. 

God, Peter wasn’t in the mood to be scolded for how rudely he’d run off. Why wasn’t that sort of thing just normal these days?

He tilted his head out of curiosity, listening to the tap-taps of Matt’s cane as he made his way towards the front. The scent Peter had smelt so strongly before was more muted. Matt stopped just short of the counter, so Peter spoke up to cover the distance. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Murdock.” 

Unexpectedly, Matt didn’t tense up at his voice. Instead, he seemed to relax a bit, like he’d be worried that Peter wouldn’t be there. Loosened up, he looked charmingly kind, much unlike any expression Matt had made the day before. He held the cane fully in his hand and turned kindly towards the register, speaking up. “Peter Parker? I was hoping I’d catch you here.” 

Peter blinked, suspiciously surprised by the change in demeanor. They had started to get along by the end of the meeting, but still not that well. “Are you sure?” 

Matt laughed good naturedly. There was a hint of guilt in the way he stood, as he cleared his throat. “I know I wasn’t the friendliest yesterday. I wanted to apologize. I’ve been a bit…protective of Karen, after some of the attacks last year at the Bulletin. And your previous associations with Spider-Man made me apprehensive that it wasn’t a random occurrence. Clearly I misjudged you. You seem like you’re passionate about your work." 

"It's fine." Peter insisted, taken aback by Matt's return. He'd been put off by the way that Matt had treated him, but it wasn't unexpected in his line of work. Besides, the fact that an alpha had gone out of his way to say sorry wasn't behavior Peter was used to. "Really. It's okay." 

Matt remained still for a moment, as if evaluating Peter's answer. When he seemed satisfied with whatever he had decided, the lawyer stood up a bit straighter, and his lips drew up in one of the most disarming smiles that Peter had ever seen. It completely changed his face, showing his spaced out but perfectly straight teeth and the deep lines around his mouth. He looked entirely different. 

"Coffee with cream?" Peter guessed. He turned his back to Matt to pour out the steaming coffee into a cheap paper cup, which he doubled up to prevent any spills. 

"You have a good memory." Matt hummed from behind. Peter’s fingers flexed around the cup before he turned to hand it over. 

This time, the smile felt less jarring, and Peter took the time to analyze Matt's face. Admittedly, he was a lot prettier than Peter had remembered, when he'd been hyper-aware of the man's suspicions. He was so focused on his inspection that he'd nearly missed what Matt was saying, until a card was held out to him. 

"...if you need anything." 

"Huh?" Peter blinked. 

Matt's lip quirked to something more like a smirk, before he repeated. "My card. I had my law partner write my cell number on it, so you can blame him if it's unreadable." 

"Oh." Peter breathed out, reaching to exchange it with the coffee cup. There was a thin line of raised bumps along it, which he recognized as braille, and the printed words "Matthew Murdock, Attorney at Law" above it. As promised, Peter traced the black scribbles of a phone number on the front, along with the words 'I'm single' beside it. 

Peter's cheeks went hot. 

"He takes creative liberties with his writing sometimes." Matt added.

"Just a number." Peter lied. 

Matt smiled back, and Peter was pretty sure his tone had given it all away, but he wasn't about to admit the words out loud. 

"Like I said, I know this line of work isn't the safest," Matt offered, his voice lowering. "I just want you to know you have a friend in the business." 

"Thanks." Peter murmured. "I'll hold onto it."

They said their goodbyes, and Matt tipped the coffee in Peter's direction as he walked out. The second they were alone, he turned towards the small kitchen area, scowling. "You dirty eavesdropper." 

Sajani dropped a dish and gave a shrieked giggle. "How do you always know?!"

Chapter Text

When Peter was in preheat, he liked surrounding himself in Wade's scent. It eased the cramps and the sensory overload when it plagued his system. He had made a habit of  breaking into Wade's bedroom at 2 am to pass out buried in his covers, or Peter would dig through Wade’s laundry basket for a well-worn shirt to kidnap. Wade was a real trooper most of the time, and he made playful jabs at Peter, claiming he was awful and obnoxious for using him for his pheromones. Peter played along. He pretended not to notice the way Wade's eyes darkened possessively when he saw Peter swamped in his clothes, or the way Wade pulled him closer in his sleep and buried his face just over Peter's bonding point. 

Peter was a terrible omega. But Wade was— admittedly— a great alpha. 

The cars outside are about to collide. 

Peter's head shot over to the window, and the crack of the impact grated his nerves. The mug in his hand shattered a second later. Peter swung his hand out reactively and dropped the shards of cheap ceramic, letting them clatter to the floor. The scent of blood from a small cut was the final weight that made Peter's stomach lurch, and his throat clenched up. 

" Nmph. ” Peter dropped onto his knees in front of the toilet as the disgusting stream of empty stomach acids poured out of his mouth. "Wade—'' he choked on the stench and flattened back against the wall, dropping his sweaty head into the plaster. He felt like shit . Worse than shit. He wanted to throttle Wade for starting such a big argument 2 weeks into his pre-heat when he was already attached to the mercenary.

His fist hit the bathroom wall. Unfortunately, he also wasn't calculating his strength, and his knuckles buried a hole into the cheap structure. Dust clouded his nose and throat. 

Peter was falling apart. Fast. 

There's going to be a kn —

Knock. The fist rapping against his front door drug Peter from his agony. 

Right. Harry. Shit. He had asked to help out with one of the circuit boards that was malfunctioning on their project. 

Slow moving, he managed to pull himself to his feet and quietly close the bathroom door to hide the evidence of his minor breakdown. He kicked the mug shards under the couch, and quickly evaluated the front room, but determined that the mess was normal for any grad student. A few empty bowls probably wouldn't lead to Harry gossiping about his deteriorating health to his girlfriends. The baseline for what they’d whisper about was pretty low, though. The three of them couldn’t keep their mouths shut. 

Peter’s mouth tasted like acid when he opened the door. He regretted not brushing his teeth, as it was making him sick all over again. But he could manage this. He could look normal to his best friend. He could smile and dig himself into something mentally taxing enough to forget how awful he felt for a couple hours. 

It’s not Harry. 

Peter fully pulled open the door, despite the chorus of his spidey senses warning him to stop. He gazed up at the visitor, then up, and up, and up, until his eyes were drawn towards the man’s much taller head. He blinked to clear the hallucination, knowing his mind was just craving the one , but it didn’t dissipate when he’d looked again. 

Godammit. 

“What—” Peter breathed in sharply. “What are you doing here?” 

“Hey, Angel,” Wade shifted in the doorway. He was wearing his Deadpool suit, wrapped around his muscles and obscuring his features from head-to-foot. It was a classic way to shut Peter out. For Wade to protect himself. Peter only knew that because he’d been called out for doing the same thing…Called out by Wade. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d check on you.” 

“You thought you’d check on me?” Peter repeated slowly. He stared up at Wade’s mask, unforgiving. Wade’s scent wafted over Peter and made him sick in an entirely different way. It smelled like safety and reassurance, home and comfort, and Peter hated him for opening the floodgates to all the heat-related insecurity that rose in reaction. 

Someone coughed in an apartment down the hall, and Peter’s hand shot out to grab hold on a strap across Wade’s chest. He tugged him inside, the mercenary stumbling and flailing to catch himself on a wall when he was past the doors. Slamming the door shut, Peter turned on Wade, his eyebrows tightly knit. 

“If I knew you missed me that much, I’d have stopped by sooner.” Wade chuckled, out of breath. He was nervous. Peter could see it in the way Wade's shoulders hunched, and he kept his chest towards Peter in natural defense. “Could be the greatest booty call of your life, baby boy—” 

Peter definitely wasn’t in the mood for the intrusive thoughts that came pummeling. He turned his back towards Wade and walked into his apartment to get distance. “Stop.” 

Wade stayed still, like an obedient bulldog. He waited for Peter to get back to his couch, and for him to slip down to sit on it, folding his arms. Wade stood at attention, gazing across through unmoving lenses, patient. 

Despite it all, Peter didn’t want to make him squirm. He gave in. “MJ’s been texting you.” He guessed. 

Wade winced. Gotcha. “I woulda come by anyways.” 

“I’m fine.” Peter wasn’t fine. Far from it. But Wade was making things worse. “Stop talking to her about me all the time. It’s weird.” 

Despite all of Wade’s strange behaviors and stupid comments, he wasn’t dumb by any means. He was a trained mercenary, and even if Peter hated to think what that meant he did to other people, he was quick to analyze situations and pick up on small details that the normal eye would miss. He’d always been able to tell when Peter was lying. When he was sick. When he’d pushed himself too far. When he was mentally at his worst. 

Peter was sure that Wade had noticed the ill twinge to his scent the moment he had stepped in. Probably the disarray his apartment was in, and the fact that Peter couldn’t stop picking at his clothes because the fabric felt like hell against his oversensitized skin. 

He’d had three heats since he had started dating Wade. The first one came 2 months after they’d started their hook-ups and subsequent food-ordering, back when they’d barely considered themselves boyfriends due to their own issues with commitments and abandonment. He hadn’t even asked Wade to help out, but the alpha had been at Peter’s apartment every day of his pre-heat, washing Peter’s sheets with fabric softener and restocking his fridge, until Wade had eventually just stayed for the real deal. It had been the first time Peter hadn’t spent half of his heat crying on the floor of the bathroom and downing sleeping pills in search of relief. When it was all said and done, and Wade had cleaned the apartment and kissed Peter’s head before he left, Wade had stopped at the door to tell him that he loved him. 

The second and third heat had been nothing short of flowers and chocolate, like the cheesy romance movies he’d been forced to watch with Aunt May in his youth. Wade had given him proper calming, proper courting. Dates and Netflix and food and make-outs. Peter had been so in love with Wade that it hurt. MJ, Gwen, and Harry invited Wade to their outings, even if Peter wasn’t there. Wade was his constant; his tether to his sense of self. His reminder that without Peter Parker, there would be no Spider-Man, and not the other way around. 

The rose-tinted glasses fell off soon after. Peter realized that his and Wade’s relationship wasn’t as healthy as it seemed. His constant became his reliance, and Wade was the worst person to depend on. Wade started to show how uncomfortable he was stuck in ‘normal’, and when their relationship became ordinary, Wade had to find ways to break out of it. They fought. They cried. They broke each other down and demanded the impossible. Their traumas made them opposites on the spectrum of self-imposed responsibility, and they could never find a way to meet in the middle. Peter thought Wade was tactless and violent, and Wade thought Peter tried to force his unrealistic standards on the world around him.

Peter loved Wade in a different way now. It wasn’t full of passion, but born of time, and knowing each other far too well. When they got like this, Peter always had trouble deciding if he should just try to let go. 

“Come on, Petey Pie. Thought we got past the lying stage by now.” Wade shuffled like a child. “I wasn’t planning to leave you high and dry. Heh. Maybe not that dry.” 

Peter’s grimace deepened. 

“Look, you only got 2 weeks-ish to go, right? I still have it penciled in my calendar. We can just do our thing like we’ve always done, and I’ll make sure you don’t starve to death.” Wade gazed across at him, hopeful, wringing his gloves until they squeaked. But it was guilt that had brought him here. Peter knew that. Peter knew Wade . 

Things were too far gone for Peter to strip himself naked and let Wade finger him until he forgot why they’d argued in the first place. He couldn’t just bend over for the mercenary and pretend not to remember the stupid things they’d yelled at each other, or the fists at each other’s throats. He was so tired of it all. For once, he just wanted to feel like he was making the right choice, even if it was the hard one. 

“I don’t want you to be in pain,” Wade continued on. “Not because of someone like me.” 

God, Peter didn’t have the room to spend hours reassuring Wade that being ‘someone like him’ wasn’t a bad thing. He needed to quiet his own brain, and get his own discomfort under control. The fact that Wade had come at all meant Peter would spend more time trying to calm his abandonment anxiety when the alpha had left him again. 

“No.” Peter finally muttered, shaking his head. “No, I can do this on my own.”

Peter didn’t have to come crawling back for help. He’d had heats alone before Wade, and he’d have them alone long after. He could manage. He had to manage.

Wade left the ‘you don’t have to’ unsaid. He nodded in slow understanding. He looked around like there was something else to bring up, another angle he could argue it at. Peter knew Wade didn’t want to be there. He knew Wade liked to run off and drown his issues in bad habits when they broke it off. They’d eventually rekindle their friendship, get back to patrols and video game nights, tweezing broken glass out of each other’s skin and massaging out sprained ankles. Until then, they needed space to put themselves back together. 

“It’s okay.” Peter meant it, as hard as it was to get the words out. It was okay for Wade to leave. Peter would find a way to make it. He always did. “I don’t need to rely on you this time. I got it.” 

It hung in the air over the both of them, all the implied finality of it biting like frozen raindrops. 

Don’t let him go. His anxiety begged. 

I have to. Peter whispered back. 

“Probably for the best.” Wade shrugged, a stiffly forced movement. He had stopped looking nervously at Peter. He’d stopped looking at Peter altogether. Peter could nearly smell the disappointed relief coming off of the alpha. Wade toed the cheap carpet, leaving a mud stain in his wake. “I’ve got un mont ó n de trabajo to get my little ol’ self through.”

Peter gave him a blank nod. He hadn’t wanted more of a reaction, but he’d prepared himself for one. Now that Wade was brushing it off, he felt numb. Exhausted from it all. 

“Maybe you’ll get to go to Albania this time.” Peter offered, his voice unbalanced. “Or Morocco.” 

Wade gave him a short nod, and something of a chuckle. “Good luck on your heat, Petey.” He said in a low tone, and then he was gone, and Peter struggled trying not to succumb to the hormonal anxiety of being left behind all over again. 

***

Sunday morning opening shifts left Peter aching worse than the rest of the week. 

He wasn’t an early morning person, mostly due to the fact that he was out until early morning most nights. But Saturday nights were busier than the rest of the week as people wandered drunk on the streets. Peter spent more time leading intoxicated people home or shoving them in taxis than he spent stopping robberies or muggings. He was never in the habit of seeing someone vulnerable and swinging by. Even if it meant pulling an all-nighter before his 4:00 AM start time. 

A quad espresso left Peter jittery, but energized enough to breeze through opening work. Customers never passed through on weekend mornings until closer to 9 am, so Peter got to experience the serenity of settling in a recliner and scrolling dully on his phone. 

After Wade had left his apartment, Harry had shown up and helped Peter troubleshoot the circuit board in no time. Peter was relieved to have one thing working in his life. But the beta had, as professionally as he could, let Peter know that it was an easy fix; a fix Peter would have identified by himself if he hadn’t been sick with his pre-heat symptoms. And it had left Peter a bit blindsided, because his relationship issues were never supposed to affect his schooling. 

But, as impersonal as Harry’s comments had been, it struck a chord. Dr. Octavius’s dream was to develop advanced prosthetic limb technology, and the 3 of them had been working under his instruction for years. They’d put their all into this years-long project, supporting their professor by any means. Peter couldn’t fall off now. He had to keep himself functioning until their prototypes were ready for the expo in 8 days.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much Peter could do on his own to alleviate the symptoms. Wade’s T-shirt had been washed after his last heat, and the pheromones that had doused it were long gone. He managed to eat a full meal during patrol the night before, and he was even planning to take a long nap later before starting on his homework. Even with the self-care, the need for an alpha’s comfort was still prevalent enough to keep Peter’s hands scratching at his skin. He was clammy, and his body was as taut as a wire. His heats had been getting worse over the years, but he hadn’t remembered feeling this bad before Wade. 

The door chimed. Peter stood reflexively. Then he stared. 

“I hope I didn’t misread the time.” Matt said, readjusting a suit jacket over his shoulders. He looked more disheveled than Peter had seen him before. A little less put together. “But I’d like to believe you’re open.” 

Peter’s voice caught in his throat. The sight of the man showing up during his shift again took him off guard. “I’m starting to think you’ve memorized my work schedule.” He joked.  He nearly tripped on the ottoman at his feet, but caught himself at the last moment, navigating back to the front counter. 

Matt chuckled good-humoredly, walking further into the cafe. His laugh was low, and graveley from the early hours. As he approached, Peter noticed the faintest darkening over his right cheekbone, like a faded bruise. “Peter? Our schedules aligning is definitely a welcome coincidence.” Matt spoke with a tired warmth. “I’ve gotten sort of addicted to the coffee here. I’m not sure what your secret to it is, but it’s always perfect.” 

“Addicted to the coffee?” Peter asked with a disbelieving grin.  He reached for the creamer that floated in ice, balancing it on his fingertips, as he poured the steaming coffee with the other hand. “You come all the way out here for beans bought from Whole Foods and some half-and-half?” He paused after he had lidded it, Matt’s arms still down at his sides. “Here. Your drink.” 

“Oh.” Matt’s hand rose, and Peter met him in the middle, sliding the cup between Matt’s waiting fingers. “Thank you. Let me get my card.” He set the cup down on the counter, and fished to produce a wallet. “It’s not too far out of the way. I have a client I was meeting rather early on this side of town.” 

Peter checked his watch. “Jeez. I guess the law doesn’t stop at 6 am.” He smiled back up at Matt, almost pityingly. He looked just as exhausted as Peter felt. Peter was glad his super-powers somewhat kept him alive when he starved himself of sleep.

“I’m a bit early.” Matt confessed as he picked up his coffee cup again. 

Peter’s eyes flickered to his knuckles. They were split open and scabbed. Concern made Peter tense up. His lips parted to ask if he was alright, but he faltered. Altogether, Matt almost looked like he'd been in a fight. It wasn’t Peter’s place to ask about it, but he was worried. He had no idea what a place with as much crime as New York City was like for someone that was blind. 

Matt cleared his throat, drawing Peter back to reality, as he spoke, “I have to head out.” He seemed a bit more strained then, and he had drawn his cup close to his chest, hiding his knuckles with the fabric of his jacket. "Thank you again.” 

“Any time.” Peter waved back, before feeling like an idiot for raising his hand. The smirk on Matt’s lips made him vaguely wonder if Matt had somehow known what he’d done, watching the lawyer disappear back out in the dark morning. 

***

The vandalized business card sat— daunting in its presence— on the corkboard of Peter’s studio apartment for days, untouched. 

Untouched, but not forgotten about. In fact, Peter was very, very tempted to call the phone number written across its back. He deliberated over paced steps and nearly ripped his hair from his scalp, as he dragged his sore legs across the 350 square feet that made up his home. Peter wanted to find something to need from Matt. The man had been perfectly, almost sickeningly , entrancing in their earlier conversation at the coffee shop. If Peter let his imagination drift enough, he could almost picture that Matt was flirting with him. But if it wasn’t just Peter’s heartbroken and wishful thinking— if, for a moment, he could trust that the lawyer was interested in him— he’d almost let himself pull the card down to reveal that sharpie marking that read ‘I’m single.’ But the logical part of his mind would kick in and stop him. 

Peter was an omega. It was a cold, hard fact of life that omegas, especially male omegas, were objectified. Sought after. Seen as a thing to be collected and used. Even if Peter was everything but a stereotype, some people looked past it enough to try to claim him. Peter wasn’t something to be claimed. Hell, he wasn’t even something to see as precious. He was rough, strong, stubborn, and impulsive. He lied to people he cared about. His instincts were to throw punches and jokes, and not to care for others, especially not himself. If anyone thought they’d get Peter Parker to lie down and take orders, they’d be in for a harsh surprise. 

Furthermore, in his current condition, Peter couldn’t trust that his interest in Matt was genuine. He was desperate to feel better, and that desperation could have easily manifested as a sudden interest in the first attractive alpha to look his way. He’d never liked alphas. Never felt comfortable around most of them. The only reason he’d ever gotten past that with Wade was Wade’s own disregard of his secondary gender. Ruts and heats had been technical with them. They weren’t something to fantasize about. They helped each other because they loved one another. Not the other way around. 

Peter had been so used to being claimed and bitten up, to smelling like Wade for the month leading up to his heat, that he’d forgotten what it was like to be alone. The sort of attention he had to be cautious of. 

His middle school health lessons came flooding back. Heats were sacred and had to be shared with the right person. They needed to find their ‘one,’ dig their nails in, and hold on tight. Omegas were seen as ‘delicate’ and ‘naive.’ Alphas and betas knew that, and if omegas weren’t careful, they’d end up getting used.

Peter was far too aware of himself to end up getting used by an alpha. At least he was when he was feeling his best. Now, he was growing desperate for relief. He wasn’t sure how well he trusted his own judgment.  

His skin was on fire. He hated the roughness of his sheets against his bare arms and neck. The combination of the textures sent his body spiraling into anxious overstimulation. Peter sat up to tear his t-shirt off and tossed it aside, staring agonized at the ceiling. He thought of what Wade would do, if he were there. He’d be waiting with water, with snacks. Calming music, and a promise that New York could survive a Sunday afternoon without Peter’s monitoring. He’d kiss Peter’s neck, his chin, his collarbone. His hand would sink down towards his jeans, unbuttoning them with a simple flick, easy as breathing. Peter wouldn’t be overthinking by then. He’d be putty. He’d be wanting. 

Peter’s fingers wrapped around his dick as he gave a soft hiss, his hand so much colder than he expected from the wintery cold. He gave a testing pump and his hips jolted. It was a burning sort of sensitivity, as he started to work himself up until he was fully hard. It felt like icing a sore muscle. Stinging relief that ached deep in his stomach. 

Peter took it slow. It had been a while since he’d gotten the time to jack off. He fisted his dick slowly for a couple of minutes, until the burning had died down to an ache in his abdomen. His thumb brushed over his slit, spreading the growing wetness down his shaft. It started to feel better then. Pleasure throbbed through him in muted waves, enough to build towards an orgasm, but not enough to touch the deepest need that punctured him like pins. 

He came with a stifled moan, shy with it, even in the isolation of his apartment. He laid in his covers for a few long moments, trying to decide if the short moment of pleasure had done anything to relieve his symptoms. He felt a little less clammy, but it wasn’t a magical fix. 

He somehow found the energy to get out of bed. 

Getting redressed was a painstaking process. He didn’t own very many soft clothes due to his hobby of shopping in wholesale graphic tees. Even his favorite sweater felt like paper. It was the best he had, so he shoved it on, and started to pack up his notebooks in his backpack. 

If he wasn’t going to head out on patrol, he could get work done at the ESU labs. Maybe if he got ahead, he’d feel less inclined to stress about their project closer to his actual heat, when he would really start to fall apart. 

***

Being in the cool, nearly-winter air helped Peter’s mind refocused. He’d always been particularly susceptible to low temperatures, and wind was an easy way to send him skittering inside to shiver away. But its numbing effect cleared some of the distress. Pulled him out of himself. Let him read through his notes and clumsily crafted to-do list before he reached ESU’s campus. 

Late on a Sunday, most of the campus was closed down. The sidewalks were empty, save for a few wandering pedestrians or Freshmans escaping their dorms. The fountains were turned off due to the cold, and for what it was worth, it was unusually quiet in the courtyards that led to the neuroscience labs. He was better able to focus on the music playing through his cheap earbuds without distraction. When he’d reached the double glass doors, Peter drew out his ID card, blessedly given advanced permissions to access certain buildings on off days, and the doors beeped to let him into the dim hallways. 

The soft drone of Weezer let Peter’s mind drift, as he walked past doors to student labs and empty classrooms. He stepped over scattered papers that were bleeding out of lecture halls, and sidestepped a textbook left behind on the ground. He was used to scientists being messy, but, Man, things had gotten worse with the expo approaching. 

‘You are fading further from me. Why don’t you come home to me?’ Peter readjusted an earbud as he skipped a few stairs, hopping up towards the top of the 3rd floor staircase. It was significantly colder when Peter tugged open the door leading to the labs. He shivered and drew his jacket tighter around himself, stepping out into the hallway. 

Danger.

Something was wrong. He stared around the dark hallway, searching for the source of it. The lightbulbs had been broken out. Beakers were shattered across tiles, and chairs were disturbed from their classrooms, thrown uselessly against the hallway walls. Peter tugged out his earbud, listening past the tinny scream of ‘ Hold me!’ continuing to play from his hand. 

There’s someone in Dr. Octavius’s lab. 

Peter’s head shot in the direction of the room, just as there was a shriek of metal being pried apart from inside. He grabbed his backpack and threw it off to the side, webbing it onto a table. He hadn’t been planning to go out in costume, but he also wasn’t about to let anyone tear up his sanctuary. 

Clothes tossed off to the side, Peter threw himself up on the ceiling, crawling nimbly towards the classroom. He hoped to catch the intruder by surprise before they had the chance to break anything expensive. They’d already done a number on the lab supplies, and he was pitying whoever would be called to clean it all up. 

Peering past the doorway, Peter spotted a collection of sculpted, metal feathers surrounding a hunched over body. The bird-like wings and the bald head of the man was enough for Peter to recognize him with an annoyed stab in the gut. 

A line of webbing shot out from Peter’s wrist, sticking to a thin, boney shoulder, wrenching it back, just as he dropped down behind him. Leaning casually on Dr. Octavius’s desk, Peter mused, “You know, Toomes, I think you got this thing all wrong. Vultures don’t actually make nests. You don’t have to scavenge this much.” 

The mechanisms of Toomes’s wings whirred, and the razor sharp wings of his harness spread apart. Peter had had enough bloody battles with Adrian Toomes to know by now that he was in an awful position for trying to take him down. Closed spaces made it incredibly difficult to escape the slicing of his feathers and clawed feet. He didn’t exactly have a plan, besides trying not to lose a leg. 

“Spider-Man,” Toomes croaked. He looked worse for wear. The Rift had certainly done a number on him, but he wasn’t supposed to be out yet. Peter needed to have a sharp word with whatever hero had been on animal-catching duty. “Why are you always showing up where you don’t belong?”

“Haven’t you seen the news? I’m usually called more of a ‘pest’ these days.” Peter spotted the source of the creaking metal, the door of Dr. Octavius’s safe ripped apart. One of the prosthetic arm bases had been pulled out of its casing, currently residing in Toomes’ hand. “Put that down, Toomes. You don’t know how many caffeine-induced heart attacks these students put into that thing.”

Toomes sneered. “Then they won’t have trouble creating more.” 

Move now!

A zing ran up Peter’s spine. He peeled off back out the doorway, rolling behind a wall just as a sonic grenade exploded where he’d been standing. It rocked Peter’s body to the core, ringing overtaking his hearing and a sick blindness rocking his head. He dropped his forehead to his knees, steadying breaths being the only thing that kept him from retching in his mask. It took longer than normal for Peter to reorient himself. By the time he’d stumbled back to his feet, the window had been blown out, and Toomes was soaring through the skies. 

“Shit!” Peter hissed out, already dreading the extra lab time and the overnight engineering sessions that would be required to recreate one of their 4 arm bases. Toomes wasn’t getting away. No amount of nausea would stop Peter from getting the invention back. 

Peter shook himself out, then took bounding steps across the room, launching himself in a dive out the shattered glass. Toomes was flying quickly, and Peter would struggle to catch up with him at his normal rate. He searched for every ounce of energy he had left, tightened his muscles, and pulled on his webs harshly. His shoulders screamed at the sharp transfers of his weight but he wasn’t going to give up easily. 

Manhattan blurred by underneath them. Peter tried to land shots on the Vulture wings, but Toomes cut through single strands of web like air. Peter was breathing harder with each city block they passed, and his stomach had started to hurt worse. The distance between them was growing in front of Peter’s eyes. As a last ditch effort, he threw out a web that he managed to catch on the back of Toomes ankle, and sent all of his bodyweight skyrocketing towards Toomes in an inelegant somersault. 

Peter took a claw to the cheek, but held on tight to Toomes’s armored calf. He shot a web up towards the bird-like glove, managing to snag it and rip his hands apart. The prosthetic base fell down towards Peter, and his waiting hand stretched out to grab it. But he’d miscalculated, forgetting that Toomes was always learning. Always adjusting after his past fights with the hero. 

The calf armor hissed, and disconnected from Toomes’s leg in pieces. Falling towards the waiting ground, Peter went with it, unable to find another purchase to grab before he was hurtling. He could only watch, uselessly, as Toomes scooped up the prosthetic base and took off towards the skies, far above the height of the buildings, where Peter wouldn’t be able to follow. 

Peter was good at falling by that point in his superpowered career. He caught himself on the corner of a tower and swung around in a large arch until he could perch up on an awning. When he looked up again, Toomes had completely disappeared. Peter’s vision was splotchy with colors, disoriented, and panicked, knowing just how much work they’d have to get done now before the expo. 

And why Dr. Octavius? His invention was incredible, but kept well under wraps. It was being made purely for the good it could do. While the science behind it was extraordinary, Peter couldn’t see why Toomes would risk getting sent back to the Rift just to steal a piece of it. Especially when the spinal connection wasn’t even close to operable or safe. He didn’t like that his school was being targeted by a notable supervillain. It was worse that it was his long-time professor and his friends. 

Peter collapsed back on the fabric of the awning, splaying out to give his aching joints a rest. He needed to head back to ESU and gather his things, then call the police. But, for once, he just wanted one short moment of rest. His headphones dangled from where they were snagged under his suit neckline, his phone tucked in the waistband of his pants. He grabbed one of the buds, shoved it in his ear, and let his eyes slide shut, as the lyrics of ‘Losing my Mind’ flooded his senses. He stretched out again, and breathed out in a slow sigh. He could use a break. 

‘ I’m losing my mind. I’m going insane. I’m watching my life go down the drain.’ 

Chapter Text

Peter had seen Dr. Octavius when he was angry before. This time had been scarily different. Their professor didn’t yell. He didn’t make curt comments or blame the students for the robbery. When Gwen and Harry had arrived at the school, and Peter had changed back into his civvies and finished talking with campus security about what he had ‘seen,’ they walked into the lab in a huddle of worry. They were prepared for the worst. Prepared to be told that they had to lose more sleep to be sure they finished for the expo. 

Dr. Octavius wouldn’t look at them. He hunched over his desk, his fingers clenching on the surface, veins straining in his arms, muttering quietly to himself. It was tense, almost incoherent whispers, acknowledgements of threats to his work, to his future. Worry that he would fail. Worry that this meant the end for…for someone Peter couldn’t decipher, even with super hearing. 

The three students set to work on cleaning up the lab to give their professor space, putting the books that hadn’t been destroyed back in their place, and assessing the glassware and tools. They worked in silence, sparing one another occasional concerned glances. When the lab was as clean as it would get, Harry was the one to approach the desk. 

He cleared his throat. “Dr. Octavius.” 

Their professor’s head stayed down, but the muttering stopped. 

Harry tried again. “We’ll all work as hard as we can to fix this.”

Catch it. 

Peter jumped forward, and his fingertips had barely stuck onto one of the pieces of the prosthetic before it could hit the ground, saving it from the impact. Dr. Octavius had thrown it off to the side in anger, his breath shallow, eyes wide and hysterical. 

“Fix this?” Dr. Octavius bit out. His fist hit the desk, and Harry took a retreating step away. “This isn’t as easy as recreating my technology, Osborn. These are monsters that we’re competing with. I’ve put you all, as well as myself, in danger. They won’t stop until they’ve gotten all of it.” 

“The heroes will arrest the Vulture.” Gwen piped up, her voice gentle. “I’m sure we can finish before the expo, sir.” 

Dr. Octavius did something Peter had never seen him do before. Something that none of them would have imagined seeing in their life. 

He started to laugh. 

It was rough. Amused, as if they were naive children. 

“We were never going to make it to the damn expo.” 

Dr. Octavius turned his back to them then, picking up one of the remaining prosthetic bases. His fingertips brushed over the wires of the spinal connectors. 

It was Peter’s turn to try to reason with him. He set the piece he was holding on the desk, watching Dr. Octavius carefully. “We’ll work to finish the 3 prosthetics that we have all the pieces to.” He promised. “That’s enough to show the investors.” 

“I need you all to get out.” Dr. Octavius’s back stayed to them. His fingers continued to fiddle with the connectors. When he didn’t hear the three of them move, his voice rose to a much more demanding shout. “ Out! ” 

They shuffled back into the hallway. Peter pulled the door shut behind them, letting it slide into place, closing them off.

“I’ve never seen him like this.” Gwen looked up at them, her eyes hurt. “This is…” 

“It’ll be fine.” Harry drew his arm around her, and planted a soft kiss on the top of her hair. “Like Pete said, we still have the 3 other arms. If we move around some pieces, they’re basically done. A few test runs, and we’ll be good to go.” 

“Any idea where he went, Peter?” Gwen asked under her breath. 

Peter had no clue. Toomes’s lab had been raided years ago. It would be insane for him to hide back there. He shook his head, guiltily. “I’ll ask around.”

Harry reached out with his other hand, catching Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t push yourself too hard, man.” His eyebrows knit. “You really don’t look good. And your scent is… off.” 

“Wade isn’t helping out?” Gwen asked. 

The mention of Wade made Peter’s throat feel tight.

It wasn’t Wade’s fault that Peter had said no. He wasn’t Wade’s responsibility. Yeah, it sucked that Wade had been caring for him when their break-up happened. It sucked that Peter felt an inch from going crazy most of the time. And it sucked that his life was getting incredibly messy in the process of trying to cope. Wade was a nice enough guy to offer to take care of him, even when he probably couldn’t stand the sight of Peter. Despite their issues, he really was a good person. 

“I told him I didn’t want it.” Peter confessed. 

Gwen looked disapproving. “Peter—” 

“I don’t want to spend it with him.” Peter said firmly. “I swear, if I can’t figure out how to get through this without dying, I’ll call for help. But I don’t want Wade to be that person.” 

Gwen’s lips opened to argue again, but a squeeze from Harry caused her to keep quiet. Harry gave Peter an understanding smile, though the worry was evident in his eyes.

“Just finish the rest of your portion, and Gwen and I can handle the fixes and assembly. And, you know, if you need anyone to take you to the heat center…” Harry gave a half-shrug, to fight through the embarrassing implications. “Text me.” 

“Yeah,” Pink spread over Peter’s cheeks and ears, and he gave his own dismissive nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

***

Peter got the highly dreaded call from Aunt May mid-patrol. 

Ol’ J.J. must have managed to hold out on tattling to her for 3 whole days. It was a record for either J.J. or Peter. May frequently asked about their work, and— if they seemed slightly off in their answer— she was a master at interrogating the truth out of them. When she set her mind to knowing something, she wouldn’t back down until she was sure they weren’t lying. May would make the CIA crack. She was good. 

The second Peter saw her caller ID, his blood ran cold. It was too late for her to be calling for anything but business. He was taking a break from swinging anyways and had nestled himself onto a couch that sat atop a fancy rooftop lounge, munching on deli meat and a stale granola bar. He’d at least been making an effort to take care of himself to alleviate his symptoms. It wasn’t working much, but it was better than wallowing in discomfort for 2 weeks. 

‘May Parker’ stared back at him for a disturbingly long amount of time. Normally, Peter would be in a rush to answer. Now…

“Shit.” Peter dropped his legs off the side of the wicker couch, debating if he should just ignore the call. It wasn’t until his senses so helpfully warned him that this was the last ring that he finally clicked to pick up, raising the phone to the side of his mask. 

“Hey—”

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” Came May’s admonishing reply. 

Peter lowered his head. Jameson had done it now. 

“Miss you, too.” Peter tried. 

May sighed long on the other end of the line. Then she spoke again. “Of course I miss you, sweetie. But what is this about threats?” 

Peter choked. “Threats? Come on, I was not threatening J.J. He said my photos sucked, so I went to the Bulletin. Really, they’re great people, May. Their Editor in Chief even looked like he’d be a nice husband.” 

He so wasn’t bitter about their marriage. Not at all. Why would he care that his Aunt had married the boss he’d complained about since he was fifteen?

It had been a little bit of a shock, when he’d realized why May suddenly was home a lot less, and why he’d been more free to come and go as Spider-Man without watching for her. He’d caught May and Jameson kissing outside a restaurant while he was out on patrol, and had only just managed to avoid hurling in his mask. 

But he’d had Wade back then. Wade made finding an apartment easy. He even paid the security deposit, and chipped in for Peter’s shitty couch. Wade had made sure he was okay. He’d been the ear for Peter to complain to about his terrible luck.

He couldn’t think about Wade. Couldn’t think about Wade. Couldn’t. Think. About Wade.

May’s small laugh never failed to make Peter grin. “Honey, of course he didn’t think they…’sucked.’ He let me know he regretted how he phrased it.” 

“Bet he didn’t regret leaving me dry on rent this month, though.” Peter muttered back. 

Bad Peter. 

“Do you need help?” May asked gently, though Peter knew she couldn’t afford it, even if he said yes. Jameson paid the bills where he could, but he had his own family and grandkids to care for. “I can drop money off this weekend. Just let me move some things around.” 

May and Ben had never been able to afford to raise Peter. Even when Ben was still around, their incomes had barely been enough to cover their mortgage and bills, much less raising a child. It hadn’t gotten better after Ben had died. Still, May had always put Peter’s needs first. His schooling. Heat supplies. Food for his unending hunger. Science textbooks and replacement backpacks every time they were stolen from back alleys. He wouldn’t let her support him when she was nearly old enough to retire from her exhausting nursing position. 

Peter spoke, before she could decide to follow through. “Actually, the Bulletin bought my pictures. I’ll send you a newspaper when they’re released.” 

Technically, he hadn’t been paid yet. But he hoped that the cash would be in his hand before he was forced to take work off for a week. 

He could practically hear May’s smile through the phone. “I’m glad you made it work. You always do.”

“I could use one favor, though.” Peter added. “Don’t let J.J. fire me. I don’t think my career at the Bulletin is gonna last for very long. I’m not a regular at catching Daredevil.” 

“You won’t get fired. He loves you. John just has trouble showing it.” 

Peter gagged on his chocolate chip. He’d never get used to hearing that name come out of her mouth, despite how many family dinners he was pulled into. “It’s just nice having backup, you know?” 

“I understand.” May hummed. “I love you, sweetie. I’ll talk to you soon.” 

Peter said his soft goodbyes and collapsed back on the seat as soon as the phone line clicked off.

Chapter Text

He knew he'd been passed out for far too long on the roof when he stirred awake and realized he wasn’t alone. 

Panic shot through Peter like electricity, sharp and aching. Every muscle down to his hands was tense and rigid. He hadn't meant to fall asleep in public, much less when he wasn't in the best shape. He was clumsy, and with his sleep-starved brain offline, he was sure he was going to pay for it. 

The chair clattered back, as Peter's hand tightened on its upper bar, and used it for momentum to flip off. He was ready to defend himself, his fists raised in front of him. His eyes gradually focused. Humiliation struck him when he realized that it was Johnny that had been sitting by his ankles. 

"Wow." Johnny's eyebrows flew up to his hairline, his eyes wide. Peter didn't freak out often. Not like this. "I really didn't mean to scare you, dude." 

"Y-you-" Peter choked, breathless. His heart hammered. His skin was clammy. God, he could barely breathe. "You… shit." 

Peter sunk to the ground so he wouldn't collapse, steadying his head. He was going to be sick. He could smell his scent, permeating the blockers he wore on his neck. It was growing stronger, burning his nose.

He jolted at hot hands on his shoulders, taken by surprise. Johnny's face swam into view and frowned down at him. Peter dropped his masked face like Johnny would see right through the spandex.

"You're not going into heat." It wasn't a question. Johnny sounded desperate for reassurance. "Right? Even if your scent is-"

"I'm not." Peter clarified quickly, before Johnny's imagination could wander too far. "I'm just sick." 

"You're sure? Because you really smell like…" 

"...Maybe a wave." Peter conceded. He reached up to brush Johnny's hands off. "Don't look at me like you're planning to help." 

Johnny laughed at that, tense and concerned, as he backed up, to give Peter space. "You don't seem right. Sorry. I know you hate when people do stupid things like care about you, but this feels…not normal. Even for you." 

Peter pushed his mask up to his nose, swallowing a frigid mouthful of air. He shivered against the night, guessing it was close to morning already. He hated sleeping outside, always ending up aching and sick. He'd passed out without thinking about it. His sleep had been lacking more than normal. 

"It's not." Peter muttered. 

Heatwaves hit early sometimes, during preheat. They could be dangerous, if Peter was in the wrong situation. He couldn’t risk anyone getting a whiff of omega and working to narrow down his identity. Usually, he stayed in the few days before his heat, to lower the risk of falling into one. 

This wave was too early. He shouldn’t have been feeling this feverish over a week before his heat.  It was probably triggered by the anxiety of being alone. That deep part of himself, where he bottled up the omega behaviors and instincts, was panicking that Wade was gone. He didn’t have enough practice to ease it.

Peter gave a short sigh, and shakily stood on his feet. "Everything's messy right now." He dug his palm into his lenses, trying to ground himself. “With W—…Uh. My health.”

“If there’s one thing I know about you, Pete, you don’t take alphas.” Johnny cut-in when Peter had trailed off. He wore a sympathetic smirk, but he looked nervous that Peter would fall into a deeper heat wave any second, and he’d be the beta responsible for watching over him. Johnny wasn’t a caring-for-omegas sort of guy. “I don’t doubt that you'd somehow make all this stuff harder.” 

Peter laughed miserably under his breath, finally dropping his hand from his face. The wave wasn’t too bad. He’d wait a few minutes for it to burn off, then swing home and take care of it. “Don’t tell me someone else sent you to check up on me.” 

Johnny raised an inquisitive eyebrow again. “No, actually. I was just passing by.” He pursed his lips. “Is this one of those moments I should be offering to take you back to see Reed? Or calling Banner? I’m used to you malfunctioning, but…” he let the question hang between them. 

Peter opened his lips to answer, immediately ready to brush it off. 

He didn’t. The words wouldn’t come out. 

Peter floundered for a moment, struggling to speak. Maybe help sounded good. Maybe, despite his totally platonic bro-ship with Johnny, he just needed one night of letting someone soothe his aches. 

Finally, Peter choked out, “I’m good.” He fixed his mask, his face the red of humiliation. Johnny didn’t look convinced, but the question had purely been obligatory, anyways. He was probably relieved Peter hadn’t taken him up on his offer. Peter had never known Johnny to be the caring type. 

To really seal the deal, Peter managed to continue his mutters. “I have a plan. You know, a uh.. a person. A place. The important stuff.”

Johnny gave a stiff nod. “Yeah, I bet.” 

Peter shuffled where he stood, more than aware that he hadn't reassured Johnny in the slightest. If he was lucky, Johnny would brush the whole thing off, and not think about it again. Maybe he'd mention it briefly to Sue and she'd dismiss Peter's self-destructive behavior as 'boys being boys.' 

Or, Johnny would tell Sue and Reed, and Peter would end up with a voice-mail lecture from one of them, or way too much information about his personal life being passed around Baxter Building. 

Peter cleared his throat. "Thanks for waking me up, man." Johnny's attention span could be swayed by stroking his ego. He had far too much practice in redirecting him like a little kid. "I like what you're doing with your hair." 

Johnny was cracking. Fighting the urge to talk about it. 

"I bet you're busy, so I'm glad you found time to stop in and say hi." Casual steps, Parker. Straight towards the edge of the roof. "I'll see you around, Hot Stuff." 

Johnny's face changed, as a glowy warmth replaced the concern. It was a perfectly executed deflection. "I have plenty of time for you, stupid. You—" 

"Shit, I just remembered something." Peter stepped off the edge of the roof with a thwip of his web. "Nicetalk, seeya'later." He spit out fast, disappearing out of sight and praying that Johnny would focus on his own sex life instead of Peter's.

Peter tumbled in through his apartment window and tore off his suit piece by piece. The sweat made it stick to his skin, and he struggled to peel the spandex off his shoulders and back. But soon enough, he’d kicked his pants off to the side and shimmied out of his top, barely shoving his web shooters out of the way before he was grabbing his dick and squeezing it, his stomach quivering with the pressure he felt in the deepest recesses of his stomach. His arms trembled, struggling to manage the self-control to let go of himself. He dragged his hand off and forced himself to head to the bathroom, flipping on the water. While the old pipes rattled to life and the meager water stream gradually grew lukewarm, Peter set a slow pace, stroking himself, and his heart pounded needily in his ears. 

He couldn’t keep doing this. 

Peter didn’t like being defined by being an omega. He’d lived more years of his life without the pressure of heats and hormones than with them. The second he’d presented, he’d felt like it was all just one cruel joke. He was supposed to be helping people, and instead, he was told his existence would be defined by needing someone to take care of him. 

But even with years of self-hatred and neglect of his biological needs, it hadn’t changed that Peter was an omega. He couldn’t escape it. At some point after graduating highschool and starting to date Wade, he’d realized he was fine with that designation. As long as he wasn’t treated like the needy homemakers in the movies. As long as he wasn’t objectified. As long as he was still allowed to pick who he wanted to help him. 

Peter could ignore his omega status most of the year. His enhanced senses had made scents a challenge in the beginning. He struggled to stay cool when he was being flooded with pheromones and commands. Presenting late meant less time to adjust to it all before he was shoved into a world of alphas and betas that knew how to manipulate their voices and their scents to their advantage. But he’d eventually grasped it. He’d managed to figure out how to track his slightly erratic heats. And, when he’d found Wade, he’d learned just how much alpha attention he needed before his heat. 

Most of the omegas he’d read about thrived off of 2 to 3 weeks of casual comfort from their partner. After all, heats were a pretty brutal time. They left omegas plagued with anxiety and insecurity, desperate to feel safe, to feel like their partner was committed to their family. He’d memorized all of the health facts for every test. He’d learned about the process of a heat cycle, about the biological reasonings for betas and why humans had evolved in such a way. When he still thought he was a beta, he’d learned that the omegas were ‘those guys’ and the alphas were ‘the others’ and he was more than okay with the fact that he’d never have to worry about heats or ruts for himself.

Until he presented.

His heats weren’t like the ones he’d read about. 3 weeks of sex, pheromones, and comfort was fine, but he did better with an entire month. Peter had blamed it on his powers, though he’d never had time to research the mutation’s effects fully. He didn’t need too much comforting, but a consistent alpha presence was enough. Admittedly, Wade had always been the one that let Peter shut his brain off, to let Wade take care of the knitty-gritty details. Peter had been more than okay with the arrangement if it took stress off his plate. Over nearly 4 years of heats, he hadn’t even noticed when Wade took extra care to start watching over Peter when it was that month. Wade made sure things were good. 

Except this time. When Peter had spent so many days with Wade that he barely lived at his own apartment, and they’d made it through half of his soothing time— into the most hormonal and stressful part of his pre-heat— and then they’d separated. He was 10 or so days off of his heat, and his body was sure that he’d been abandoned. That he was vulnerable. It was worse being left than if he hadn’t gotten help from Wade at all. 

So. Peter felt like shit. And his senses were out of control. And even jacking himself off under the stream of the tepid waterfall barely helped relieve the ache of his desertion-driven full-body freak out. Pre-heat care with Wade would have been so easy, if Peter hadn’t nearly kicked him out of the country. Or if he even felt somewhat comfortable with the idea. 

Peter was only able to bask in the glow of his orgasm for a minute before he felt the heat symptoms pounding again behind his eyes. It would be difficult to fall asleep, still worked up, but sleep was the only thing that would get him through the wave. He washed his hair, his fingernails scrubbing roughly at his roots for a distracting stimulus, and nudged the water off when he was clean enough. 

He walked dazedly to the dresser his scent blockers sat on, eyeing them. They were strong, an Oscorp creation, which covered his scent enough that no one had noticed it when he went out as Spider-Man. Peter never wore them in his every-day life (originally because they had been too expensive; now he just minded his scent less). Harry and Johnny had both been able to tell he was struggling by his scent alone, though, and Peter was tired of fielding questions about it. He thought about putting them on before he went to bed, so he didn’t smell too heavily of it in the morning. But…

He dropped back into the bed instead, crawling naked under the covers, and flipped off the dusty, crooked lamp on his bedside. Surviving the night until work was his priority. So he forced his eyes to shut and tried to let his mind wander to thoughts far from alphas and sex.

***

It was Peter’s first time seeing a positive news headline printed beside a photo he’d taken of himself, and it was strangely embarrassing. 

Karen had sent him the link to the electronic posting early in the morning, when it had first gone live. "Tombstone Buried — 'Heroes' Work to End Gang-Led Drug Trade." The picture that had been chosen was one of Peter’s better shots. It was framed by the cables of a boat’s sail. Peter had been crouched behind Wade, and just to his side was Daredevil. He hadn’t remembered standing so close to the vigilante. He was certain he wouldn’t have done so voluntarily. But in several of the photos, he and Daredevil had ended up near one another. It was weird that he hadn’t noticed it before. 

Following the link was an unlabeled address, and an invitation. 

From Karen:

Can you meet me there tomorrow around 12? I’ll have your paycheck from the Bulletin. 

From Peter:

I’ll be there. 

Thanks for everything.

From Karen: 

Your photos were the reason we had a story to run.

You’re good at what you do. 

From Peter:

Tell that to my boss at the Bugle. 

From Karen:

Well, my boss certainly thinks so. You’ll see them both tomorrow when you come by.

***

From Harry:

Ock no-showed to class this morning. No one's seen him yet. 

Gwen and I are going to work until you get here. 

This is getting pretty weird, Pete. 

***

“So, this is the guy who idolizes the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” 

Peter offered his hand with a polite smile, gazing across at Foggy Nelson. Foggy was warm and confident, in a way that really complemented Matt’s cool demeanor. It was clear why they made efficient business partners. 

“I’m not sure ‘idolizes’ is the right word.” Peter laughed in return, and once they’d shaken hands, he crossed his arms self-consciously over his chest. 

Peter hadn’t minded taking the trip out to meet Karen in the afternoon. The building was only a few minute’s ride further than the newspaper, and he was desperate to get things cashed in time for his short break from work. To his surprise, following the address had led him to a corner business in a small building, with a plaque reading ‘Nelson & Murdock Attorneys at Law’ plastered at the front. While Peter knew that Matt and Karen were some sort of friends, he hadn’t expected to head to the law office of the alpha that had been a sudden regular at the coffee shop. 

Matt was with a client when Peter went in, but Karen sat at the front desk, leaned over in her computer chair and chatted through quiet giggles to a stocky blond man that had whispered, ‘You were right. He’s totally his type,’ before introducing himself properly. 

Peter spared a glance back at the closed door of Matt's office, as he heard the scraping of chairs, and the tone of voice that sounded like a conclusion to a conversation. His heart did a funny movement in his chest, and he drug his attention back to the two in front of him. “I’m kinda surprised,” he admitted, after a moment. “Every time Stark’s in a legal bind, I always see your names attached to the court cases. I didn’t expect you guys to be so far into Hell’s Kitchen.” 

“It’s the home turf.” Foggy said with a short chuckle, just as charming as Matt, if not a little more genuinely so. “I don’t think either of us would be happy moving further into Manhattan or the corporate world. The Avenger’s stuff is just to support our pro-bono work.” His eyebrow raised. “Which was all Matt’s idea, by the way. He’s a pretty generous guy, even if his people-skills could use some work.” 

Peter’s eyes flickered to Karen, watching her discreetly pinch Foggy on the wrist, though she was biting her lip to suppress a grin. “Peter met him twice. He knows by now.” 

Three times. But he supposed Matt kept the last coffee-shop visit to himself. 

Peter felt a bit like he was missing a joke, so he just nodded on with his own smile, shuffling lightly. Part of him hauntedly wondered if he was the joke they couldn’t seem to stop smirking about. The twisting of the doorknob behind them made him grow antsier. 

“I’ll get that cash.” Karen finally said, as Matt’s office opened. She fiddled with papers and produced a green envelope, holding it out at the same time that Matt’s voice floated through the room, dividing Peter’s attention. 

“Please contact us, if anything changes.” Matt walked behind his client, an older woman who hobbled towards the exit. His hand supported her elbow, and as he passed, Peter felt momentarily dazed by the intensity of his scent. He hadn’t noticed that the entire building smelled like Matt. Maybe even the street. 

Peter blinked to refocus on Karen, reaching out to accept the envelope. As she promised, it contained 6 hundred dollar bills, and he nearly melted in quiet relief, stuffing it away in his jacket pocket so he wouldn’t drop it from the shakiness of his fingers. 

The door to the office shut behind him. Matt’s steps were quiet, leading up behind Peter. Thankfully, he crossed through them to lean on the edge of Karen’s desk, taking his scent with him, facing Peter rather than standing beside him. His suit jacket hung open, draped at his sides. 

He smiled at first, in Peter’s direction, but it gradually turned to a frown. Peter wasn’t entirely sure what he had done wrong. 

“It’s nice to see you again, Peter.” Matt said after a moment, though his tone was just as friendly as it had been at the coffee shop the morning before. He schooled his face into something much more pleasant, rather than openly grimacing at Peter. 

“You’d probably find it a lot nicer if you could see him.” Foggy whispered. 

"We were ordering takeout." Karen cut in, and her thin hands clapped together in front of her face in a giddy way. "If you like Thai, this place is fantastic." 

"We did order you a meal already. It’d be rude to turn us down." Foggy added.

Matt gave a tortured sigh, despite the amusement on his face. "They'd like you to stay." He concluded. "I would too, if you have the time." 

Peter did have somewhere to be— at school, working on his expo project. But he also hadn't eaten a proper meal in a while. Work didn't stand a chance. 

The office didn't have many surfaces that weren't covered in papers and folders, cardboard boxes and pieces of a disassembled 1990's style copier. Karen had taken her desk, and Foggy had trudged towards his own. Peter, on the other hand, was invited back to Matt's office, as his desk was seemingly cleanest. 

It was strange, that something as small as a generous gift of takeout could bring grateful tears prickling in his eyes. He wasn't nauseous for once, and the sauces were so much better than the unflavored, frozen food he was used to. But with everything so shitty lately, the quiet moments of devouring his food were the emotional break he didn't know he needed so badly. 

When Peter had set down his fork, polishing off the last of his pad thai, he heard Matt clear his throat, and looked up to see the lawyer tilting his head. 

"Did you finish?" Matt asked. It didn’t sound like a judgment, or in disgust of his unusually high hunger. 

Peter shut the lid on the tray, holding onto it loosely. "Yeah." He admitted. "Thanks for getting your partner to guilt trip me into staying."

Matt's lips softened, warmer than before. He was incredibly different from their first meeting. If he had met Matt like this, and hadn’t been the subject of his roughness, he wouldn’t believe that Matt even had a harder side. "He did that all on his own. Karen’s been talking you up all week.”

“She has?” Peter relaxed back into the seat. The heater blew comfortable air overhead and the starvation had been pushed off to the back of his mind. "What about you? Did you tell Mr. Nelson how amazing you think my coffee-brewing skills are?" 

"I might have kept that a secret. Just for me." Matt chuckled in return, setting his mug down and reaching instead for his food. 

Peter blinked when another take-out container slid in front of him, identical to his own. He glanced up questioning at Matt. Matt had moved already and he was pulling out papers with braille raised on the surface. He smoothed them out before him and ran fingertips along a line in the middle of the page. 

After a moment, Matt gave a short snort under his breath, pausing his reading. "If you're still hungry.” He explained about the food he’d offered. Matt raised a thick eyebrow before Peter could object. "We don't have a fridge for me to store the leftovers, so you'd be doing me a favor."

The alluring, savory smell of the chicken drew Peter in without much argument. He pushed the lid open and his stomach growled, beckoning. His fork dug in and he nearly melted at the taste, relieved that, for one meal, he’d feel some semblance of eating enough. 

Matt went back to his work just as Peter swallowed down his bite. "I didn't believe a word of that, by the way." 

Matt broke into a chuckle that sounded loose and breathy, a lot more natural than the controlled way he always seemed to carry himself. Peter, unable to resist how contagious it was, grinned. 

"Well, the mini-fridge is usually taken up by a few dozen eggs." Then to explain, Matt added, "An on-going payment from an old client. We can’t always keep up with taking them home, so there’s no room. Either way, I just appreciate that you made the trip out. I know the Bulletin would have been closer to meet-up at." 

"Karen saved my ass with the photos." Peter reassured. "I'd meet up anywhere she asked." 

This time, Peter took his time eating the meal. Without the constant hunger pangs, he could stop to take breaths between bites rather than inhaling all of it. Still, it didn't last long. The emptier the container grew, the heavier the comfortable warmth became, the air like a weighted blanket. 

"I don't mean to step out of line by asking this." 

Peter looked up again, slightly groggy. Matt wasn't reading anymore. His hands were folded on top of the papers, and his focus was on Peter. 

"You can say it." He murmured.

Matt cleared his throat at that. "Do you still have my card?" 

Peter blinked slowly. "Your business card?" He asked. "Yeah, I do." 

Matt gave a short nod. Peter couldn't tell what was going through his head. "Even if you don't plan to work with Karen on another story, you can call us, or me, if you need anything." His face did a funny thing again. Like a thought was straining on him. 

"I'll keep you in mind if I need a lawyer." 

"Or if you need company."

Peter went stiff. Company?

Matt looked like he had regretted choosing the word. 

"The three of us work closely with heroes." Matt went on, doubling back, and Peter was grateful that he didn't just let it hang for interpretation. "Even if Spider-Man hasn't been one of them, we've all been aware of you for years. We know the…danger that you put yourself in. The attacks on the Bulletin last year by the man dressed as a vigilante…"

Peter remembered them well. He'd been cleaning up his own disasters. But it hadn't just been a random vigilante, it had been someone impersonating Daredevil. He'd heard about it from Danny Rand. It had nearly sent Daredevil on a warpath. The subsequent battle of Hell’s Kitchen had been a brutal one. 

Matt continued. "...Karen and Foggy were in the middle of it." 

Peter felt sick at the idea.

"So, again. I wanted to be sure you had it.” Matt’s voice grew lower. “Your situation is unique, but we can loosely relate. If you need anything from someone that understands." He nodded slowly. "I prefer calls to texts."

Peter wished that Matt could understand it all. 

He’d always been dangling, stuck in the unique shambles that made up his dual-identities. Relating to someone in entirety was so foreign to him. The other heroes and vigilantes didn’t have to hide their names as they lived their very public lives. Harry, Gwen, and MJ were amazing shoulders to lean on when things were hard, but he kept them as far from his Spider-life as possible. He’d searched for so long for just one other person that could really understand what things were like. 

Maybe Matt didn’t understand much. But at least it was another aspect of him that he had someone to relate to. 

Beside his hand, Peter’s phone beeped, his screen flashing to life. 

From Harry:

Are you still coming?

No rush. Just hoping you didn’t swing into a billboard again on the way here. 

The stuff with Ock has me on edge.

Peter grabbed his phone with a jump, as if Matt would see the word ‘swing’ and rip him apart like a book, page by page. He texted back a jumbled reply, but the message was a harsh reminder of the time.

“I have this project—” Peter started to explain.

Matt gave him a friendly smile. “Then we’ll talk again another time.”

The cleaning up was quick, as Peter took care to ball the trash up and toss it in the trash across the room. Peter stood up and grabbed his backpack, slinging it on his shoulders. He’d sat in the alpha scent for so long that he felt dizzy standing up.  He righted himself, and stepped towards the door, slightly dreading having to go. It didn’t feel like the right decision. 

“Peter,” Matt spoke up behind him. 

Peter spun, his fingers loose on the doorknob. “What’s up?” 

“Are you okay?” 

Peter paused. Matt’s eyebrows twitched closer together

Was he okay?

Even if he took away half of the stuff he’d been dealing with? 

No, he wasn’t.  

If Matt had asked, ‘how are you?’ Peter would have plastered on a polite expression and lied about how great work was going, and how he was pushing through school despite how goddamn hard it was to afford, and how horrible trying to pay his bills got. He could have told a story about May and the rare visits they had despite Jameson breathing down his neck in the kitchen he’d been raised in. He would have reassured anyone that asked that yes, he knew he smelled sick, and he had it under control. He was getting along. Life was a challenge and he was making it through. He survived, even in the worst of it. 

But while he was busy persevering, he hadn’t been okay. 

His body hurt. His heart hurt. He was tired. So tired. And now he had the expo on top of it all, and the professor that had taught him so much was just…gone. Everyone had taken pieces of Peter overtime and had left him crumbling. They hadn’t all meant to. They hadn’t taken them knowingly. But overtime, parts had just…disappeared. 

Peter took a steadying breath. His throat was bone-dry. “I’m okay.”

“Okay.” Matt’s head tilted, his voice a pitch quieter. “Again, if you need anything.”

"Yeah." Peter breathed, feeling trapped at the door. 

Matt stepped closer. His hand moved out, in Peter's direction. It slid past his waist. Then with a click, Peter realized that Matt had grabbed the door knob after Peter's fingers had fallen away, to gently open the door for him. 

Oh God, what was he doing? Matt’s scent was driving him half-insane when he was so vulnerable to it. 

Jolted back to reality, Peter's face stung, and he scrambled to escape Matt’s office. He waved a stuttered goodbye at Karen but disappeared out the front door, ignoring the creak of Foggy’s office door behind him, and the quiet conversation that rose when he left.

“He was practically running away. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. We had a nice conversation.” 

“Just a conversation? You’re losing your touch, Matty.” 

Chapter Text

Matt’s scent stuck to Peter’s clothes long after he’d left, glued into the cheap polyester fibers of his t-shirt. Even when Peter had hopped on the subway, the odor of rotting food and sewer water couldn’t drown it out. Matt’s pheromones followed him through damp streets, threading past wet brick and the wafting of pizza smoke through an open door. Heady and dark, it clung to him until he’d reached the university campus, only drowned out when he’d put a bleached lab coat over his outfit, and the chemicals burned his nose enough to cover it. 

Harry and Gwen hadn’t commented on it. They didn’t even ask why he was late. Their lack of acknowledgement of the scent made Peter realize that he was the only one who could smell it so clearly. They got through their projects smoothly, packed up, and headed home with exhausted goodbyes. The two of them seemed worn out. Harry and Gwen had been straining themselves to repair the remainder of the prosthetics, and it was starting to show. 

As he was leaving, a sudden thought stopped Peter in his tracks. He hadn’t noticed it before, but it was becoming clear. The change had been subtle. He hadn’t paid much attention to it until he realized something was missing. 

His symptoms hadn’t been too bad. He’d been able to focus on his work. He’d even squirmed less in his seat, and the clamminess had been pushed to the back of his mind. 

All the way home, he felt more normal than he had in 5 days. It wasn’t until he’d changed out of his clothing to slip into his Spidey-suit that the symptoms set back in. Sharp and dizzying, the discomfort took over his body, leaving him weak and anxious. The spandex was terrible on his skin. He felt jumpy. His swings were staggered. All he could think about was what had brought him relief— what had let him relax into his omega instincts. 

Matt’s scent. 

God, he wanted to find that relief again. 

***

The Lincoln Heat Center in Peter’s neighborhood sat 3 blocks away from his apartment, in a small, shabby building with cracked walls and graffiti splashed across the face of it. The door was locked behind a keypad and badge scanner, to keep the lobby clear of wandering alphas that might threaten the patients inside. Whenever Peter passed it on patrol, he’d always seen a few omegas hanging around, making plans to share their heat for a meager price. He’d never even considered stepping foot inside, even when his heats had nearly had May calling an ambulance. Despite his powers, he couldn’t imagine being so vulnerable in a place like that. The thought made him sick. 

The private heat centers were nicer, but at a higher cost. May’s insurance had only ever covered the government-funded, public locations, spread throughout the boroughs. He’d heard stories about the private centers, with omegas getting to choose their own partners, and being offered robes, privacy, cooked food and a full menu of drinks in between waves. 

The public heat center? Not so much. They were often overcrowded and underfunded— not like the cushy rut facilities— and the rooms were the size of broom closets. The meals were comparable to an elementary school cafeteria, and the alphas had to service multiple omegas, if the demand was high enough. 

Peter gazed at the painted doors of the public heat center, his stomach clenched. The mixture of heat scents stung his sinuses. He could barely breathe, between the anxiety of picturing himself checking in, and the sickly-sweet pheromones being carried towards him by the breeze. His phone, clenched in his fist, was pulled up on a web-page of one of the private centers he’d heard about at school, that the students with money went to. It looked clean in the photos, with white sheets and friendly looking staff plastered all over the front page. The alphas were thoroughly screened and licensed, and a social worker was always present. 

It was also insanely out of his price-range. Even if he was desperate enough to pay to be alpha’d through his heat, he couldn’t afford one of the private facilities that he’d be most comfortable in. Harry had offered to take him, and he no doubt would offer to cover the bill if Peter asked. But Peter’s own pride refused to let him admit he was even considering it. The thought of his friends knowing he was having anonymous sex made his skin crawl. 

He couldn’t do it. A heat center wasn’t an option. 

Peter drew his hood further up over his hair, terrified he’d be spotted by a passing car. He headed towards the bus stop, to ride deeper into Manhattan where his shift was starting soon. He’d woken up late, and stopping to gawk at the center hadn’t helped. The drizzle had started up again, leaving the sidewalk in a muddy, dreary state, and the water seeped into the bottom creases of his shoes, worsening his already bad mood. 

Up there.

The sharp sensation of warning bit through him as soon as he’d gotten to the cover of the bus stop. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and his senses reactively honed in on the voices and noises further from him. There was a scrambling outside of the apartment building he’d just passed, floors up. A click of metal. The low buzz of a radio. A person, probably on a terrace. His head started to turn in that direction. 

Don’t look! 

His face snapped forward again. Was he being watched? The buzz of danger was low and constant under his skin, but he didn’t feel the need to gear up for a fight. So it was someone with bad intentions scoping him out, but not an immediate threat.

Being followed as Spider-Man was a normal occurrence. He barely flinched when his spidey-sense warned him of unfriendly eyes on his back. Sooner or later, the bad guys would try to get the drop on him and show themselves, and Peter would get them back in police custody before morning.

But being trailed after as Peter Parker was an entirely different case. 

He couldn’t fight back in a public place with so many people around him. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t be the target of the stakeout. Maybe he had just walked into one by chance. If that was true, he could figure out who the target was, throw on his suit, and save them before they got hurt. 

If he was lucky. Parker Luck always made sure that didn’t happen.

“ D’n l’se him.” 

He heard the faint buzz of a voice over the radio the bad guy must have been carrying, and garbled words he couldn’t make out. He was focusing harder, forcing his hearing to hone in to try to catch the last of the communication. He caught the tail ends of a few words, and focused deeper, more intently, until his own heartbeat became auditory to his ears.

The honk of the approaching bus crashed through Peter’s eardrums overwhelmingly loud. It stunned him, rattling inside of his skull, an agonizing pain making the world temporarily black out, his hearing on the fritz as he struggled to reorient himself.  

“ Guh— ” Peter bent over, clutching his head, the peakings of a deep headache seeping behind his eyes. He stumbled onto the bus, barely flashing his pass before rolling back into an empty seat, nausea rising. 

He hadn’t heard anything coherent on the radio, and the sudden attack of the noise had left him on the verge of a migraine. But the feeling of being watched was gone. Maybe the eyes really hadn’t been on him. Still, if he wasn’t the one being followed, why would it be dangerous to look? 

When the dazed throbbing had started to fade, and he’d found his footing in his surroundings once again, Peter finally looked up and out the window, in the direction he’d sensed the watcher. There was a flash of yellow that alerted Peter’s spidey-sense, but it had disappeared too quickly to discern. Whoever it was had cleared out, and he had a terrible feeling he should have stopped them. 

***

The coffee shop door jingled as Peter stepped into the warm air, and he shifted his backpack off of his damp shoulder to try to evenly air out his sweater before he clocked in. Rich coffee beans flooded his nose, and he was suddenly much more mentally alert, the stress of the bus incident fading away. He fixed a trash can lid on his way towards the register, and kicked a chair back into its table. He had just started to pass the edge of the counter to slide past the employee entrance when a certain patron caught his eye. 

A wet mop of hair draped over thick-rimmed glasses, which were looking his way. The mouth of the man was chewing over words, like his jaw was partially locked up and slow to move. His teeth were clenched, hard enough to make Peter’s hurt just by seeing it. Recognition flashed through him. His chest tightened. With a quick step, he approached the table, breath quivered. 

“Dr. Octavius?” Peter asked, almost wishing it wasn’t him when the man was in such sorry shape. He looked like he’d been through hell— or running from it. 

“Parker,” Octavius hissed back. His head turned one way, then did a scope around the perimeter, as if he was in danger. Like he’d be heard by the wrong person. “Sit down.” 

Peter sat, gaping. 

Octavius stared at him with a sharp gaze. His fingers shook under black gloves, then clenched into fists and knocked on the top of the table. The professor cleared his throat, and leaned in closer, his voice guttural, “You need to stop.” 

Okay. Stop. There were a lot of things Peter needed to stop. Most of them were issues that didn’t concern his professor. Definitely not something he’d show up at his work to growl at him about. 

“That’s pretty unclear, sir.” Peter returned. 

“Stop working on my tech. ” 

“Dr. Octavius?” 

“Don’t finish the prosthetics!” Dr. Octavius’s hand hit the table top with a thud. The trio of women closest to them threw an uncomfortable glance. They shuffled away towards a crowded corner instead, but the teacher didn’t spare them any mind. 

Peter just gave a slow, confused nod. It had only been 2 days since the break-in, and as far as he was aware, Dr. Octavius hadn’t been back to the school. He wasn’t sure how he knew what they’d been working on. “There’s only 6 days until the expo.” He pointed out. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Listen to me.” The voice that left Dr. Octavius was almost feral. A warning. His face scrunched, his lip snarled like a trapped dog. “You are to go to the school and dispose of my tech in the morning. Destroy it. The files. The programs. Each and every piece. I can’t get in. They’re all there. Even that Spider is watching.” He seethed. “But you have to do it.” 

Peter was getting the familiar dread that someone he knew was wrapped in something much bigger than it seemed. The prosthetics were Dr. Octavius’s life work. His pride and joy. They’d had a set-back, but there was no way that even an intensely emotional moment would make the scientist throw away his technology so easily. 

“Sir—” 

“Tell me.... you’ll do it.” 

“At least tell me why.”

“No questions.”

Peter let out a frustrated breath. “That’s not a great negotiation tactic.”

“Peter!” He snapped. Dr. Octavius looked more pleading than angry, desperate for Peter to agree. “You. Your friends. Just… please .”

Peter managed a slow nod, despite the concern for the wellbeing of his Professor. “Okay.” He agreed quietly. “If that’s what you want.” 

Dr. Octavius looked relieved. Then, all at once, he swept to his feet. Peter noticed when he stumbled his first steps, and there was a flash of metal under his long, black coat. Dr. Octavius covered it up and pushed past Peter, flying straight out the front door, out into the growing swell of rain outside, as the bell tinkled roughly behind him. 

Peter stood to watch him walk away, through the bumbling crowd of pedestrians weaving on the sidewalk. Dr. Octavius ran out into the street and disappeared past a tall, stone fountain, and then he was gone. 

Sajani leaned over the edge of the counter, peeking at the dark window to follow Peter’s gaze, and raised an eyebrow. 

“Who was that dude? He didn’t even order.” Sajani pursed her lips. “He came in demanding to see you. I told him you weren’t coming in, but that guy was insistent he knew you were. I thought he’d give up before you got here.” 

“I didn’t know he knew where I worked.” Peter blinked. He stared out at the dark street again, then turned back to head into the employee room. 

“That sounds like something I should be concerned about.”

“Trust me. It’s easier to just roll with it.” 

“Not another suitor, right?” Sajani mused from behind him. “The two you brought last time were way cuter.” 

“I’ll let them know you said that.” Peter said, distracted. The door swung shut. 

When he was alone, he shoved his backpack away, and ran a fingertip over his web shooters. He wanted to follow Dr. Octavius, to be sure he got home safe. He seemed like he needed help. 

But he couldn’t bail out of work now. He had to make rent. Had to keep his job. He needed to take care of himself, too. He couldn’t sacrifice his personal life all the time. It was a lesson he’d learned the hard way. 

So he shoved on his apron and ran back out to join his shift lead on the floor. 

***

Peter was torn right down to his seams, and he felt like he’d end up with his fist through the cheap drywall before he made a decision. 

He shuffled along the floor of his apartment, pacing, fingers tugging mercilessly on his messy hair. Stepping over dirty laundry, he threw distraught looks back at the navy blue t-shirt that laid on the couch, its wrinkles spread out on display like a piece of art. He’d ripped it out of the basket before it had mixed in with his other clothes for too long, and gotten its engrained pheromone scent over everything else.

Matt’s scent. 

Which it still very much smelled like.

It hit him, the second he walked past his laundry basket. The scent that had worked to calm him down the day before was a foot from his face, fainter, but there. He’d remembered how awful he’d felt when he’d realized how comfortable Matt’s smell had been, and how long it had eased his symptoms. His automatic reaction had been to put the shirt back on. 

The dignified part of his mind reminded him that Matt wasn’t his alpha. 

It didn’t matter if Matt had eaten lunch with him, or offered to be a friend, or given him a business card that said he was single, and therefore didn’t have a partner for Peter to interfere with. It didn’t matter if Matt’s scent was more physically calming than most alphas, with its cool intensity. It didn’t even matter that Peter had found so much comfort in Matt’s presence in such a short time. 

Putting the tee on might offer temporary relief, but it would just make things worse in the long run. His body would be trying to attach itself to someone that he probably wouldn’t see again. He’d sleep okay for one night. Even with how faded the smell was by then, it would still affect his own hormonal response. He’d be relaxed. Comfortable. He’d feel…

He’d feel claimed. 

The thought sent a tortuous wave of need to his abdomen. He didn’t want to do this again tonight. He felt too overwhelmed to try to jack himself off in bed again. 

“Fuck it.” Peter said, out of breath, as he pulled off his sweater to replace it with the t-shirt. He shoved his head unceremoniously through the neckhole and then tugged it down his chest, adjusting to the scratchy material. He bit on his inner lip as he sucked in a long breath, eyes shutting. Gradually, his fingers unclenched, and his neck felt less tight. He relaxed enough that it felt like a knot untangling throughout his entire body. 

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t anything compared to how good he’d feel if he was getting proper pre-heat care. But it was one night of relief while he figured out what the hell he was going to do. 

Guilt sat like lead in Peter’s stomach, as he went about throwing his suit in the bathtub so it would air dry, and heating canned soup for a 2 AM dinner. It was hard to forget that Matt hadn’t agreed to this. He wasn’t sure how the lawyer would feel if he knew that his scent was being microdosed as a sedative for Peter’s benefit. 

But it was one night, and he seriously doubted Matt was coming back to the coffee shop. He’d never see him again. Matt would never know. 

Peter hated the thought of that, for some reason. 

Chapter Text

Peter had never been a big bar kind of a person. 

Bars were expensive. He could justify a few dollars here and there for unnecessary takeout or vending machine buys, but even the cheapest shots set him back financially. He’d been used to the stress of bills and stretching his paychecks to help May out. He knew how to grasp at pennies and coupons and barely scrape by. 

But it had gotten worse since he had moved out. His studio apartment rent—in one of the cheapest neighborhoods— cost more than the mortgage back in Queens. Even laundromats were considered a major splurge. Half the time, Peter dumped his clothes in the bath with soap and then draped them over his shower rod. Drinking at bars just wasn't a priority on his budget sheets. 

Besides the cost, the constant sound, smells, and lights were a battery on his senses. It was hard sometimes, in crowded places, to tune out the input of people talking and laughing and the drone of awful pop music. The only relief from it was when he’d down enough alcohol to muddle his hearing. 

And that required money. 

So. Peter didn’t like bars. He didn’t waste what little free time he had on them when it was time he could be sleeping or out on patrol. He didn’t miss them, either. Any time he stopped a bar fight or foiled a robbery, he was just fine with the fact that he never went out for fun. He never looked enviously at the drunk patrons shivering out on the sidewalk. 

But MJ and Harry were like obsessed foodies when it came to pubs, cantinas, and the like. With their connections, they traveled even the most niche of New York’s system of alcoholic establishments. They kept lists. They rated the decor, the vibes, the age of the crowds. Gwen tried to hide out at his apartment on those nights, to avoid being dragged off with her partners. Their extroverted personalities and mildly well-known names brought them too much attention when they went out. Far too much attention for Peter or Gwen. 

"It's not good for my health." 

"Your health." MJ repeated back, slowly. "When have you ever cared about your health?" 

Peter gave a half-committal shrug, sitting on the edge of Harry's kitchen counter. He had knocked back two energy drinks already, and his hand was buried in a bag of chips. "Maybe I'm making a change. You guys have been nagging me about it for years." 

"You’ve never listened to us." 

"I'm thinking of taking up yoga, too."

MJ let out a long groan. "Just one night at the bar." She pleaded, and wrapped her thin fingers around Peter's hands, squeezing. "One night. We even bought a bottle to pregame." Her lower lip puffed out. "Come on, Pete."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Puppy-dogging hasn't worked since we were 10."

"Harry's gonna pay for all of it." 

"Gwen and I have plenty of board games to make it through." 

Harry cleared his throat behind them. "Actually, Gwen's okay with going this time." He chimed in. The door to the bedroom swung fully open, as the two stepped out. Harry had some sort of addiction to caring for his appearance, always looking like the company heir he was. But Gwen was dedicated to her sweaters and t-shirts. Seeing her in a flared cocktail dress left Peter dazed. They looked beautiful together. All 3 of them did, really. 

Peter was quick to shake it off. "You betrayed me." He hissed at the done-up Gwen. "I won't forget this." 

She looked on innocently, walking up to Peter to snatch the chips from between his knees. She dug for crumbs among the remnants of Peter’s snacking, her true, sleep-deprived, hoodie-wearing nature showing through the elegant disguise. "It's just one night." 

"And I'll pay for it." Harry chimed in. 

"Yeah, I'm aware." Peter grumbled, leaning back against the cupboards. 

He'd been tricked by the three, after MJ had invited him to meet up for dinner that night. Poor Peter, so trusting in his friends, had thrown on the Matt-scented t-shirt under a button up in an attempt to look presentable for dinner. Just to show up to see a pizza box sitting on the counter next to mid-grade Tequila, and MJ's cunning fox-grin. Dread had filled him. He had known so quickly that he had walked directly into a trap. A boozy one at that. 

He hated that he loved them enough not to walk out. 

But it didn't change the fact that the scent on his t-shirt was dissipating, and Peter had to hold the fabric to his nose to get the full effects. A normal person wouldn't even notice that it had a pheromone scent clinging to it. His super-senses strained just to get a hit off of it, embarrassingly desperate. That meant Peter's temporary method of self-calming would disappear, and he'd be left vulnerable again, aching and sick. He wasn't looking forward to that part. 

He had just wanted one more good night of sleep. And here his friends were trying to make him be social. Disgusting. 

“We don’t have to stay long.” Gwen offered. She munched on the bite-sized crumbs of chips she’d looted from him, and gave him an earnest smile. He’d always been weak for her. She was too honest. Too logical. She didn’t talk things up the way the other two did. When she was excited about something, and expressed it on rare occasions, it was hard not to go along with her plans. Peter’s eye twitched as he struggled to maintain his stubborn facade. He was breaking. “The noise—”

“This isn’t some cheap, hole-in-the-wall.” MJ promised, flipping the top off the tequila bottle and arranging the shot glasses. One, two, three, four . She was already including Peter in the count. “It’s a… a social house. Just drinks and a quiet atmosphere.” She poured the alcohol out, still managing to fill one for Peter. As the drops beaded down the edge, she slid it over, until it rattled to a stop against his thigh. The smell made his stomach churn. It overpowered Matt. “We thought it all out. Come on. You guys have been working so hard.”

Peter’s arguments fell silent. He hadn’t told the others about Octavius’s warnings and requests to kill the project. He’d been pondering on it since their professor had shown up at the coffee shop about 28 hours before that. But it was hard to want to destroy his work without a definite reason to. Not after all they’d contributed to it. Not when it seemed like Dr. Octavius was an inch off of falling off the deep end.

He was sure that Dr. Octavius could just show up and erase the work himself. Peter wouldn’t be the dirty hand that did it. But he felt guilty ignoring him. It was primarily Octavius’s work, after all. 

The thought of it had his hand twitching to reach for the shot, his stomach aching. MJ smirked, knowing that she had already won. 

“I’ll put in for an Uber in 15 minutes.” Harry announced. He retrieved his own tequila and lime, pouring salt out on the back of his hand.

Peter had no choice. Peer pressure was a grueling opponent. He grabbed his shot begrudgingly, making sure he did it in a way that they knew just how unhappy he was with the arrangement.

“Bottoms up.” MJ hummed. 

“I have an essay to write.” Peter tried again. 

“Just lick your hand, Parker.”

***

MJ hadn’t been exaggerating when she said the bar— the social house, she’d insisted— would be more focused on atmosphere and alcohol than loud, body-thumping music. 

It was pretty stylish. Set inside of a hotel, with tall roofs that stretched far over their heads. Peter felt criminally underdressed. He supposed he should have tried a little harder at making himself presentable instead of fighting their efforts to get him out the door. 

And he was pleasantly drunk. The intoxication spread through him like a spool of thread; unraveling, traveling down his extremities, the ribbons of tipsiness warming him from the inside-out. It helped to mute some of his sensory input, and quiet his thoughts. His stress melted to the back of his mind, present but dull. Dr. Octavius and the Expo had disappeared 3 drinks back. He felt light on his feet. The weight of his life was even lighter. 

Peter drank a long sip, finishing off the last of the fruity cocktail that had been passed into his hands by MJ. He wiped the perspiration of the glass off onto the thighs of his jeans, and turned back to watch the bartender pour out their next round, drink after drink, in a neat, coordinated line of warmly colored booze. He was fascinated by the finesse. 

The whole place was addicting, in its own right. Despite feeling so out of place, Peter couldn’t stop wandering. There were archways he could walk under that led to the bathrooms and draping flowers lining a balcony.  The large windows were mosaically patterned, only letting in the blooming color of city lights around the block, to give the whole place an impression of a beautifully obscured view, rather than the cracked sidewalks that were right outside the front door. Wandering past, lifted by the alcohol, he felt like another person. Someone with a stable 9-5, a life waiting back at home, a consistent education, full nights of sleep. An omega that looked at his heat like a mild inconvenience, not a matter of his health. He explored the bar and fed into the daydream until his friends were calling him back each time to the table, and laughing hysterically at his fascination. 

He swung over cities every night, getting to see the best sights that New York had to offer. He had the ability to go anywhere he wanted within the borders of the boroughs. Peter’s life was endless contradictions between the decrepit that holded up the city’s criminal population, and the endless man-made beauty he got glimpses of by serving America’s richest. It wasn’t often that he walked into a place like this and was allowed to just exist. 

Peter tuned back into the giggled conversation between MJ and Harry just in time to hear the redhead deliberating the bar ratings. She had declared it was a 12 out of 10, a high honor, and Harry was struggling to breathe between fits of laughter. 

But Gwen, he realized, was watching him. Her eyes were vaguely focused on his face, but her mind was working elsewhere. Normally, he’d flinch in discomfort at her calculating gaze. Now, he was drunk enough to stare right back at her. 

After a minute of silent gazes, he finally broke. He grinned crookedly. “What’s up?” 

Gwen smiled right back, and gave a short shrug. “It’s nice to hang out like this,” She explained with a slight slur to her words, “It’s been a while.” 

That caught MJ’s attention. “Right?” MJ leaned across to wrap her boney arms around his shoulders. “God, Peter, you have to come out with us more. We make such a good foursome.” 

Harry choked at the wording. Peter and Gwen delved into laughter, giddy from the sugary juice and loosened up well past proper coherence. 

Why didn’t Peter go out more? At the moment, he couldn’t think of a reason why he didn’t feel this good every weekend. Why did he always hold onto so much for everyone else, for his Professor, for the other powered people, for 8 million civilians, when he was given so little in return? When they’d never let him into a place like this if he had walked in on his own?

“I’m unraveling.” Peter decided. Like the spool inside of him. Falling apart so quickly he couldn’t wrap any of the ribbons back up. 

“We might not make it to the expo,” said Gwen, and the mood swelled into something heavier than they could hold up together.

Mj had distributed the next round of drinks, sometime between her spoken Yelp review and their wallowing. Peter nearly missed reaching for his, but his instincts guided his hand to the right place. He hadn’t gotten this drunk in a while. 

“We’ll make it.” Harry leaned across to squeeze Gwen’s hand. Peter tried to remember what they meant, where Harry wanted them to go. He settled for drinking instead of clarifying, the burn of the alcohol barely present anymore, a numb tingling on his tongue. 

Gwen shook her head and continued, miserably. “Peter’s going to make himself sick.” She looked at him as if his funeral was approaching. Maybe it was. He did feel achy, now that she had mentioned it. His head was hurting, and his stomach was winding up in sudden knots. “And we need him because everything else isn’t working but he’s gonna be sick.”

“I’m gonna be sick.” MJ mumbled, swaying. 

“You found an alpha, right?” Harry nudged Peter with an elbow. “You look a little better.”

Peter laughed at that. It was a guilty, amused giggle-snort. He remembered now why he felt sick. The nearly scentless t-shirt under his button-up. “He doesn’t want me.” 

And that? That caught the attention of everyone at the table. 

As sober as they could look, they gazed across at him in interest. Peter struggled to remember exactly what had been so interesting to them. 

“He—?” 

“Who—?” 

“Seriously—?”

Peter blinked, the questions overlapping. His cheeks felt hotter than they had been all night. They nearly burned. Maybe the others weren’t as drunk as he was. 

He had always been a private person. If it wasn’t for Wade’s way of wriggling himself into every part of Peter’s life, he might have kept their past relationship to himself. Wade had been the one to track his friends down. He’d been the one to introduce himself. And he had somehow become a staple of their group. He was the empty chair at their table that none of them had bothered to move elsewhere. 

Peter realized he wanted to talk about Matt. It was a striking sensation that drove into his breastbone. Like his story was being forced up with his breath. 

“He…” Peter breathed out, his heart rate picked up and his skin prickled at the thought. “He’s Matt. And he’s a lawyer. And he’s single. I think he’s good-looking.”

The cold, hard facts. Peter couldn’t say much more. He didn’t know much else about Matt. The man had shown up one day and given him a card that said exactly what he’d told them. Matt Murdock. A practicing attorney that worked semi-pro-bono in Hell’s Kitchen. He somehow could tell Peter was unwillingly starving himself and had shoved his own takeout at him. And Matt’s scent was the one thing Peter had been thriving off of for the past 24 hours.

“And that’s it.” Peter finished up, realizing his friends were waiting for more. “That’s it. He’s an alpha I found.”

“He’s gonna help you?” Harry clarified. 

Peter shifted on the slick leather chair. “I didn’t say that. ” 

“Why not?” Gwen’s nose scrunched. “Isn’t he cute?” 

“He’s nice to look at.” 

“Okay.” MJ grinned. “He told you he was single?” 

“No, he didn’t,” Despite the embarrassment, Peter couldn’t get rid of his smile. “His law partner did. On a card.” 

Harry and MJ exchanged a look. Their comparative soberness was growing more apparent.

“So someone else hit on you for him?” Harry chuckled. 

“It wasn’t hitting on me.” 

“Did you want it to be?”

Peter groaned, and deflected, something he was an expert at. “It doesn’t matter what I want.” 

Gwen grabbed his arm, fingers tight. “So do you want him to help you or not?” 

“I—” Peter’s breath constricted. He looked down at the peekings of the t-shirt under his collar. The scent was fading. The symptoms would come back as soon as he started to sober up. “I miss having someone like Wade.” 

Peter’s throat ached. He downed his drink, wishing he could taste more of the acidity. Alcohol was the last thing he needed, but the only solution to the continuous sharpness lodged in his chest. It had been there for days, at least since he’d told Wade to walk away. To leave the country. Maybe from the moment they’d broken up. Maybe since their relationship had been on its downfall years ago. 

He didn’t know if he missed being with Wade. But he missed how much Wade had cared about him. 

And Matt seemed to care. He at least seemed to want to make sure Peter was okay. If it was just out of pure alpha instinct—intentional or not— following the urges to treat a pre-heat omega delicately and support his needs, it wasn’t as upsetting to Peter as it usually was.

Peter felt small hands grabbing his knee. He blinked down at a blonde ponytail smushed up against his shoulder. His breath was seering. 

“Call him, Tiger.” MJ stood up. Her chair squeaked across the floor under her. Her rings hit the top of the table, demanding of his attention. “Any alpha would be happy to tap that ass.” 

Peter wheezed, too afraid to look around, to see who had heard her audible declaration. 

“Sleep with him once. You can test your compatibility.” Gwen advised, the most rational of the three. 

“Like a science experiment.” MJ added to the grueling torture. “That’s what you guys do.” 

“Pre-heat sex isn’t a science experiment.” Peter sputtered. 

“But it can’t hurt.” Harry shrugged. 

If Peter hadn’t used Matt’s scent to regulate his pre-heat symptoms, he’d consider it. But sex was a dangerous path. He’d be stuck in withdrawals all over again if his body clinged onto Matt’s presence— if it decided that he was his new alpha. 

But the idea of a helping hand made the thread inside of him wind up again. Blood rushed through his body. His own pheromones peaked in interest.

Peter’s phone appeared in front of his face, clutched in MJ’s hand. She was clicking through pages that moved too fast to read, and he had to tear his eyes away. Looking at the screen made him nauseous. 

“You need the help.” Gwen traced out patterns on the table, like an invisible equation. “We won’t have to worry as much. You’ll be less sick. We can make it in time.” 

“We’re not pawning him off on a hot, douche-bag lawyer just to finish the prosthetics.” Harry cut in, but it sounded forced. 

“He’s not a douche-bag.” Peter frowned. “Surprisingly.” 

“Who isn’t a douche-bag?” Matt asked, and it took Peter a solid minute to realize his phone was pressed right to his fucking ear. 

Peter floundered. He hadn’t noticed MJ finding the number. He hadn’t noticed when she had dialed it in. And he definitely hadn’t noticed her forcing him to talk into it. 

“Uh.” Peter froze. He couldn’t think. His limited social capabilities had decided to go AWOL. He was rebooting like his shitty old laptop, clunkily coming back online. His breath stuttered and his voice left him unnaturally. “You.” 

Matt didn’t respond right away. The silence pounded in Peter’s ears to the beat of his racing heart. He scrambled to take the phone from MJ, and he turned purposefully in his swivel chair away from his friends, focusing on the sound on the other end. 

After a moment, Matt blessedly started to laugh and Peter let out a long sigh of relief. 

“Thank you for letting me know,” Matt returned. He was as poised as ever. Peter wasn’t sure what time it was, but he assumed it was too late for surprise drunk dials from an acquaintance. “I’ve been told I can make that impression.”

Peter nodded stupidly, as if to fill the silence of the phone call. 

“Ask to come over.” MJ whispered loudly behind him. 

Peter clutched tighter onto his cell phone, the cracked glass digging into his finger. That was a crazy suggestion. He hadn’t even made up his mind about following through with the ‘experiment.' His voice worked without his brain’s approval.  “Can I come over?” 

He heard the intake of breath on the other end. The silence stretched on longer than the first time. Matt wasn’t laughing. 

Peter was going to hang up, he decided. Why had he asked that? His clumsy fingers tried to unlock the screen, to find the button to end the call. This was stupid. He was stupid. He could just ride it out in a gross, overcrowded heat center and spend every dime he had locked in a room getting fucked by some over-worked alpha through painful waves. 

“To my place?” Matt’s voice sounded smaller, from the distance of the phone to his ear. Peter hesitated. “Are you okay?” 

He wasn’t okay. 

“Yeah.” Peter lied again, and managed to drag the screen back up to his ear, plugging the other with his finger to listen. “I’m out with my friends.”

“The ones you told I wasn’t a douche-bag?”

“They’re a little biased against your field of work.” He retorted far too naturally. 

“It’s a fair assumption.” Matt said. The amused tone had come back.

Peter swallowed hard, his teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. He wasn’t good at this. Even drunk, with his filters lowered, he couldn’t decide what to say. How to express what he had been calling for. 

“They’d understand, if they knew you.” Peter murmured, softer. “You seem like a good one.” 

He listened to the buzz of the bar and the laughing flirtations of the people around them. His eyes flickered back towards Gwen and MJ, curled up with each other, giggling back and forth, with Harry’s arm wrapped around them both. 

And he remembered how much better it felt to have help. 

“So,” Peter continued, his words a bit jumbled. “Can I come over?” 

Please say yes. 

“Have you been drinking?”

“I’m still lucid.” 

“Enough to drive?”

Not even if he had a license. “There’s Ubers.”

“No Ubers.” Matt said firmly. “Send me the address. I’ll come get you.” 

“There’s plenty of drivers around.”  Peter argued. He was planning to swing, but a rideshare was a good excuse. Swinging while drunk was hard, but not too dangerous if he relied on his spidey senses. 

“It’s alright. I want to drive you." said Matt, and Peter really believed it was true. “Stay at the bar with your friends. I’ll let you know when I’m outside.” 

“Okay.”

Matt chuckled again, but more tense. “Stay safe.” 

The wait turned out not to be too long. Peter had managed to control his impulses to take more shots, and he booked it to the bathroom to sway in front of the mirror, washing his face and swishing water in his mouth to try to drown the heavy alcoholic scent on his breath. When he came back out, he had some streamline of sober thought, and he looked at the giggling, encouraging girls cheering him on. 

“He’s blind.” Peter blanched, as the realization struck. “How is he picking me up?” 

The answer to that was worse than Peter had realized. He had prepared himself to confess to Matt that he wanted to sleep with him, to drown in his scent for a night, the second that he saw him. But when the beige sedan rolled up, sitting in the driver’s seat was Foggy, as Matt slid cooly out of the passenger side and circled around to open the door to the backseat for Peter. 

Peter’s lips opened in silent mortification. He had dragged Foggy out at night, and he felt like melting into the floor and disappearing. 

“Do your friends have a way home?” Matt asked pleasantly, as if Peter wasn’t a complete inconvenience to them both.

Peter’s voice was weak as he spoke. “Yeah. They’re staying a little longer.” 

“Good.” Matt’s lip quirked. He held a hand out, and gently tugged Peter in by his shoulder. As if reading Peter’s guilty thoughts, he added, “We were still at the office working on a case. Foggy was going to take me home.” 

Peter stepped towards the car inelegantly, his feet barely working under him. The closer he got to Matt, the clearer the alpha’s scent got. He took a long breath, and the familiar relaxing warmth washed over him. 

He wanted to lean against Matt. He wanted to get closer. But the hand still on his shoulder guided him to crawl into the back seat instead. 

“There you go.” Matt murmured. He checked that Peter was secure in the cushions and shut the door behind him, locking him out from the constant buzz of NYC noise, and in with Foggy Nelson. 

The sudden change of environment was dizzying. Maybe Peter was going to throw up. But then he would have not only dragged Matt’s law partner out to chauffeur his drunk, desperate ass home from the bar, but ruined his seats. The horror of that idea settled his stomach enough that he wasn’t in danger of upchucking anytime soon. 

“I remember my college days.” Foggy sighed with a nostalgic tone. He was looking up at the rearview mirror, focused on Peter’s reflection. “Matt and I could outdrink the entire law department. Rough day of classes?” 

Peter managed a flustered grin, his cheeks hot with humiliation and booze. He planted a hand firmly on the back of Foggy’s seat, to keep himself steady. “My friends made me go out.” He admitted, feeling weirdly honest. The words came up faster than he could keep them down. “I don’t drink a lot.” 

Foggy snorted. “I can tell. You look messed up.” 

The door re-opened and then slammed shut when Matt retook his seat. He buckled in without a word, and Peter stared at the side of his head, his neck, and stubble, breathing in slow gulps of air and pheromones. Through the prickles of anxiety, he felt his fingers twitch, urged to reach out to him. But then the engine came alive and he slid back in the seat when the car moved forward. 

They pulled away from the bar, and seeing it from the outside, it was hard to imagine how magical it had felt before, as it sank behind brick-buildings housing convenience stores and a subway entrance. Peter rubbed his face to ease some of the muddiness in his brain and vision, and he let his world tilt as he settled into the seat. He tried to recall exactly what had led to this horrible, humiliating moment. What had he been thinking when his friends had talked him into calling Matt? Why had he even let himself talk about him in the first place? They barely knew one another, despite how comfortable the air between them could feel at times. 

Matt and Foggy were murmuring back and forth in the front, and Peter didn't pay most of it any mind. He was feeling better already, not quite sober, but somehow more clear headed than he had been. Pre-heat was no joke, and the physical and emotional pain of it could monopolize so many of his thoughts once it had crept in. 

Foggy lowered his voice to a whisper. “You didn’t tell me he was plastered. He probably doesn’t know where he is right now.” 

Matt cleared his throat roughly in return, like he was insulted by the comment. “If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else.” 

“It shouldn’t be anyone.” 

“I’m not going to—”

Peter saw Matt’s head tilt, and he abruptly cut himself off. He watched as the man shook his head, ending the conversation. 

They rode in silence for the next couple of minutes, punctuated by occasional far-off honks and sputters of hot air warming the car interior. Peter recognized when they got to Hell’s Kitchen, when theaters melted into the outskirts of the neighborhood, and his heart pulsed with the anticipation of getting to Matt’s place. 

The street that housed his condos had two broken streetlights on either end, and so few stragglers that it almost seemed abandoned. Peter slid out of the car, leaning against the side of the SUV as his head swam, He watched Matt walk around the front of the car, through the flashing hazards, occasional blooms of yellow lights on his face, reflecting off his glasses. When he’d gotten over to where Peter stood, like a strange dream, Matt held his arm out cordially towards Peter. 

“I live a few floors up.” Matt said, apologetic.

Peter swallowed hard, the words a reminder of why he’d come. A tingling spread over his cheeks. “Good thing I like heights.” He breathed, and took his elbow.

Chapter Text

Dreams were pretty hard to come by for Peter. 

He was in a chronic state of fatigue, absolutely starved for rest. If his sleep-debt were printed out on itemized receipts, his would easily span the floor of his apartment. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt well-rested. Maybe before Ben died, before fifteen-year-old Peter had to start worrying about helping May make bills. Before he was given the responsibility of keeping the world turning. Most nights, he went crashing into bed an hour before his alarm clock blared its wake-up call. Sometimes, he was forced to string himself out for days. It wasn’t enough time for a REM cycle. Certainly not enough to lose himself in visions of his friends or his school, or nightmares about watching those things burn in front of him. 

Even on the rare nights he could sleep long enough to get lost in the worlds his brain conjured up, he’d feel horrible the morning after. 

The thing about dreaming, the crux that made them absolutely not worth it, was the come-down. 

Waking up after his brain had convinced him, so vividly, that he was a player on the Empire State University chess team at Nationals, or that he was back in his home in Queens eating dinner with his family, was a shock of the worst caliber. He’d try to reorient himself. Remember who he was. Search for the loved ones that he’d been seeing just seconds ago. Hence, the come-down. 

Peter hated to dream, because the shock of remembering that family and friends had died or left was more painful than seeing their faces again. 

He had dreamed that night about the Avengers. 

It wasn’t anything entirely crazy or nightmarish. Just about the first time he had been involved in a big fight to save New York. It had been the break-down of an omega-level mutant that the new chapter of the Brotherhood had brought out of the woodwork, intending to assert themselves as a major power over the U.N. But the poor kid’s body hadn’t been able to handle the intensity of his powers, and the modifications that had been made to enhance them. He’d imploded under the strength of it, like a caldera collapse that had nearly caused the entire city to melt. 

Spider-Man had been there, of course, pulling world leaders out of the way of sentient magma and ashe. It had been long, blistering work. The Avengers jet by him to help stop the destruction. Kate and Clint waved at him from their helicopter. Tony scolded him in his annoying new-dad voice to ‘put on some damn armor’ once in a while. There were others fighting— Steve, Sam, Natasha, Kamala, Johnny and Sue (while Reed and Ben were off-planet) — but in his dream, he’d realized he hadn’t been working alone to save pedestrians. 

No, it was the first time Peter met him. He’d nearly forgotten about it, with how tumultuous the day had been. After Peter had rescued his most recent batch of civilians that were being threatened by the eruption, he’d circled back around to save people from the subway that was filling with magma. 

That guy was there. Sweaty under his helmet, his suit reflecting the glow of molten rock so he looked like he was on fire. Herding people away from the threat. Peter hadn’t recognized him, and they hadn’t spoken a word to each other. Peter didn’t even get his name until months later, when he’d nearly forgotten about the encounter. 

Daredevil. 

Peter’s head was throbbing when he rolled into consciousness. He didn’t usually get hungover, but he typically avoided drinking when he was already sick. Behind his eyelids, the image of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen ablaze still burned. He half-expected to see the vigilante standing over him when he finally opened his eyes. But when he looked, he was alone. The memory of the man faded quickly. His recollection of the dream had already started to disappear. He was left disoriented in its wake. More confused than normal. 

He wasn’t in a room he recognized. 

Waking up in strange places happened to Peter on even the best days. Sometimes he passed out on patrol in strange crevices to get a short nap in. Occasionally, he’d get kidnapped by villains and wake up in a warehouse or a truck. If he was injured, he could find his way to the Baxter Building for first-aid or he’d get life-flighted against his will to Avengers tower, and sleep off his aches and pains there. But he hadn’t been Spider-Man last night. He’d been Peter Parker. Intoxicated, desperate, and lonely. 

He’d gone to Matt’s place. He was in Matt’s bed. And he could smell Matt all around him. 

Matt lived on the 4th floor. Peter didn’t really remember getting up the stairs, just that his hand had stayed firmly on Matt’s arm the entire way up. He wasn’t sure if he had stumbled. It didn’t matter much. He was there, and any logical part of his brain had shut down. 

He was experimenting. 

Behind the large door to Matt’s apartment was an expansive, plain space. There were a few neutral-colored rugs and pieces of gray furniture littered about. It was a big, open floor plan with a lot of walking space. The whole thing seemed to resemble Matt pretty well, from what Peter knew of him. It was simple. Unrevealing. Clean. The opposite of Peter’s chaotic, messy apartment with posters haphazardly taped to the walls and electronics split open on the table. It reminded Peter that he knew absolutely nothing about the man he was clinging onto. 

“Make yourself comfortable.” Matt said, so casual and inviting. 

He stripped out of his suit jacket, and Peter toed off his shoes. He left them at the front door, then felt along the walls to walk in further. Most of the lights were off, but he could still see pretty well. 

There wasn’t much else to take in. A landing that probably led to the roof. A bedroom door hanging ajar. A kitchen that looked deeply sanitized. The only thing out of place was a sizable scuff on the wooden floor, and a broken leg on the coffee table that had been taped back on.

“It’s nice in here.” Peter said, his words slurred. His mouth felt tangled up. 

“You can tell me it’s lifeless,” said Matt. He set his cane in the corner of the hallway, and followed him in. 

“Do a lot of people say that?” Peter made his way towards the couch. It looked worse-for-wear. A strange stain had seeped into one of the cushions, unnervingly dark and viscous. He sat on the other side to avoid touching it. 

Matt shrugged. “Not people I’d decorate for.” 

He walked around the couch, and to the other side of the coffee table, sitting in one of the armchairs to face Peter. “But maybe you have a few ideas,” Matt continued, and leaned back in the seat. “What kind of art do you like?” 

Peter peeled himself out from under the covers, and immediately wished he was back under them. The apartment was warm, vents blowing comfortably hot air across the room, but the silky sheets and the fluffy blanket he’d been wrapped in were paradisiacal. He was relieved to find he was still wearing most of his clothes, though they were disheveled. He spotted his button-up and pants folded on the nightstand beside the bed. Sitting behind it was a vintage style alarm clock with raised numbers on its face. 10:36 AM. He’d slept through his first class. With how badly his head hurt, he doubted he would have made it, even if he had woken up on time. 

He rifled through the covers in search of his phone, unsure where it had ended up. After fruitless digging, he pulled the blankets back up into place and turned to grab his pants instead, shoving them on. Maybe it was in the living room. That was where they’d spent most of their time anyways. 

Peter had told Matt all about the type of art that he’d learned about in school. Renaissance paintings, modern social commentaries, murals of superheroes that were strewn along the sides of alleys. He described them in colors, and in feelings, a mixture of expressions that were more accessible than what could be seen. 

“But I don’t think you should get any of those paintings for your place,” Peter concluded at the end of his spiel. 

He was half laying back against the couch cushions. His eyes were growing heavy. He felt exhausted, with the lights so low. A magenta glow from the billboard outside spread over the floor and parts of the couch, making the dark stain across from Peter look like blood. He had stripped out of his button-up while they talked, when he realized the apartment was heated enough that he didn’t need it. 

“Why’s that?” Matt leaned forward in his seat, a perplexed look on his face. 

“Why buy something that doesn’t mean anything to you?” 

Matt contemplated it. “I liked the way you described it,” He said. “So it would mean something to me now.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow in amusement. "I'm not exactly a big art guy, though, either. It's just the stuff I've seen over time." 

"Then I'll hang up your photographs. I hear they're nice." 

"Yeah? Did Karen tell you that?"

"Foggy, too." Matt said. "I'm sure an apartment filled with pictures of dangerous vigilantes would be more welcoming."

Peter laughed, the ridiculousness of it all seeming hysterical when he was intoxicated. "I—"  He began, but a yawn broke up his thoughts. He sat up, rubbing his eyes to try to feel more alert.

The impulsive confidence of being drunk had started to melt away. He was loose, and tired. Comfortable in the absurdity of where he was. Around Matt, Peter felt the invigorating high of someone new and interesting, of a virtual stranger. Yet, he was familiar, and easy to talk to. Far too easy.

Matt must have heard his yawn, and he stood. “Peter,” He said gently. “Come with me. I’ll show you my bedroom.”

Peter’s heart was beating wickedly up in his throat when they got there.

He stopped just beside the bed, in front of Matt. The edge of the mattress bumped his knee. So close to it, and to him, his temperature was rising. The pangs of need blurred the edges of his vision. The constant anxiety had begun to melt away. This felt so right that he could barely breathe. 

Matt’s hand settled on top of Peter’s head, in his curls. Fingers carded through them untangling a few strands. A shiver ran down his spine. 

“Why did you call me tonight?” Matt asked, voice calm, but warm. 

Peter looked up from under his arm, at the crimson lenses obscuring Matt’s eyes. His chest suddenly felt very constricted. 

“I—” Peter hadn’t, really. MJ had done it for him, but he couldn’t bring himself to confess. “To see you?” 

Matt nodded slowly, and didn’t answer. 

Peter didn’t have much else to lose by then. He’d already sacrificed his pride a few times that night. He slid down to sit on the edge of the bed. “You know,” He bit his lip. “Spending time with alphas like this? Really not my thing most of the time.” 

Matt sat on the mattress. Close, but not quite touching him. “I’m flattered.” 

Peter couldn’t help a small grin. “Seriously, I just… a lot of alphas are…” 

“Assholes.” Matt finished. 

“Assholes.” Peter agreed, and sighed. “But you’re not.” 

“As you established with your friends.”

“Maybe it’s unfair for me to say that. But I don’t trust easy.”

Fingers ran over the threads of Peter’s t-shirt sleeve. He glanced down at Matt’s hand, his knuckles occasionally brushing Peter’s arm. He flushed, hypersensitive skin buzzing from each touch. 

“With how awful omegas are treated, I don’t blame you.” Matt said. “Especially if you’re not at your healthiest.” 

“You can tell?” 

“Maybe a bit better than others might.” Matt’s eyebrows knit. It was like another wall between them had fallen. Something they’d both been waiting to mention. “I didn’t want to pry.” 

“I can handle it anyways.” Peter said. He didn’t feel like he had to defend himself with Matt, though. 

Matt smiled, but the rest of his face was tense. “I’m sure you will.” 

Peter ran his hands over the thighs of his jeans. It was all he’d needed to hear to set any inhibitions aside. He was sure, through his tired, intoxicated haze, that he was right about doing this. “You don’t know why I wanted to see you?” 

Matt waited attentively for him to finish. 

“I wanted to hook up.” Peter breathed. “Everything hurts and you smell good and— and I wanted to hook up.”  

There it was. Out in the open. The room started to spin as soon as he had managed it. 

Matt’s scent changed. It smelled more like Peter’s. Dark and rich. Interest . Was he interested? 

Automatically, he leaned in towards Matt. An arm slid around his shoulders. 

“Lay back.” Matt murmured near Peter’s ear. 

Peter didn’t argue. He crawled back onto the mattress,settling in the middle of it. Everything, even the air, had grown scalding. He nearly collapsed against the pillows, the full weight of his tiredness hitting him. It was comfortable in the bed. The pillows and mattress were firm, but the sheets were silky and soft. It was far bigger than his twin at home. 

He felt a blanket shift under his foot. Peter blinked sluggishly at Matt, who had stood and pulled the blankets over Peter’s body, settling them up to his chin. 

“Sleep on it.” Matt said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” 

“Huh?” 

“Not tonight. Only if you’re sober.”

Peter probably tried to argue against it. His memory from there got pretty foggy. He only remembered waking up once after that, kicking off his pants in the darkness of the bedroom, and then falling back to sleep shortly after while wondering where Matt had gone.

There wasn’t a door to Matt’s bedroom, just indents in the doorway where hinges had once been screwed into the wood. As soon as he walked out, he saw Matt in the kitchen, his back to Peter. He was in sweatpants and a t-shirt that almost looked too small, and his hair was unkempt. The room smelled like bacon and butter. A pan popped at the stove Matt stood over. A wave of embarrassment washed over Peter, the memories still vivid in his brain. 

He could grab his phone and flee. Save himself from facing what he’d said and done while drunk. But that would be rude, after all of Matt’s consideration and kindness, and he couldn’t bring himself to sneak out. 

He walked into the living room, in search of his cell. It wasn’t on the coffee table, so he stooped and dug between the couch cushions. “Hey, Matt.” He called hesitantly.

Matt’s head raised. He smiled, and this time, it softened up his face. “Good morning.” He hummed. “Are you hungry?” 

No luck on the phone. Peter cursed silently. “I gotta run soon. Afternoon class.” 

“It’s already that late?” Matt reached for a clock on the counter, similar to the one in the bedroom. His fingers ran over the face, reading the numbers. “If you have the stomach for it, breakfast will be done in a minute.” 

Whatever Matt was cooking smelled greasy, and Peter couldn’t think of anything better. He gave up on looking for his phone, instead crossing to lean on the kitchen counter. 

He was compelled to apologize for all of it. For taking his bed. For needing a ride. For interrupting his night. For asking to sleep together when he felt like an idiot for ever assuming Matt wanted it in the first place. 

He opened his mouth to speak, then cut himself off when he saw it. His phone was sitting on a charger near the coffee machine. Peter definitely hadn’t been the one to put it there. Which meant Matt had done it for him.

“Not too hungover this morning, I hope?” Matt asked. He reached for the phone, unplugged it, and slid it across the counter, like he was a damn mind-reader. 

“Just a headache. I really don’t drink much.” Peter said miserably. 

Matt chuckled. He turned back to the pan, scraping a spatula over metal. “I’m glad you called me. I wouldn’t have wanted you to decide to go home with someone else.” 

Heat spread over the back of Peter’s ears and neck. His jaw locked. His defenses rose. “What, were you trying to protect me?” He asked, a bit cautious. 

Matt paused. He grabbed toast from a plate beside him. “I suppose I was. For my own sound of mind.” He cleared his throat. “But I don’t think you need protecting.” 

"I don't." Peter agreed, as he checked his texts. There were close to a dozen from his friends, asking if he was okay. Apologizing. Missed calls as well. He'd answer them later on the bus home. 

“Do you remember much of last night?” 

Peter flinched. Of course he did. It was haunting him. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, that’s—” Matt chuckled. “That’s not exactly what I mean.” 

He turned back to Peter with a small bag. There was a breakfast sandwich inside, wrapped up in a napkin. He set it in Peter’s hand. 

“I meant more so what we had discussed.” Matt said. “When we talked about how you were feeling.” 

“Unfortunately, I remember exactly what I said.” 

“I know that you don’t need anyone to save you.” Matt’s head tilted. “And you might have only called me because you were drunk.”

Peter held his breath.

“But if you think it would be… more comfortable, getting through this with someone else.” Matt continued, each word feeling meticulously planned, thoroughly vetted before it was said. “The offer is open.” 

Peter gazed down at the plastic bag in one hand, and his fully charged phone in the other. His eyebrows knit. 

“You’re saying you wanna help me with my heat?” Peter asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

There was a tense silence. Finally, Matt said, “I would, if you asked me to.” 

When Peter had thought about sleeping with Matt— when the impulsive, pheromone driven-thoughts snuck in, or when he’d been shitfaced the night before— it had been a one time thing. He’d imagined it as quick and easy. No strings attached. He’d get rid of some of the tension, relieve some of the agonizing side-effects of his pre-heat, and then they’d go back to being acquaintances. They had, after all, barely known one another. Matt was charismatic and kind of beautiful, but he also knew nothing about Peter. 

He didn’t expect anyone to offer to help. He didn’t even know if he wanted anyone to help. 

Even if he did want it, it wasn’t feasible. Matt was a human. He had limits. He could get hurt. He could get really hurt. 

And Peter was anything but normal. His heats were crazy, intense and unpredictable. The only reason Wade could keep up with him was thanks to his healing factor. Peter was pretty sure a normal person would be tapped out by the second day. That didn’t even account for Peter’s super strength that he could easily lose control of in the middle of a delirious fever. 

It wasn’t possible. But it was still so hard to say ‘no.’ 

“I’ll think about it.” Peter conceded. 

That seemed to be as much as Matt expected. He didn’t push it any further. Really, if any other alpha had offered to share Peter’s heat, he’d find it insulting. Patronizing. It should be seen that way. Alphas glorified omegas’ heats as a chance to get off, like trophies to be collected and flaunted. Peter was ashamed enough of how vulnerable heats made him. He didn’t need alphas taking advantage of his distress on top of it all. 

But Matt’s offer hadn’t come across as invasive. He’d been polite in mentioning it. Discreet. Maybe it helped that he had shoved food in Peter’s hands twice now. He was a sucker for free food when he was hungry far too often. 

“I should get ready to head into the office.” Matt flipped on the sink, to wash his hands. “I’m surprised Karen hasn’t already come by to drag me in.” 

“It’s pretty late.” Peter said in light agreement. “Thanks, by the way. For everything.” He smiled. “I’ll see you back at the coffee shop sometime?” 

“I have to get my fix somehow.” Matt chuckled. 

Peter stopped off at the door to get his shoes back. Then, just as he was leaving, he turned to call back, “I saw your Keurig, dude. Stop spending so much on bad espresso,” and he shut the door. 

Chapter Text

On Thursday evening, approximately a week and a half before the dreaded start of his heat, Peter fell into another wave that wiped him out for hours. 

It wasn’t too bad, compared to how his actual heat would be. He felt achy and feverish, but the needíness was relatively low. Still, he had to work himself over twice before he could finally collapse back in bed, sweaty and drained. He couldn’t bring himself to move an inch as the fever died down. In fact, he was determined never to move again. In the midst of his exhaustion, he decided he would stay in bed forever, until he missed his rent and was forcibly evicted. 

About 20 minutes after he’d closed his eyes, the distinct feeling of ick on his skin forced him to give up and haul himself up to go wash his hands and face in the bathroom sink.  He got dressed after that and found half of an energy drink he’d opened the day before, sipping on it when May called. Peter wasn’t entirely in the mood to talk to anyone, but it was rare that he missed one of her calls. He’d seen her nearly hurt too many times in the past few years to let her go to voicemail. Every time he did, it ended up being an emergency, like an awful curse. 

“Hey,” said Peter, swallowing down the flat, lukewarm liquid. Gross. The weird flavor explained why he hadn’t finished it in the first place. “I meant to call you earlier. Remember the bakery from the day we went to see Cloud 9? They’re having a sale, and—” 

“Parker.” The other end barked, cutting him off. “I emailed you about 30 times this week.”

Peter froze. Annoyance throbbed like a dagger behind his eyes. Why would Jameson bother him when he was the last person Peter wanted to talk to? And using the guise of calling on his Aunt’s phone ? That was a new low. 

“I’m on hiatus.” Peter said back smoothly, though the headache was returning with full force. “No need to check it.” 

“Hiatus?” Jameson sounded angry, but his words were tight and quiet. He was definitely restraining himself in front of May. Maybe she was in the next room from him. “We both know damn well you’re doing the opposite of that.” 

“Don’t call me from May’s cell.”

“I let you into this industry—” 

“Seriously, Jameson, does she even know you have it?”

“Freelance doesn’t mean you can forfeit loyalty to our competitors.” 

Peter’s jaw set. He wasn’t in the mood to be lectured. He had seen Jameson’s multiple emails, mostly sent on his behalf by Betty and Robbie. They’d asked him to come back. Promised that Jameson would reconsider buying the photos if he’d put it all behind him. They were all used to his abuse. Couldn’t Peter just suck it up and keep selling hero news to the Bugle so they’d all have headlines to run?

No. Not this time. Jameson had pushed him too far. His pride was too strong. His photos were good and Peter knew his worth. Avengers and the Four, team-ups with quieter vigilantes like Jessica Jones or Luke Cage. He’d sold them exclusively to the Bugle for 9 years, and made a name for himself in journalism spaces. If there was a big fight downtown or underground crime, Peter was bound to have a picture of it. They could rely on him. 

He was eventually going to stop dealing with Jameson’s crap. Nothing about J.J.J begged for loyalty. Where was the loyalty before he took May to social events and dinners? 

Where was the loyalty when he brought in perfectly usable pictures of a nearly unphotographable Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and he got told to find another way to pay his rent?

His preheat pain was leaving him very unforgiving. 

“That Ellison’s headlines are a waste of ink.” Jameson continued on, and Peter could perfectly picture him grumbling under his thick mustache in May and Ben’s kitchen. “He likes to call everything those criminals do a favor to society. Out of all the papers you coulda gone to, it just had to be them, didn’t it, Parker?” 

Peter didn’t answer, his cheeks flushed with irritation. 

“Parker! I hear your breathing.” 

“I’ll come back when I get back pay.” Peter announced. It didn’t matter that the Bulletin paid less. That they required a story to sell. That their office was farther from work and school, and he’d have to reestablish himself on the photographer food chain to secure a payroll slot. The Bugle had become the perfect way to passively earn income, since Jameson made shit up about Spider-Man attempting murder for every photo anyways. But now it was a matter of principle.

Jameson was flabbergasted. “Back pay for photos we didn’t run?”  He scoffed, a sharp noise in Peter’s ear. “You’re delusional. Get me something else to use by Friday night, and we’ll discuss this after your little hiatus.”

“Don’t hold your breath. Back pay, and I’ll talk to you after my hiatus.” Peter said. “I don’t know how long it’ll be.” 

“Right. Standard 3-5 days, yadda yadda. Don’t come back late.” 

Peter froze. 3-5 days? Like… the 3-5 estimated days heats took? How did he know? 

“How do you know? ” Peter asked in mortification. 

Jameson grumbled a sound of discomfort. “I’m surprised you haven’t had social services called with the way you smell,” said Jameson. “Not a day late.” He repeated, then hung up. 

Peter didn’t move. A sudden nausea hit him, and he looked down at his phone where May’s name had disappeared off the screen. 

Peter already knew his scent was off. He knew that his friends and Matt had noticed that his pre-heat was intense and awful by the way he smelled. But even Jameson had noticed. Had others?

God, Jameson could not tell May. She’d get worried, and when she got worried, she usually ended up in the middle of whatever dangerous things Peter was wrapped up in. 

Peter grabbed his laptop out from under one of his dirty laundry piles, and pulled up his email. He opened the most recent, watching it gradually print across his screen as his shitty wifi strained itself to load. 

It was from Robbie, from 2 days ago, CC’ing Jameson. 

Peter, 

Did you get pictures of the exploding gas line on 14th last night? Heard there was a Vulture sighting. Thought a power would show up. We’d like to run it. 

Thanks. 

Peter didn’t have any pictures of it, though he’d heard about the explosion when he’d gotten home. It was out in the warehouses of the Meatpacking district. Spider-Man had been in Brooklyn, following a guy that had attempted to kidnap a young woman on her way home from work. Luckily, it had sounded like everyone got out of the fire unharmed. It was under control. He had no reason to show up. 

He hadn’t heard about Toomes being spotted. 

Peter clicked out, heading over to a crime-watch forum where conspiracies got tossed around, but occasionally, good leads would pop up. There were some grainy phone pictures from behind police lines. But one in particular, taken from a car window, offered a clear sight. 

It must have been after the fire was done with. After emergency vehicles had cleared out, and only a few people remained, probably hoping to find a sinister cause of the gas line’s destruction. 

Toomes was in the air, too high to clearly make out his shape, but Peter had fought him long enough to know it was him. He’d been at the fire. He might have even caused it. 

Peter had a sinking feeling that his professor may have been the target of that fire. Maybe it was where Octavius had been hiding out. 

He jotted down the address, and returned to his email. He’d head out that way and check out the warehouse to search for clues, then make his rounds near the school again in hopes that Octavius might show up. 

Peter found Karen’s email. The last thing said between them had been Peter profusely thanking her for publishing his pictures. Bless her. Seriously. He wondered if she knew that she had almost certainly saved him from homelessness.

He drafted a new email, and hit send before he could talk himself out of it. He’d made up his mind. Besides that, he should get out on patrol. There wasn’t time to second guess himself.

Hi Karen, 

Do you think your boss would want to run more hero stories? I have a few new Spider-Man shots that I haven’t taken to the Bugle yet. 

Thanks for everything,
Peter 

He shut his laptop and threw on his suit, glad for a new lead. There was only so much Peter, Gwen, and Harry could do on their own when they couldn’t stop picturing their professor being hunted down by an escaped murderer. 

***

By 4:30 am on Friday, Peter hadn’t found any evidence that Dr. Octavius was connected to the fire, and the peakings of sunlight were starting to rise out over the river. He finally called it quits so he’d have time to sneak in some sleep, and as he was crawling in his window, Karen replied to his email, asking if he’d like to meet for coffee to review his photos. He wasn’t happy that he still had no idea where Octavius was, and the expo was in 4 days. 

They’d scrambled to piece together the remaining components, but it was slow work. Peter knew a majority of the set-back were thanks to his sorry state, and the guilt was killing him. 

He felt like shit when he finally did wake up. 

The pre-heat symptoms had returned full force. Despite sleeping in longer than normal, it was still a considerable effort to get out of bed and get dressed to meet Karen. He felt like a corpse on his feet. He'd been planning to swing his way to the coffee shop, but with the steady pounding of a headache at the base of his skull and a cramping nausea wracking his guts, he wasn't sure he'd make it down the block on his webs. 

Sick and disoriented, Peter dragged his aching bones out the front door and started walking to the bus. He spent the ride leaning his forehead against the cool glass, condensation gathering where his breath hit. The jagged bumps had almost lulled him to sleep again when his spidey sense alerted him to the fact that he would miss his stop if he didn't get up. He grabbed his envelope of photos and crawled out of his seat, back into the unforgiving frigidity of the winter afternoon. 

The bus stopped a few blocks down from the shop. Between the gray canopy of clouds that cast a dreariness over everything and his own malaise, the street looked blurry. He spotted the general blob of Karen’s form, and he slipped between two cars to cross to the other sidewalk, heading in her direction. 

Alarm bells were going off in his head. Peter stopped walking. Something was off. Wrong. Danger was getting closer. 

His perception of the world was warped, and slow. He gazed around cautiously, guarded and prepared. His spidey senses shot up his spine. He spun, and he stared. 

A mop of brown hair. An overly large trench coat. Black sunglasses obscured eyes. But it was him. It was Dr. Octavius standing behind him. The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stood on end. 

“Dr. Octavius?” Peter wheezed. He really wasn’t feeling well. Worse than he’d thought. 

His teacher’s lips moved wordlessly, like a twitch. “I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this, Parker.” He said. Peter’s name sounded painful to say. His throat sounded half closed up. His speech pattern was much more erratic than the last time they had talked. “I had to choose one of you.” 

“Do you need help, sir?” Peter asked cautiously, as he took a step towards him. Octavius didn’t move, but he looked uncomfortable at the closing gap. “Let’s go inside. We can talk about it.” 

“Stay back.” Octavius said, his voice sharp. “Where is that useless prick?” 

Peter’s spidey senses blared in warning. 

He turned back, spotting Karen. She was watching him from under the coffee shop awning. Her hand was in her purse, and her eyes were narrowed in concern. 

She disappeared behind the lanky, green and black clad body of the Vulture. Toomes landed with a thud, his claws glinting on the sidewalk. He stood up straight, much taller than Peter in his costume, and stared down at him from under his beak-shaped helmet. 

Peter’s stomach leaped into his throat. A cold sweat broke out on his skin, and panic rose in his chest. 

Why the hell was Toomes targeting him when he wasn’t in costume? 

Head spinning and worse for wear, he was still determined to protect his Professor from the guy that had been stalking him for likely nefarious reasons. He stepped back defensively, blocking Octavius from Toomes. “Aren’t you that bird guy all over the news?” 

“Another mouthy one.” Toomes’ wings splayed out behind him, taking up the expanse of the sidewalk. It had finally seemed to dawn on the pedestrians around them that this wasn’t one of the dozens of costume performers that dressed up as famous heroes or criminals. His mechanical wings whirred gratingly on Peter’s senses, and the gasps and cries of concerned passerbyers didn’t help. 

“Dr. Octavius, you should go now.” Peter said over his shoulder to his professor, who was unmoving. 

It took a horrifying moment to realize that Otto Octavius didn’t look worried, or concerned, or even scared of the Vulture. In fact, he wasn’t looking at Toomes at all. He was looking at Peter like he was prey. 

“Oh shit.” Peter huffed out. He held his feverish head in one hand, his eyes shutting in resolution. “Come on, man, I was trying so hard to help you.” 

“You didn’t delete the files.” Octavius said, his voice sharp. “The one thing that I asked of you.” 

“Kinda starting to regret that now.” Peter said, solemnly. 

He couldn’t see Karen, but Peter hoped she had gone inside. Somewhere safe. Away from the crazy villain stuff that could hurt her. 

Tires came screeching up the street, spinning out over wet streets. A white van pulled up on Peter’s left, stopping short of slamming into the cars that were parked against the sidewalk. A door banged open on the side. Peter could see that the driver was in a yellow suit that covered him head to toe, with shades forming an eye slit. 

He knew those uniforms. 

God dammit. It just had to be A.I.M. didn’t it?

Spider-Man had played an integral part in taking down the A.I.M. organization last time they’d risen up with their grand plans of power. They’d pop up every now and again in Peter’s usual criminal roster, working with whatever villain was out of prison and eager to build a dooms-day device. Last time, he, Steve, and Kamala had stopped their kidnapping and experimentation schemes, when they’d dug up one of Kamala’s old enemies to work for them. Fury had cleaned up the aftermath. That was a year and a half ago, and they’d all been sure that A.I.M. members had been scattered enough not to come back any time soon. 

Why him? He just wanted to sell his stupid photos. 

Briefly, Peter considered running. A.I.M. was covering the road to his side, but Dr. Octavius wouldn’t be able to restrain him if he ran past. Then he’d just have to dodge Toomes. In his civvies. Trying not to give away the fact that he had powers. He could probably do it, too. 

He didn’t think that they suspected him of being Spider-Man. If they did, they wouldn’t be dumb enough to show up with 4 people, even if one was the Vulture. They couldn’t capture him on their own, even when he was sick. Unless the two in the van were powered, he’d easily be able to get away. 

But they still had Octavius. Peter was haunted with the thought that he didn’t seem to be there entirely willingly. If he needed help getting out, then Peter would stay until his teacher was safe. 

“Get him moving.” Toomes stepped forward. His knuckles flexed, seemingly desperate to get around his throat. “The woman is calling the cops. I’ll deal with her.”

Peter heard Karen’s stressed curse. Her shuttered breathing. Horror twisted in his gut. He wouldn’t forgive himself if she got mixed up in vigilante business. 

“I’ll get in the van.” Peter insisted, raising both hands near his head placatingly. “Jeez. It’s just a little early to be taking people off the street, don’cha think?” 

He spared another look at the vehicle. Getting caught up in something against his enemy out of suit wasn’t ideal, but he didn’t think he had a real choice not to. 

So he dragged his feet, every inch of his body already aching, towards the waiting doors to crawl in. 

The inside of it smelled disgusting, like someone had urinated on themselves long ago, and it had never been cleaned up. The seats had been stripped out, so he crawled into the corner and sat cross-legged, leaving plenty of space between him and the A.I.M. drivers. 

He looked out the darkly tinted windows, spotting Karen on the phone, and to his horror, her purse was on the ground, replaced by a small pistol she clutched onto. He strained to listen, to hear what she was telling the people on the other end. 

A name. Matt’s name. She had called Matt. 

The door slammed shut. Toomes took off in the air. They pulled away from the street in a quick flash of white. If Peter wasn’t sure he’d survive a car crash thanks to his powers, he’d probably fear for his life. But now, he was just worried that they’d hit a pedestrian or t-bone cars at intersections. 

“If it wasn’t you,” Octavius began, catching Peter’s gaze. He looked clammy. Almost shaky. “If it wasn’t you, it would be Gwen or Harry.” 

Peter kept his mouth shut. 

***

“At least you guys aren’t in a warehouse.” Peter said approvingly. “Warehouses are so overplayed.” 

He’d really expected them to be in one after the fire in the Meatpacking district. Warehouses were a lot easier to get out of. But this? Being led upstairs to a refashioned apartment with bars on the windows, that sat inconspicuously above a sandwich shop, would be a little more challenging to escape. 

It was a makeshift lab, and most of the equipment had seemed to be plundered from Dr. Octavius’s own collection. The back door in the alley opened on stairs that led up to the lab, and it seemed to be the only way in or out. A few more A.I.M. members dressed in the same creepy yellow garb stood guard along the walls. They held guns in a relaxed position. They probably thought Peter would be too intimidated to even think about trying to escape. 

They were right in a way. He wouldn’t leave without finding a way to save Dr. Octavius as well. 

“The boy doesn’t need his tongue to work, does he?” Toomes hissed. 

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Octavius returned. 

There was a short, silent battle between them. Somehow, Toomes was the one to give in, and he pushed past them both to head towards the front door. 

“You have 6 hours.” Toomes said, and disappeared down the stairs. 

That left Peter with Octavius, 4 A.I.M. guards upstairs, and one or two out of sight. They could get out of this. He was sure of it. He’d just have to let Gwen and Harry know that they were the next targets. 

Peter stayed sitting in the chair that they had put him in when they first arrived, gauging the attentiveness of the guards. He could probably get guns away from 2 of them before the 3rd and 4th had time to shoot. He just had to get Octavius out of the way. 

“We have a lot of work to get done.” Octavius turned away from Peter to face a computer, which sat atop a wobbly table. Parts that looked nearly identical to their expo project were scattered off to the side. “Stand up, son.” 

“Sir, what are—” 

Octavius shed his long trench coat, as it fell to the floor in a heap. Peter froze. His stomach clenched at the morbid sight. 

Without a shirt underneath, he could see his Professor’s bare back. Along Octavius’s spine were metallic bumps and ridges. Half of them were buried under his skin like the roots of a plant, in red, angry looking lesions that were scabbed over. It was gruesome. Inhumane. It looked like his skin had been melted to accommodate the component. 

It was the spinal connector of their project. It was in beta. Untested. Not even finished. It wasn’t supposed to be used on anyone. 

“Holy shit.” Peter whispered, taken aback. “What did they do to you?” 

“They ran out of time, and we ran out of funding.” Octavius said, low under his breath. His right hand formed a tight fist, knuckles white. He was seething. He looked out of control. “I had to resort to other methods to see that it was finished.” 

“They maimed you.” 

“They didn’t touch me.” 

Peter already knew what he meant. His fears were confirmed, and the thought of it was so much worse. 

“You’ve been working with them, haven’t you? You’ve had us working for them.” Peter’s breath seared in his chest. He was angry. He wanted to hit him. 

“Rappaccini was our primary funder, yes.” Octavius turned to face Peter. There wasn’t an inch of regret on his face. It only made the fury bubble hotter. “I wasn’t aware, when we began, why she had taken a special interest in my invention. They didn’t want us to go public with it. They sent Toomes to threaten me. To steal from me. To force me to bond the connector to myself so that they could not take it as well.

“And I warned you. I told you to get rid of it all, before they got the names of my students. Before they found one of the minds that knew my design intricately, that would help me finish constructing it. You ignored me. But what can I expect from a brilliant, but arrogant mind like yourself? Always running late. Taking unnecessary risks. Throwing your schooling away like it means nothing. Never listening to directions. You three should have been far from this. You had no need to be caught up in it.” 

The more that Octavius talked, the more clear that it was becoming to Peter that something had seriously degraded in his mental state. He stared at his professor, but he could only see small remnants of where he had once been. His talking was stilted. His anger seemed to barely be contained. He caught glimpses of his lectures, his instructions, his harsh remarks, but the rest seemed to be someone else entirely. 

God, he felt too physically awful to feel this betrayed. 

“You ignored my warnings, boy.” Octavius continued in a slow, resentful tone. “You will be the one to help me complete my work.”

“And if I don’t, I die.” Peter guessed. 

“I’ll give them Stacy’s name next.”

Peter had his phone taken in the van. He couldn’t contact Gwen or Harry to warn them. The only people that knew he had been taken were a handful of pedestrians, Karen, and Matt. MJ had met, and could get ahold of, the Four, Tony Stark, Danny Rand, or a couple of the X-Men, but there was no way to let her know where he was. Wade had always been tracking his phone. Why did they have to be broken up now? 

“We’ll start with welding the base of the arms to the connector.” Octavius said, as if he hadn’t just dropped a catastrophic bomb on Peter’s entire education. “As soon as we finish, you’ll be let go.” 

“Sure.” Peter grimaced. The project had once been so beautiful to him. Intuitive. World-Changing. Now it looked so grotesque. “You know, we can get out of here together. Finish this the right way.” 

“It’s too late.” Octavius said, and motioned impatiently towards the table. “Grab base C1.” 

Chapter Text

Toomes came back once while they were working, seemingly to check on their progress. He was visibly agitated, pacing the lab and barking out orders for them to hurry up. At one point, he had even accused Peter of sabotaging them, with a razor-sharp feather aimed at his throat. 

Toomes wasn’t entirely wrong.

Octavius had shooed him off, like he was the one holding all the power. Indignantly, Toomes shot out through the window again, and he hadn’t come back in hours.

Peter wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d been taken. It felt like nearly half-a-day had passed. His hands were sore and his fingertips were burnt, but otherwise, he’d been working as slow-paced as he could manage. He was sure that he’d find an opening to escape somehow, before completing their assembly of the project pieces. They’d worked through connecting the joints on one of the mechanical arms, though it laid unmoving on the table beside Octavius. If Peter was working at his full potential, he probably would have finished 3 of the arms by then. But despite his efforts to move at an inconspicuously leaden speed, a few of the mistakes he’d made were genuine. The pre-heat daze had his hands fumbling on tools, and he’d managed to solder a few wires in the wrong places. Octavius was getting progressively more vexed with each ‘oops’ that Peter murmured. 

Knocking one of the pieces off the table was the tipping point. 

His elbow had bumped it. He could have caught it, probably, but he didn’t want to use his reflexes in front of his teacher. The joint piece tumbled off the edge of the desk and to the ground underneath it. Metal clashed on hardwood. With the proper casing on, the joints could take far more of a beating than a simple fall before they faced any issues. But, with how quiet the room had been, the crash seemed deafening.

“Godammit!” Octavius barked out. “Stop messing around!” 

There was a brief moment of warning before the arm shot up off the desk. It hung above them, half-curled, poised like a cobra ready to strike. Peter jumped up, but he was mesmerized by the appendage. He hadn’t known that it would be operational so quickly. Octavius had worked out some of the programming bumps with the Artificial Intelligence that they'd run into. It was fascinating. It was exhilarating. It was—

It was charging at Peter’s chest. 

The breath was forced out of him when the base of the claw hit against his breastbone. The four clamps encircled his body and arms and squeezed. Tight enough for Peter to feel the peakings of panic when his lungs couldn't get air in, his ribs threatening to cave. He kicked, and his shoe connected with the chair, sending it hurtling into the wall behind Octavius. Octavius must have panicked at the sheer force of it, because the arm shot out and sent Peter flying back with it. 

The world fractured and his ears popped. 

Peter had taken beating after beating after beating in his decade-long run as a street hero. He’d been shot more times than he could recall. He’d been thrown through windows, drywall, full floors in apartment buildings and had bones snapped by merciless criminals bi-annually. He knew what getting thrown through a wall felt like; he’d easily be able to walk away from it. The dust was the worst part, but if he held his breath, it wouldn’t get in his lungs. 

This wasn’t drywall. Octavius slammed Peter into the reinforced metal pillar that was in the center of the wall, and the whiplash of hitting it at a speed that Rhino would be envious of made Peter’s head rebound and smack hard against it. 

He smelled blood. Blood, and a strange lack of drywall. He felt like he was convulsing, and after a second, Peter realized he was shaking on the floor. The floor? When did he?— well, he could breathe again. Maybe he’d gotten a solid breath when he had been dropped. He was slumped and shaking on the floor in front of the pillar, and he smelled blood. It dripped down the back of his neck. He was almost certain the blood was his own. 

Someone’s hand gripped his hair. Pulled his head up. Peter cringed at the wave of pain that coursed through him. The hand let go and his head fell back towards his chest and the shaking restarted. 

“The strength in these.” Octavius muttered somewhere far above Peter’s head. A ringing had started up in Peter’s ears. With how faint the world seemed to be, it just made it harder to hear. “We weren’t going to hurt him. We weren’t going to hurt them. You take too much control. Look at him!” 

“Is he dead?” One of the guards said elsewhere in the room. 

Another muttered back, “The pillar bent.” 

“That is another thing to fix, Parker.” Octavius continued as if his only help weren’t incapacitated. “I’ll make a note. Get. Up. We must calibrate the pressure sensitivity. That should not have responded with such force.” 

Peter let out a shuttered breath in answer.

“Get to your damn feet!” Octavius said harshly.

Even if Peter could have jumped up to help, he downright refused to try. He was already sick. He didn’t need to have his skull bashed in on top of it. It was just more of a reason to put off the repairs. 

Octavius let out a long string of incoherent expletives and huffy, fuming complaints. He left Peter where he was, and returned to the computer. The arm lay back in its spot on the desk, pacified. 

Peter blinked sluggishly towards Octavius, watching his back. The computer Octavius was coding on had split off into two bright blobs right before Peter’s hallucinating eyes. Octavius slid the cable from the A.I. housing unit into the C1 connector on the back of his neck to adjust the programming. The unit booted, and Octavius clacked keys through their code.  

Sensations had slowly begun to return to Peter’s body, dancing over his nerves. The extent of his headache was creeping up nauseatingly. It reverberated behind his eyes, into his spine. His whole body was locked up with pain. He was the somewhat-human embodiment of a massive bruise. 

God, everything sucked. It wouldn’t take much effort to lay there listlessly and pretend he was half-dead and unable to work. 

A moment later, the computery-blobs shut off. The light from overhead died off. They were bathed in darkness as the power went out.

The power was out. The power was out when Octavius was making adjustments to the spinal connector that was neurologically implanted. Peter struggled to his feet, holding onto the wall for balance, sickened. Despite the anger he felt, his distress for his Professor’s life won over. 

“Is there a backup generator?” Peter wasn’t sure if his voice even came out. He felt the shape of words form on his lips, but the ringing was so loud that he couldn’t hear himself. “Dr. Octavius—” 

The A.I. hub booted back to life. Dr. Octavius gasped, a horrible gargled noise, like he was in a great deal of pain. 

The world felt garbled and unfamiliar around him. Slow, and jumbled. There was a dull bang below them. The sound of a gun. A few of the guards went running towards the stairs. Peter couldn’t hear the full extent of what was making them panic, but he knew he should take any opportunity to get out. He waited for them to turn their attention to the chaos, then took off in the other direction to the farthest wall from the sounds. 

The windows were caged. Peter heaved his shoulder into a set of bars. His arm ached in a solid line down to his elbow where he’d made contact, but the grate creaked and fell on one side, suspended off from a corner. He grabbed hold of the bars in a fit and ripped them free. Dr. Octavius was still gagging in the middle of the room, and while Peter desperately wanted to check up on him, the best thing he could do was get away and call for the Avengers as backup. 

The cage clattered to the floor. Whatever was going on downstairs had taken the attention of the guards. Peter shoved his foot through the glass, a shard catching on his leg, but it dulled in comparison to the blinding headache exploding in his skull. 

He jumped. Above him, someone screamed the words “The Devil!” and Peter took off running down the alleys. 

***

Signs of a concussion included, but were not limited to: a migraine, confusion, black-outs, poor balance, confusion, and a really, really bad migraine. 

And confusion. 

Some nausea, too, Peter was realizing, as he draped himself over the edge of a dumpster and emptied his stomach out into it. 

He was…somewhere near a river, judging by the mucky smell of sewer water. It was probably around 1 am, if he remembered correctly, after spotting the time on a billboard a few blocks back. Peter had laid on the muddy asphalt between black-outs for what felt like an hour. He'd only gotten up when the nausea was too intense to hold back any longer, and ended up face first in the nearest trash can. 

At least no one was around to see what a mess he was. Small victories. 

Another wave of queasiness rushed up through his chest and he coughed on the sick, shuddering at the pain pounding through his head. He needed to get home, but he couldn't really remember how to get there. Usually, his directions were flawless. Now, he'd be lucky to get on the right bus. 

He should call Tony Stark. Tony would definitely take care of things so he could rest. But, shit, where was his phone? 

Peter sank to the ground beside the dumpster, head spinning in the most awful way as he felt in his shoes for the device. It wasn't there. Fuck . The memory of one of the A.I.M. members taking it was coming back. He couldn’t afford to buy a new one right now. 

Letting out a pathetic noise of grief, he stumbled to his feet and clung to the wall, searching for a way out onto the street. At the very least, the familiar surroundings might jog his memory. He desperately wanted to collapse into bed and lay sedentary until the headache went away. 

Peter eventually made it out onto the sidewalk and took off in a random direction. He careened down a block, then another, waiting for something to click. The dizziness forced him to close his eyes, until he was moving on pure instinct alone. 

And he must have blacked out again. The next thing he knew, something hard hit the back of his hand. 

Peter’s eyes opened, staring up at the big mass in front of him. He was knocking on a door. He’d been to this apartment before. Enough times that he must have registered where he was when swimming out of consciousness and muscle memory had brought him right here. 

Holy shit, how long had he been walking?

He should leave. He should go anywhere else but where he was at that exact moment. The last person that he wanted to be injured and stuck with was—

The door opened. Guarded eyes gazed down underneath thick eyebrows at Peter. 

“The hell happened to you?” Frank Castle asked. 

Peter did not have the patience for this. But Frank Castle knew his identity, and had a phone, probably. Normal people carried them around, and in some ways, Frank was a normal guy. Peter could call Tony and get home within the hour, and make sure that someone got to Dr. Octavius to help him. 

"Ph'ne." Peter managed to slur ineloquently, before his body gave a violent shudder and his brain decided to black out again. 

***

This time, when Peter awoke, he wasn't on the doorstep. For a split second, he thought he was back in the makeshift lab, slumped against the pillar and bleeding out on the floor, and he jerked sideways, startled.

He'd woken up in a bed, he realized belatedly, when he'd effectively rolled out of it. His body slammed into the ground and a pained noise emitted low from his throat, curling up on himself in agony. The headache hadn't dissipated, even after his short sleep, and the nausea was barely being kept at bay. 

"Supposed to stay on the mattress. Ya know that, Spider-Kid?" Frank pushed the door open, his face appearing behind it just as unfriendly and unimpressed as always. Not scary, though. The alpha had lost that charm the first time Peter had met his dog. "I'd rather your blood get all over my sheets than the floor. Smells like shit when it cakes into the carpet." 

"Yeah, sorry." Peter wheezed. With great effort, he heaved his body back up onto the mattress. He’d been to this apartment a few times. He wasn’t close with Frank by any means, but they occasionally worked together. And passed out in his bed. If only Jameson could see him now. He'd have a heart attack. "I'm bleeding still?" 

"Doubt it's as bad. Your shirt was wet with it when I got you here." Frank grunted. "Tried to get you to make you own way home but you kept tryin' to steal my phone and crapping out the second you got your paws on it. Begging me to call one of your guys." 

"Cool." Peter dropped his face into the pillows, heaving a hard breath. They smelled like mildew, but it was better than the floor. "So you just took me to your room, since we're best friends and all." 

"Get your ass out the front door when you can." Frank waved off the sarcasm. "Don't get comfortable." 

"Yeah, yeah." Peter mumbled back, fighting the urge to vomit again. 

Even with Frank out of the room, Peter didn't feel at all more comfortable. The smell of gunpowder and canned food hung stale in the air, and the bolted windows told Peter that he never bothered to air the place out. Somehow, Frank even made Wade look like a Saint.

Before long, he must have passed out again, because the next time he was waking up, it was to a cool beer bottle being pressed into his neck and startling him awake. 

Peter gasped and thrashed, striking the man above him in the arm, as Frank let out a pained grunt. Slowly Peter calmed from his icy heart attack, panting from stress and throwing him a death glare. "You're a prick." He grumbled. 

"You didn't respond the 4 times I called you." Frank rolled his eyes. He pressed the edge of the lid against the window sill and struck the bottle with the heel of his palm, sending the lid tumbling off into the abyss of the bedroom. "Got your escort here to get you the hell out of my place." 

"Escort?" Peter let out a confused noise. "Who do you even know that I'm friends with?" 

"Don't care if you're really friends or not. You asked me to call one of your guys, so I got one." Frank took a swig from the beer bottle, snorting. "He came to pick you up and that's good enough for me." 

"You just have such a way with words." Peter dryly swooned. "And nasty sheets." 

At that, Frank just chuckled, and knocked the door out of his way. The bang of it hitting the wall made Peter wince from the ache in his head. 

Frank disappeared back into his dark apartment to talk to Peter’s supposed rescuer. He couldn't hear much besides a quiet, threatening voice, but the dizziness prevented him from tuning into the conversation. It definitely wasn't Wade or Johnny, then. Both would lack the self control to keep their volume down. 

Quiet footsteps approached the room. Crimson entered Peter's dazed vision. He made out the vague blob of the person in the doorway and he jolted.

"Daredevil?" Peter gaped, pushing himself up on his hands to stare at the vigilante. 

It definitely was him. The horns and the tinted lenses said it all. His head tilted at Peter with parted lips framed by rough stubble, somehow looking concerned, which was definitely a hallucination. Daredevil never showed a hint of worry for Spider-Man. He trusted him to hold his own, and most of the time Peter did successfully. 

Maybe he hadn’t protected himself this time, but he’d been caught off guard by Toomes and Dr. Octavius. He hadn’t expected Dr. Octavius to try to murder him. But worst of all, Peter wasn’t in his suit. He was just regular Peter Parker. So Daredevil had no damn reason to come bother him when he was down and licking his wounds.

The squeak of leather brought Peter’s eyes down to Daredevil’s hands. They were clenched. Tightly, in fact. His fist strained against the octagonal textures of his kevlar-lined suit. He was pissed off and Peter wanted to curse out Frank Castle for bothering the vigilante enough that he seemed like he was seconds from hitting something— or someone. 

“Frank.” Daredevil’s voice was dark and thick. His face angled away just enough that he seemed to be considering Castle’s position half a room behind him. A long beat, and the dangerous vigilante spoke again. “He smells like beer. And… you.” 

Peter nearly sputtered into the ragged threads of the sheets. He could live a long, long time without ever being told he smelled like Frank Castle. He had ended up drenched in sewer water a few too many traumatizing times and he’d much rather smell like New York’s underbelly than have Daredevil recognize Frank Castle’s scent on his skin. 

He’d always known Daredevil had some crazy instincts and senses. He let small things slip, like comments on sounds that Peter could barely pick up himself. Some days he really did seem enhanced. Then some days Peter watched him get downed by a stab wound and he wondered how enhanced Daredevil really could be. 

Peter sat up when he realized, in his delayed and dazed state, that Daredevil was gone from the room. His senses were buzzing low and far off, but noticeable enough, alerting him to the fact that someone was definitely about to get hit. With strained pushing and dragging and a few pained groans, Peter managed to sit upright. The world twisted and agonizing colors lit up the edges of his vision. He tightened up his throat enough to keep the bile at bay, and just as he started to feel steady again, Peter forced the last of the lean to tumble to his feet.

Something shattered in the living room. Peter tumbled towards the bedroom door with blurry vision and a heavy reliance on his other senses not to let him fall flat on his face. 

Peter managed to swing his body weight into the doorframe, the wood creaking to support him where his legs nearly failed. Hurriedly, he made out the scene spread out across a barely furnished flat. Daredevil was standing behind a couch that was littered with stains and missing its frame under one of the arms, making the fabric sloppily sink towards the ground. Frank was in the kitchen, with a butcher knife in hand. The shattered sound must have been the ceramic mug that laid in shards at Daredevil’s feet, its cheap white pieces gleaming up under the fluorescents. If Peter had to guess, Frank had thrown it perfectly at Daredevil in self-defense, and Daredevil had just brushed it away into the drywall. 

But why the hell was Daredevil attacking him? Sure, Peter could list a myriad of reasons to arrest Frank, but now definitely didn’t seem like the time to act on it. 

“Didn’t do nothin’, Red.” Frank snarled. He looked every bit as affronted as he looked exasperated. Peter doubted he had planned to let Peter in just to get attacked for it. “Take the damn kid and go. Last time I helped either of you. I don’t care who’s fuckin’ who, I just want him out of my place.” 

A low, thick noise emitted from Daredevil in response. It edged over Peter’s nerves until the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and his stomach tightened up. It was haunting to Peter, and he couldn’t quite place why it made his skin crawl and his knees weaken until he saw Frank’s reaction. 

Confusion. Realization. Realization about something Peter wasn’t understanding. Then he placed it. 

Daredevil was growling like some possessive alpha. Growling. It sent a full-body shiver through Peter. Daredevil had never had any scent for Peter to pick up on. Maybe small, nearly missable twinges after a sweaty battle, but he wouldn’t have pegged him as an alpha. He must have been using scent blockers, and good ones, as long as they’d known one another. Just something else they had in common. 

He was too far into pre-heat for that sort of sound. Distressed warmth was already prickling in Peter’s stomach. 

Peter decided that was enough. Concussion or not, he wasn’t getting in the middle of some strange romantic strife between Daredevil and Frank Castle. Not if it meant he’d be growled at because Daredevil thought he was some omega coming between their secret relationship or something. The thought of it was enough to make him squirm with disgust. Frank? Really? Ew. 

“I don’t want to hear this.” Peter announced in what he hoped was a lucid voice, though it felt terrible coming out of his mouth. The last thing he wanted was to be on his feet, walking through the winter air of New York while he felt like passing out in his own vomit. But he wasn’t staying here and he had no need to watch Daredevil and the Punisher tear each other apart. “So I’m going.” 

Daredevil’s helmet regarded Peter, though the lowly emitted growl only grew deeper the quieter it got. Peter shuddered. It was mortifying how much his body reacted to the sound. 

“Hear that, guy? Your boy’s leaving. Pack up your alpha bullshit and get him far away from here.” Frank cut in with an irritated grunt. “Didn’t ask for this.” 

Peter didn’t need Daredevil to escort him, and he definitely didn’t plan to show the vigilante where he lived. But when he moved to stumble towards the front door, and Daredevil’s hand caught his arm supportively, he didn’t fight it. He was so tired, and he’d had enough of them. 

“Jesus just—” Peter groaned and leaned his side against the door, breathing through the sickness. “I just wanted to call someone to help. I need to get to Octavius.”

“There’s no way you’re going back there.” Daredevil said sharply. His grip on Peter’s arm tightened, like the idea was winding him up. 

Peter realized that, faintly, he could hear Daredevil’s heart racing. He could smell sweat on his skin. There was a cut on his lip and another on his jaw. One of the A.I.M guards had said ‘The Devil’ as Peter ran out. Daredevil had saved him, hadn’t he? He sure seemed hopped up on adrenaline and weird alpha dominance, anyways.

“Gonna lose my patience for this real soon.” Frank said. He stood around them imposingly, coaxing them out. Peter knew that staying there meant Frank might let Peter’s identity slip. If he had called Daredevil, he assumed they were on a name-and-face friendship basis. Peter’s identity wasn’t exactly a secret in powered circles anymore, but he’d never trusted Daredevil enough to tell him. 

Peter steeled himself and stumbled out of the doorway. The grip on his arm meant Daredevil had no choice but to follow him into the dank hallway. The front door slammed shut behind them. Dazedly, Peter realized he was out of his suit and alone with Daredevil, and he would have to get rid of the vigilante if he wanted to search for Dr. Octavius.

“Sorry that he called you.” Peter muttered. He tried to change his voice just a bit. Make it a little deeper. “I’m sure you have better things to do. I can get home from here.” 

Daredevil let out a ragged breath. “You plan to go back.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Other people can deal with this. Not you. Not now.” Daredevil bit out. 

Shit. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to convince Daredevil that he could look after himself. 

“My professor was there.” Peter said, carefully. He knew he smelled like an injured omega and Frank’s bed (still ew ), and maybe that was making the supposed alpha go a little crazy with instincts, but he wasn’t about to let Daredevil civilian-zone him. Especially when he’d been in and out of consciousness for an unknown amount of time, and he needed to get a hold of someone that could help him fix things.

“He’s fine.” 

“Dude, you don’t understand.”

“The people that took you are keeping an eye on the place. Your professor got out before I left. There was a police raid.” Daredevil was the one to move them next, as he pulled Peter, surprisingly gentle, towards the building exit.

Walking felt unfamiliar to Peter at first, as he stumbled and grit his teeth against the sickly disorientation. It was hard to see through his migraine. Eventually he got the hang of it, enough that he could walk with Daredevil rather than being dragged by him. 

“You shouldn’t have gone with them so easily.” 

Peter managed a shrug. “Anyone would have.” He paused. “How’d you know?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“Where are you taking me?” Peter squinted around at their surroundings. They weren’t heading towards the part of town with the sandwich shop and the lab. Definitely the opposite direction. He shook Daredevil’s hand off and took a stumbled step backwards. “I’m going back.” 

“You’re going home.” Daredevil hissed. He made a grab for Peter’s wrist, but even, he was fast enough to dodge it. 

“You got me out of there, didn’t you? Turned off the power.” Peter pulled his arm back into his body, but he could see that Daredevil was growing more frantic. Did he always fuss over people that way? “Thanks for that. I’ll send you a gift basket. But now I need to check on my professor and find a way to call my friends and make sure they’re okay.” He huffed. “I’m not the only one in danger here.”

“They’re fine, Peter.” Daredevil said, his voice bitter and frustrated. It had veered out of his intimidating tone. Now he just seemed tense, and stressed. Like he was dealing with someone he knew. A friend. “You’re injured. You need to lay down.” 

Peter wasn’t listening to his reasoning anymore. He was just staring at Daredevil, at his helmet and his jaw, at the stubble on his throat. At the bruise blooming down the veins that popped out with stress. His breath was stuck. 

Daredevil fell quiet. He must have noticed. How didn’t he notice? 

They both had noticed what he said.

Peter cleared his throat. 

“How do you know my name?” Peter’s eyebrows knit. It was getting pretty hard to keep standing, or to think properly when his head was still throbbing. But Daredevil had said it, hadn’t he? There were a million explanations as to why he knew him. Frank may have mentioned it on the phone. Maybe Octavius had shouted it when Peter was escaping. Maybe Daredevil had been trailing the case just like Peter was. Maybe he’d seen his name in the newspaper next to a photo of himself. 

Peter waited for any of the easy explanations. He would have taken them, then. Accepted them. Maybe he didn’t trust Daredevil all that much, but he knew that, at heart, he was a good guy. 

“Peter,” Daredevil spoke like a broken man. Like he was drowning in the pheromones and the instincts and his own stress. He shifted his weight between boots, then let out an agonized groan. “I can’t… relax, until I know you’re away from there. You let them take you, you—” He laughed in bitter disbelief, and familiarity prickled in the back of Peter’s head. His mind was clouded with pain and confusion, and he couldn’t quite place why this side of Daredevil seemed so recognizable. “You went with them so easily, and they could have killed you.” 

“They didn’t kill me.” Peter pointed out. 

“You won’t be any help when you can barely stand.” 

“I’ll manage.” 

Peter wasn’t sure how long he’d been out of commission at Frank’s, but the sky was still dark, so there was still a chance he could get back to the apartment and search for a sign of Dr. Octavius. The image of the power shortage burned in his head. It had been a horrible feeling, to watch the neural connector shut off like it had. He wasn’t sure anyone would properly survive that. 

“I have to go. Sorry, man.” Peter breathed with finality. At the very least, if A.I.M. still had his phone, they could text one of his friends. Try to track him down. Lay their hands on Gwen or Harry. He wanted to try to get it back. “I’m not your problem, okay? I’m not some helpless little omega, and, seriously, there was nothing weird about me being at Frank Castle’s place. I barely know who he is.” 

“I know that you aren’t helpless.” Daredevil said, low and tight. “I know that you’re—...” 

Peter waited. When the vigilante didn’t continue, he ran a hand through his hair. His fingers got caught on strands matted with blood, and the pressure ached through his skull. “Not sleeping with Frank Castle?” 

Daredevil let out a strained breath. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Not often.” 

“You can get ahold of your friends from your apartment, where it’s safe. ” 

“I didn’t ask you to worry about my safety.” 

“I normally don’t.” Daredevil was definitely getting upset. He closed the space between them. His hand found Peter’s shoulder. This time, Peter didn’t pull away. Even through the glove, he could feel the other man’s hand shaking against him. “You think I want to treat you like this? You’ve been driving me absolutely insane. You’re insane. ” 

“ I’m insane?” Peter gaped.  

“You can be Spider-Man any other night.” Daredevil said quietly. “I’m being irrational, but I need you to stay.” 

The blood drained out of Peter’s face, and the ringing had returned in full force. 

The mention of his identity made Peter jolt. Instinctually, he looked around to be sure no one had overheard, but the streets were devoid of life. Dry-mouthed and heart pounding, he looked back up at Daredevil. 

He’d suspected that he knew, but hearing the vigilante say it so factually had still been a shock. He floundered for a moment, feeling dumb from the beating his brain had taken, and knocked wordless by the accusation. 

With how close they were, and with his senses out of whack, he could hear just how nervous the Daredevil was. Faintly, the ba-dumps rattled on, a speeding force in the other man’s chest. 

“That morning, at my apartment—I said I would help you if you asked. ” Daredevil’s hand rested on Peter’s other shoulder, and he squeezed both in a plea. “And now I’m asking you to do this for me.” 

Peter’s eyebrows knit. “At your…” He trailed off, the gears of his brain creaking into place. 

Clarity. Suddenly, everything made so much sense— and none at all. 

Daredevil and Spider-Man weren’t ever friends. Allies at times. They’d fought and argued and been at one another’s throats. But, at their core, Peter knew that they were on the same side. Tactics and pride aside, at the very basis of their beings, they were hurt, and they were scared of what the world would take from them next. They were determined to stop that pain from happening to anyone else. 

He had never trusted Daredevil. Not as a friend that he could just… rip his mask off in front of. Daredevil was the black sheep of the vigilante community. He knew just enough about the others that he could contact them if he needed help, and a few of the powers knew Daredevil’s identity, but Peter had never bothered to ask. 

Why would he? Daredevil was the guy that would run off the second he wasn’t needed anymore. He wasn’t caring and gentle. Shit, he wasn’t even friendly. 

Matt was friendly. And sweet. And every time Peter had met up with him, Matt had found a way to make Peter’s week just a little bit easier. He’d let him sleep in his bed without question. Offered to share his heat in the most respectful way possible. Threw him food and kindness and probably anything else he could ask for if he would just say it. 

But Matt had also been called by Karen when Peter got into the van. He knew Peter had been kidnapped. Karen would have told him how willingly he went along with Toomes. Karen was from Hell’s Kitchen, just like Daredevil, and Peter couldn’t think of another reason why Daredevil would have been so far out of his neighborhood in broad daylight. 

Peter studied Daredevil’s half-masked face closer. He could see it now. The resemblance. The way that his head was tilted like he was… focused on him, but not quite looking at him. He seemed taller in his armor and helmet. A little bigger, too. But his body language now was unmistakable. 

As dazed as he was, it was hard to be shocked. He was just exhausted. The world was so heavy and his knees were starting to buckle. 

“Let me walk you home.” Daredevil murmured. 

Peter shut his eyes, and sucked in a long breath. “Okay,” He whispered, and they went. 

Chapter Text

There was an absurdity to all of this that Peter would probably find hilarious if he wasn’t so wiped out. 

A poorly-timed break-up; days of stress and pain; meeting the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and subsequently developing an interest in the help that he was offering to get Peter through a painful, lonely heat.

The walk home had been the most quiet Peter had gotten in days. He remembered, through the concussed brain-fog, stumbling down sidewalks on his own, while Daredevil kept a considerable distance between them. The two of them didn’t talk much. At some point, Peter had let his eyes shut and followed entirely on instinct. He sensed it when the alpha calmed, little by little, the further they got from Frank Castle’s apartment and the building that had served as Peter’s prison. 

They stepped inside the brisk, stale air of Peter's apartment. Peter shed his jacket and shoes in a clumsy pile on the floor. He heard the ‘click’ of Daredevil locking the front door behind them, but Peter had already made it to the kitchen in search of a clean cup for water. 

It was calmer inside. An air conditioner buzzed in the next door neighbor’s apartment, and dull thuds of footsteps landed against his ceiling. Peter’s head hurt a lot less in the dark. He reached to flip on the tap and fill his cup but missed drastically. Giving up, he leaned on the counter, his body swaying with the undulating pitch of his brain. 

An arm hooked around Peter’s side, and slid the glass gingerly out of his hand. “Go lay down. I’ll get it for you.” Daredevil murmured. 

Peter was far too worn-out to argue, so he shrugged out an, “Mmkay,” and made to drag himself in the vague direction of his bedroom.

Daredevil’s mask was sitting on the edge of Peter’s counter. He paused, inquisitively studying the crimson metallic. The mask felt disembodied on its own. From afar, Peter hadn’t noticed the deep scratches. Now, under the yellow glow of fluorescents, the grooves looked barbaric. One gouge resembled a bullet hole, which was all sorts of terrifying on its own. 

Peter looked up at the face so close to his own and warmth prickled at the sight. 

“I need to sleep before we talk about this.” Peter breathed. 

And Matt, despite the clear stress etched into lines between his eyes, nodded slowly. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and didn’t make a single movement when Peter stumbled off towards his room. 

Peter dumped himself into bed, peeling off his jacket to toss it towards his overflowing laundry basket. He reached for his laptop, curling up in a heap against the pillows. Bright blue light flooded the room, stinging Peter’s eyes. He squinted against it and typed out a short email to Tony Stark, clumsily explaining the situation and asking him for his help to watch over Gwen and Harry until he recovered. 

The reply back was quick, signed off by FRIDAY. Peter’s eyes were already fluttering shut when he saw Tony’s name pop up in his inbox. And, by the time the door had creaked open for Matt to bring in water and a pile of painkillers, he was circling the realm of sleep. 

***

Peter woke up to the sounds of blinds being strung shut. He threw an arm over his face and rolled away from the intrusive noise, a low groan emitting from his throat. 

Matt said, “Go back to sleep.” 

So Peter did without complaint.

***

The LEDs of Peter’s archaic alarm clock flickered in the dark of the room, but his headache had died down to a dull throb when he woke up next. 

It was late afternoon. Orange light from the setting sun peeked in through fissures of the blinds. Momentarily, he had all but forgotten about the stress of the night before, a short reprieve of normality. But all at once, the realization came rushing back in a flood of anxiety.

Peter shot up in search of his laptop, patting down covers and sheets in a frantic hunt. It took a moment of crashing memories to recall that he'd dropped it on the floor, and that Tony had promised to take care of the situation for him. He calmed the racing of his heart with long breaths, and rubbed sleep from his eyes. Every limb in his body was so heavy, small movements felt incredibly taxing. 

Peter managed thick breaths out, forcing his relaxation response, attempting to manage the racing of his heart. Gradually, the chest aches soothed, and the sweat above his brow dried. He pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes, chasing away sleep. 

He would have laid back down. But a high-pitched voice in his living room rang out, catching him off guard. 

Sluggish, Peter crawled out of bed, forcing his feet towards his bedroom door. It was cracked, and he glanced through to where his dumpster couch and piles of schoolwork cramped the room, then spotted MJ’s fiery red hair. 

She’d been talking with Matt. They sat across from one another, MJ’s braids tossed behind her shoulder and the tussle of Matt’s dark hair messier than Peter had normally seen it. He was in Peter’s clothes, ratty pajamas he’d held onto well past their life-span. The Daredevil mask had disappeared from his counter and his suit was out of sight.

“They’re totally— Oh, there he is.” MJ said as Peter stepped out of the doorway, holding onto the doorknob for support. She smiled her toothy grin, charm oozing out of her. “Morning, Tiger. I let myself in.”

“Figured so.” Peter murmured, on edge. He tried not to look too hard at Matt. Tried to keep his attention on MJ. He didn’t want to think too much about their confessions. They couldn’t talk about it yet. “Sorry, uh,” He cleared his throat. “This is Matt Murdock. Matt, this is—”

“We met.” MJ hummed, sounding delighted by the fact. Her eyes flickered at Matt, cunning and unfairly knowing. Peter’s cheeks prickled with warmth. “I was just saying my thanks for keeping an eye on you. This whole situation kind of sucks. I’m glad you have someone in your corner.” 

“It’s the least I can do.” Matt said, so self-sacrificing that Peter may have believed it if he hadn’t learned better the night before. 

MJ glanced between the two of them and let out a contemplative hum. “I guess you’re lucky that Matt happened to be around when you got kidnapped?” 

Peter tensed imperceptibly. Spider-Man was no secret from MJ, but he wouldn’t consequently force Matt’s identity out. His lips parted silently, but his brain was drawing a blank. The concussion’s effects were lingering, a muddled haze that was hard to navigate.

Thankfully, Matt cut-in. “He called me, actually.” 

“In the middle of the night?” 

“I’m no stranger to all-nighters to get work done. And I live in the area. I’m sure I would have gotten there the fastest.”

MJ raised a pampered eyebrow and looked at Peter, who shrugged helplessly in agreement. 

“I have his card up on my cork board.” Peter waved back into his room. “His number was easy to remember.” 

MJ accepted it. She was always doubting Peter, so he knew what she looked like when she wasn’t suspicious that he was lying. But she had no reason to question Matt. He was polite and soft-spoken. Disarmingly genuine. His smile was intoxicatingly caring. 

It was the perfect damn cover for Daredevil. It was no wonder Peter had never suspected him. 

“Right, well, I promised everyone I’d check on you.” MJ made a ‘come-here’ motion with her finger, and nodded at the front door. “As long as you’re doing okay.” 

“I’ll walk you out?” Peter volunteered, sparing a glance back at Matt, before following her down the hall.

MJ shut the door behind them, and crowded Peter up against it. “That’s the alpha?” She whispered, excitedly. 

Peter’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s the one I talked about, yeah.”

“Good for you.” MJ practically beamed. “Don’t screw it up with him.” She paused. “I assume he doesn’t know about…? You know.” 

“We… haven’t talked about it yet.” Which wasn’t entirely untrue. 

“What’d you tell him?” 

Peter hadn’t needed to say a thing. 

“That I got in a fight with my professor.” Peter grit his teeth in a tight smile. “Apparently it’s no surprise these days when civilians get kidnapped by escaped super-convicts.”

“Do you know how many times I’ve had to use that excuse to get work absences excused?” MJ laughed. “Gwenny and Har were pissed when they woke up to Clint Barton putting them on house arrest. He was eating cereal in their living room. Can you even imagine how unnerving that is?” 

Peter grinned. “Yeah, I’ve had the Avenger’s watch dogs on me a couple of times. At least they didn’t send Nat.” He let out a stressed breath. “Just keep a distance from them for a couple of days, okay? Octavius doesn’t know about you, but we should keep it that way. I’ll contact you when I get my phone figured out.” 

MJ hesitated. “He was really working with The Vulture?” She asked, a betrayed softness to her voice.

Peter’s stomach felt like lead. He reached for the door-handle, nodding stiffly. “I’ll see you later, okay? Be careful, MJ.” 

MJ gave him a concerned smile, but she said her goodbyes and headed down the stairs. 

Peter steeled himself for what was waiting back in the living room, then slipped back into the apartment, catching sight of Matt sitting on his couch with his eyebrows drawn. Most times Peter had crossed paths with Matt, he’d been so gentle. A non-threatening presence. It was rare for alphas to leave enough breathing room for anyone of other designations. Their aura was suffocating. Their energies demanded attention. But Matt wasn’t like that. He drew people in by radiating kindness and warmth. It was an effort not to want to talk to him. 

The first time that they had met at the coffee shop, Matt had been the pure opposite. Guarded and wary. Brusque with his talking. The closest to Daredevil that Peter had seen him outside of the suit. 

But this? This felt like Peter was walking the line between both. The charismatic front that Matt had put up for MJ had mellowed. The hostility he adopted in the suit was out of sight. The distance between Peter and Matt, between Spider-Man and Daredevil, had closed at an unexplored intersection. Peter wasn’t sure how to think of Matt as both and neither of his personas. 

Peter wondered if Matt felt the same about Spider-Man.

“MJ’s one of my best friends.” Peter found himself clarifying, as if that was the most pressing topic between them. 

Matt considered this for a long moment. “She was concerned about you.” 

“Yeah, she does that.” Peter crossed his arms, standing at the edge where the hallway expanded out into the living room. He leaned against the wall, his throat dry. 

They lapsed into silence again. Neither squirmed, but Peter felt like he was at risk of doing so under the weight of their impending conversation. 

“Do you want to know when I knew?” Matt asked in a low voice. “Or how?” 

“Are both off the table?” 

Matt leaned back into the couch. “You still seem off kilter. You should sit down.” 

Peter’s lips shut. He crossed the room, padding barefoot over rough carpet towards the empty end of the couch. Sliding down into it, Peter tucked his legs under him, and gazed at Matt once again. “I figured that Daredevil— that you had enhanced senses. I do, too. Sound, sight, touch, it’s all… just, more. But you heard things I couldn’t. Knew things I didn’t.” 

“I heard your heartbeat.”

Peter let out a strained breath. His heartbeat. His heartbeat.

“Karen invited me to your meeting because of the photos. Because I hadn’t heard anyone else around when we were clearing out Tombstone’s crew. I would have noticed a photographer. I certainly would have noticed you.” Matt chuckled, but the noise was hollow. Ingenuine. “I was admittedly suspicious. My law firm’s had distant connections to Daredevil for years, so when a mystery photographer approached Karen claiming to have taken photos when I was sure there was no one else there…” 

“Seemed suspicious.” Peter agreed. 

The corner of Matt’s lip quirked. “I came along to feel you out. I wasn’t expecting it to be you. ” 

Peter swallowed. 

“If we had passed on the street, I’m not sure I would have picked you out. But you already had my attention. Everything was the same. Your heartbeat. Your scent.” 

Peter’s cheeks flushed red, indignation flooding him. “I wear scent blockers.” 

Matt fully smiled then. Different than what it had been, but familiarly warm. “I’m sure they work well on others.” 

Peter processed it all in stride. “You knew I was an omega?” 

“Since I met Spider-Man.” Matt confirmed.

“Jeez. You never showed it.” 

“I didn’t know there was anything to show.” Matt raised a dark eyebrow. “I never thought of you any differently.” 

And that? Peter couldn’t quite process it, when he’d dedicated so much of his time trying to prove that he was more than his designation said that he was. 

Matt, thankfully, continued. “Under different circumstances, I would have left, to protect your identity. But you had approached Karen, and after all that she and Foggy have been through, I had to be sure that Spider-Man wasn’t tracking them down to get to me.” 

“I’d blame it on trust issues, but I think I would have been the same if it were my friends.”

“I know that you’re a bad enough liar that I would have known very quickly if you had bad intentions.” 

“I’m a bad liar?” Peter gaped. 

“I don’t need to hear your heartbeat to know when you’re not being honest.” 

Peter ran a hand through his hair, and cast his eyes across Matt’s face. He looked tired. Dark circles stained the skin under his eyes. He wasn’t sure if Matt had slept at all during the time Peter was passed out in bed. Guilt sat leaden in his stomach. 

Matt shifted on the couch, like he could feel Peter’s gaze. Maybe he could, with how enhanced his senses seemed to be. “You aren’t angry,” he commented, in an oddly quiet voice. 

Peter blinked. “Why? Because you knew?”

Matt’s lips pursed in confirmation. “I could have told you.” 

“Could have and should have are pretty different things, Matt.” 

“You didn’t have a choice in telling me your name. I should have given you space after that first meeting. Kept my distance.” Matt seemed to want to say more, but he trailed off. 

“You’re not the worst person to find out.” Peter snorted. “Honestly, if you hadn’t been such a prick all of these years, I probably would have told you sooner.”

“I never planned to tell you who I was.” 

“Do you regret that you did?” 

Matt rubbed his knuckles. They were raw and red, maybe friction burns from his gloves. His jaw was tight, an edge to his face. “No.” He muttered, but he sounded unhappy. 

“The brooding says otherwise.” Peter said, squinting across at him. 

Matt shifted at the accusation.“I’m— I’m not brooding.”

“You’re… ruminating then. I don’t know. You say you don’t regret it, but you look like you do. And you said you should have stayed away from me, but something’s bothering you.” Peter shook his head in exhaustion. “So, what is it?”

Matt bristled. He looked like he might not answer. Finally, he grunted, a low noise of resignation. “Frank knows your identity.” 

A short laugh erupted up Peter’s throat, because he didn’t expect that to be it. Matt looked thoroughly unamused. 

“He’s not my friend if that’s what you’re implying. He just knows.” 

“He called me last night and told me to come get Spider-Man out of his damn bed.”

“And then you showed up and tried to kill him.” Peter added. 

Matt didn’t respond. 

“I was sleeping off getting tossed into a steel beam head-first.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“You growled at him, dude. He’s never going to let me crash again.” 

“Then stay at my place if you can’t make it home.” 

“But why did you growl at him? I thought you were his weird… lover or something. I thought you were jealous.” 

Matt grunted. “It’s Frank.” It was all the explanation that was needed.

Peter grinned. “If you ever do that again in front of me, I don’t think I can look at you the same.” 

“I was hopped up on adrenaline.” Matt said through a grimace, but the tension in his shoulders had faded. “It caught me off guard as well.”

Peter breathed out an unsteady laugh, and curled up tighter against the rickety back of the chair. The pounding of his head had gone, but his body still ached where he’d hit the beam. His joints felt inflamed, like he’d caught the flu. It was the familiar pains of the brutal pre-heat that were reminding him of its existence every time he moved, only temporarily overshadowed by the concussion. 

Tingling warmth crept its fingers up Peter’s thighs. He dropped his head and shut his eyes, focusing on keeping the cramps and the neediness at bay, as futile as fighting it would be. 

Despite the ease of their conversation, there was a lingering something that they hadn’t discussed. It was at the back of Peter’s throat with every retort. Every question he asked. And from across the room, he could feel the way Matt stifled it. Talked around it. Avoided giving it life just yet.

Matt had gone silent. He’d definitely noticed Peter’s discomfort. 

“What made you come back?” Peter asked, looking back up at Matt. “After I met you and Karen. You said you should have given me space.”

“But I didn’t.” Matt finished. 

“Why not?” 

Matt chuckled to himself, adjusting how he sat. He moved stiffly. He was probably sore too, if he fought through AIM agents and Octavius to get to Peter. “I don’t think you want to know why.” 

Peter’s nose crinkled. “Not when you lead with that.” 

Matt shrugged half-heartedly. “You weren’t taking care of yourself. If I knew that and found out that you had gotten yourself killed because of it, I would have felt responsible.” 

“When was the last time any of us took care of ourselves?” Peter snorted.

Matt smiled dryly, and his voice dropped a decibel. “It’s different this time. You seemed worse off than before. Then again, I’m not normally this close to you when you’re in pre-heat. 

The lowness of his tone made a shiver run down Peter’s spine. 

“I could hear that you were starving. And… needing someone.” Matt continued in that intense murmur. “It isn’t easy to walk away from an omega that’s in pain. Not when I know what we deal with.” 

Peter’s stomach was tight. Matt’s scent seemed warmer than ever. He leaned forward, just slightly, towards the inviting comfort of it. He remembered how much better he had felt when he’d worn it. It was like a drug, easing him out of his body until the distress and the pangs felt far away. 

“You’re Daredevil.” 

“I am.” 

“And you’re Matt Murdock.” 

Matt was silent, listening. Waiting. 

“When you said you would help me with my heat, I wanted to say no. I didn’t think I’d be able to keep up my identity when I wasn’t fully myself.” Peter swallowed, his head dizzy. It was the wave— a short one— setting in. He only had minutes to get space, if he wanted it, to work himself through it. “I knew it was a pity offer, anyways.” He breathed out unsteadily. “Maybe a pity offer isn’t that bad.” 

Not when Matt’s scent was the thing standing between Peter and insanity. 

“I want your help.” Peter said. “I think I need it.” 

Matt shifted slowly, pausing to take it in. 

The couch creaked as Matt stood from it, his chest straining against the thin fabric of the shirt he had borrowed. He seemed taller and broader in loungewear than he ever had in his suits. He stepped over the mess of books and paper stacked on the floor as if they weren’t even there.

The cushion beside Peter bent as Matt sunk his weight into it. His arm rested on the back of the couch, and his knees parted enough to leave a crevice between them. A perfect space for someone.

For Peter. 

His heart leapt up into his throat. The fever prickling over his skin flamed up into his cheeks and reddened the back of his neck. 

"It's easier to get it over with." Matt said, lowly coaxing. "Don't let embarrassment stop you now." 

Peter's breathing hitched as he sat up on his knees, crawling over Matt's thigh.  He settled into the space, somewhat clumsily at first, anticipating tension zipping through his body. He could feel the need radiating out of him, pouring out from somewhere too deep inside Peter to touch. 

Matt, however, arranged Peter so his back was up against Matt's chest, where his head rested against the crook of his shoulder. Matt tugged him closer, enough to feel the movement of Matt’s muscles rippling over his shoulder blades. His scent was overpowering, filling the air that Peter breathed. Peter’s mouth went dry at the first tickling, light touch of calloused fingertips over the flesh of his forearm. 

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Matt shushed him with the gentle dance of his hand, running it up and down Peter’s arm, up under his sleeve to the skin of his shoulder. The tenderness of it was stifling. Nails dug into the curve of his collarbone, then continued back down towards his elbow and wrist.

Matt’s thumb rubbed over his pulse point, and his head craned to speak soothing words into his ear. 

“Relax.” Matt’s fingers massaged over his knuckles, then each joint of his fingers. “The city will stay standing for a few more hours.”

It was enough for Peter to let go, to sink into the comfort of Matt. And for a few blissful hours, he was even able to forget about Wade.

Chapter Text

Peter threw a glance over his shoulder and let out a withering sigh. “I said you could go home.”

Platformed boots strode over the rain-soaked rooftop, stopping just at Peter’s side. “I’m aware.” 

The rain whipped past Peter’s crouched body, the buffeting of a flag against a window filling his ears. The storm had rolled in late afternoon, sometime between Matt holding him through 3 chapters of notes on cellular neuroscience, and the lengthy shower he took when Matt finally dozed off. It wasn’t thundering just yet, but the dark clouds looming overhead threatened to crash any minute.

Eyes trailing up, Peter glanced at Matt’s half-masked face. He looked better after he’d slept that afternoon. Less like Peter’s own inefficiencies at caring for himself was running him ragged. “You have your own life to deal with,” Peter pointed out.

Matt’s lips curled into a teasing smirk. “But you didn’t really want me to go.”

Peter dragged his attention back to the street below. Octavius’s makeshift lab sat stoically empty in the middle of the street. The shop below it had boarded up its windows and door,  over the glass smashed and pierced with bullet holes. “Did you get that from my heartbeat?” he retorted. 

There hadn’t been any sign of A.I.M. or Toomes watching the place when they’d shown up. Whoever had been staking it out last night had already gone. Still, Peter wasn’t about to rush in to look for clues. His spidey sense had been off the rails for most of the month, and he couldn’t trust it to warn him if someone was lurking.

“Just listening to you talk,” Matt said, amused. “You didn’t sound like you meant it.”

“I feel better.” Peter stood on the ledge of the roof, water droplets beading down over his lenses, muddling his view.

Truthfully, he hadn’t felt this good since he’d worn the t-shirt that vaguely smelled like Matt. That night had been relief enough. But now, after spending hours in the pheromones that his body had been craving, he felt as close to normal as he could get this near to his heat. Like he’d been desperate enough to replace the hole that Wade left behind and his instincts had clung extra hard to the first alpha to care about him.

He’d rather spend an afternoon fighting the sewer monster than admit that to Matt.

Matt seemed to know some version of it, anyways. He’d been trying to stop Peter from letting the heat kill him since the day in the office. Despite his roughness in the suit, he didn’t make any demands, barely even acknowledged that the contact and the proximity were helping. He let Peter pretend that it was just normal for them to be in the same room, that following him out into the blustery downpour so Peter could continue to leech on his scent was a totally reasonable expectation for a long-term acquaintance.

Peter reached out his wrist to fire a web at the apartment, but Matt spoke up. “SHIELD already cleared it out.”

“Maybe they missed something.”

“I searched the place after they left.”

Peter made a short noise of frustration and dropped his arm to his side. “Why’d you hang out so long after the fight?”

“I was looking for something,” said Matt.

“For what?”

“For you.”

By the time Peter turned to glance in Matt’s direction, he had already turned to walk off towards the side of the building he’d come up, where the dumpster had boosted him up to a small metal balcony. He threw a look back at the apartment but followed after him, water freezing his feet inside the soft boots of his suit. “It seems like lawyers do a lot less work than I thought if you can spend so much of your time with me.” 

“I like to clean up my messes.” Matt jumped down to the top rail of the balcony. Then he twisted in a smooth movement, gripping onto the rails with his hands, and landed with a heavy thud on the plastic lid of the dumpster. “And Foggy is covering me.”

Peter stepped off the edge of the roof and dropped easily down to the cement as Matt slid off the dumpster. “Do they know?” he asked. “About Daredevil?”

Matt strode along a trail that was invisible to Peter, around the corners of buildings and through another musty alleyway that led away from the apartment. “They do.” His jaw ticked. “Your friends know?”

Peter followed behind him. “Yeah, they know,” he murmured.

MJ figured it out when they were seniors in high school. She’d seen him crawling into his bedroom window one night, half-dead and bleeding out. His Aunt had been working at the hospital, and Peter genuinely thought he’d die alone on his bathroom floor— until MJ had fallen down at his side and stuffed a bedroom towel over his torn stomach.

In college, Gwen and Harry slid so easily into Peter’s life that it had been nearly impossible to hide his identity from them. Gwen was far too attentive, and she’d mostly deduced it on her own. Harry, on the other hand, had gotten caught up in Dr. Connors’ fight at Oscorp and Peter had sacrificed his secret to save his friend’s life.

They’d never made Peter feel bad about living two lives after that. They’d never made him choose who he wanted to be.

Raindrops battered the pavement as they continued on. The rare passerby on the streets were far too focused on keeping their head down to really notice them. Daredevil was enough of a deterrent anyways. No one would be brave enough to try to approach the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. It helped that he hadn’t worn scent blockers that afternoon, and smelled of territorial alpha. Peter had the funny feeling Matt hadn’t worn them for his benefit, so he could keep reaping the relief of his scent while out in their suits.

They came to an intersection of small side-streets a few blocks down, and Peter went still. “This is where your professor’s blood trail stopped,” Matt informed him. “The rest must have been washed away.”

Any remaining warmth drained from Peter’s body, ice cutting through his veins and plunging into his chest. His attention was on the brick walls rising around them, the graffiti on the face of them interrupted by deep gouges that continued intermittently up towards the rooftops. Like something strong and horrific had clawed its path up to escape.

It could have been the Vulture, if he had dragged Octavius away from the crime scene after Daredevil set in. But it was too inelegant for the technology Toomes had spent years carefully refining, and the pattern of indents on each gash didn’t match the talons that he would have used to climb.

“We won’t find anything else,” Peter finally muttered with heavy resignation. Matt didn’t respond. He’d probably known before they’d come out that they wouldn’t be able to track him down, that they’d be stuck waiting for Octavius to pop up somewhere else. He was just humoring Peter by following him out there.

“You have Stark keeping an eye out.” Matt inclined his head in his direction. “His cameras will pick something up.”

Peter shivered out a sigh. The frigidity of the storm had buried itself down into his bones. That stinging numbness had set in up to his first knuckle. “I’m gonna head over to check on my friends.” He threw the vigilante a look. “So this time you should actually head home.”

Matt contemplated it. “Should I expect another drunk dial tonight then?” he joked.

“I liked it better when you just yelled at me to get off your turf,” Peter snorted.

***

The back of Peter’s hand rapped against the glass of Harry and Gwen’s living room window, as he shivered against the early December air biting at the tip of his nose. Somewhere inside, a TV’s volume turned down a few notches, and someone moved so cautiously from the couch that his footsteps were silent over the wooden floorboards.

So he was still there. Peter cracked a small grin, and knocked again on the window, as he called out, “It’s me.”

A few seconds passed. Then the curtains tugged open an inch, and a blue eye appeared, taking in the sight of Peter in his dripping suit. Clint did a visual scan, and dragged the window open, letting him crawl into the large, warm living room of the luxury apartment. He peeled his mask off to toss it into the kitchen sink, droplets of water falling onto the polished hardwood floor, and glanced back over his shoulder at the Avenger. “Hey, thanks for hanging out all day with them.”

Clint shrugged and shut the window, locking it again. “I heard you were in rough shape last night, kid.”

“Could be worse.” Peter’s lips pursed. “You haven’t heard anything from Tony?”

“Not holding my breath on that one.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Down a thin hallway lined with family photographs in silver frames, Gwen’s head peeked around the corner. She caught sight of Peter and she smiled nervously, as her gaze flickered to Clint still holed up in the living room.

“Enjoy your Bachelorette marathon.” Peter nodded at the TV, then stepped back to follow Gwen.

“Your friends need more milk.” Clint said after him, as Peter disappeared around the bend to walk into the expansive master bedroom.

It was just like them. Clean, and modern, without a poster on the wall or dust on any surface. How they always had the time and energy to keep their place tidy, Peter had no idea. But the room, much like the rest of their apartment, was lined with microscopes and neatly stacked science journals that gave it just enough life to match them so perfectly.

It was nothing like MJ’s glammed out apartment, and leagues ahead of Peter’s place.

Harry spun around on the leather office chair he was sprawled out on, as Gwen paced the bedroom and wrung out her hands.

“Our program was taking money from A.I.M.” Harry muttered the second he saw him.

Peter grimaced. It was bad enough that Dr. Octavius had sold him out to Adrian Toomes, had kidnapped him, and had nearly killed him. The thought that it could have been one of his very-human friends getting their head caved in made a shudder run down his spine. But worse, Dr. Octavius had completely destroyed the validity of their research and their work. He’d implicated all three of them by taking money from a batshit criminal scientist.

Peter’s unknown name could probably survive it if word got out. But there was no way Harry Osborn would be spared the press’s field day when he’d been working on blood-money tech for the Oscorp Expo.

“Are you okay, Peter?” Gwen asked without looking up, repeatedly clenching her fingers. “MJ told us what she could. That you got taken.”

“It was an average Friday.”

Harry gave an empty snort, sitting up in his chair. “What the hell were they doing with the tech?”

“We were supposed to be helping people,” Gwen broke in.

Peter nudged the bedroom door shut with his foot. “It’s not great,” He admitted.

He told them everything. The weird visit from Octavius at his work, being ambushed by Toomes on the street. He left out any indication of Daredevil, crediting his escape to a power failure. But the horror of it was too much. Dr. Octavius’s nervous system had been connected to the system when it went down, and they had no idea what the ramifications of that would be. How it would affect him.

They handled it the best that they could. Years of being Spider-Man’s best friend had forced them to grow to handle the weird. But this wasn’t another supervillain of the week.

It was the last year of their Master’s program. This had been their chance to get their work out in the public eye before applying to future employers. Harry didn’t want to work at Oscorp off of his father’s merit. Gwen wanted this win at the expo to pad her resume for her doctoral application. And Peter lacked the grades and the internship hours to get directly hired at Stark Industries.

They had believed so deeply in Dr. Octavius’s work that they’d put up with his verbal abuse for 2 years to continue volunteering on his project.

Now the expo was in less than 48 hours. They’d show up empty handed against well-funded schools and flashy projects that would catch the attention of company representatives and scouts.

Peter dropped to the carpet, cross-legged, dragging a lengthy sigh out. His chin leaned into his hands, elbows propped up on his knees. “We were so close this time.”

The year before, when they were supposed to present their Biosynth Patches, the expo had been forced to cancel after the convention center was half-demolished by explosives. The construction had extended out too far for rescheduling. And this was supposed to be their first real chance at attending.

Gwen sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her forehead. “I caught my dad using my Biopatch to fix a leak in the sink last month.”

“We’ve really made our mark,” Harry remarked bitterly.

The air of discouragement settled over the three of them, as they lapsed into grieving silence. Raindrops rolled from clumps of wet hair, down over Peter’s eyebrow, past his tense jaw.

Peter felt the familiar prickling of eyes on the back of his neck. He looked back, catching Harry gazing across at him. 

Harry inclined his head inquiringly, and his eyebrows drew tight. There was a long moment of quiet realization, then, “You look better, man.”

Peter coughed in awkward recognition.

He did look better. He felt better. Even now that Matt had gone home, the overwhelming symptoms were at a minimum. Present, but staved off for the moment.

Peter couldn’t bring himself to discuss Matt with them. Not yet, when they’d been talking about Wade days ago. Things with Matt were still unstable. They hadn’t even discussed when they’d see each other next, too focused on the way that their identities had changed how they’d seen one another. How, for the first time in his career, he’d found the presence of Daredevil comfortable rather than unnerving. Like they might be friends for the first time in half-a-decade of working together.

Gwen, thankfully, stopped her pacing in front of him, and sank to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees. “It’s nice that you want to keep us safe,” she leaned in as her voice dropped to a whisper. “But did you really have to get Clint Barton as the warden?”

“He’s not that bad,” Harry said. “It could have been Jessica Jones.”

Gwen looked pleadingly at Peter. “Please don’t give Jessica Jones a key to our apartment.”

“I didn’t even give one to Clint,” Peter said.

Gwen’s eyes widened a fraction. “Then how’d he get in?”

Peter shrugged. “Probably the same way that Jones would.”

Harry gave a nervous chuckle.

“I’ll send Clint home as soon as I know that A.I.M. won’t come back here,” Peter promised. “If Octavius is with them, he can still give them your names.”

“And we can’t stay with MJ, because they might already be watching us,” Gwen said.

“I’ll find Dr. Octavius.” When it looked like the two of them would object, Peter continued on. “I recruited the Avengers to track him down. It won’t take too long.”

Gwen and Harry still didn’t look pleased about it, but neither of them were going to push him. He was clearly taking care of his pre-heat on his own, and they’d pleaded with him enough not to make himself sick.

“As long as you’re safe.”

Peter’s heat was only a week away if he could trust his tracker, and he knew he should get off the street in the next few days so he didn’t fall into another wave in public. It was mortifying enough that Johnny had seen him in a vulnerable position. The rest of New York would be far worse.

Peter decided to change the subject. “How did your dad end up using the Biopatch on a leak? I didn’t realize we still had them.” 

Gwen groaned, and shook her head. “God only knows.” 

****

Peter reached up to grab the teetering cup carrier where it was balanced on the edge of the fire escape railing, as he threw his backpack over his shoulder and headed towards the front door of the business center where Nelson and Murdock resided.

He hopped up the steps, taking three at a time, as the 4 coffee cups on his tray bounced around, threatening to fall. They’d survived the swing over, though a few cups had dents in the side from the force of the wind and being caught when they nearly plunged down into city streets. His Sunday morning opening shift had turned into a 10 hour day thanks to a call-out, and the soreness from a night without Matt was catching up to him.

He’d just pop-in to the law office with a peace offering, drop the new copies of the photos he’d been trying to sell off to Karen, steal a couple of minutes of soothing comfort from Matt, and hope that it wasn’t incredibly weird for him to show up unannounced. The thought of Foggy and Karen knowing that Matt had agreed to help what they believed to be a virtual stranger with his heat sent a shiver of discomfort through him.

But that’s what the coffee was for. Distracting sleep-deprived workaholics with caffeine worked most of the time.

Peter came to the entrance on the first floor and nudged against the door. It opened easily, and he was relieved that they were there despite it being a weekend afternoon. He spotted Karen at her desk, leaned over to type on an ancient desktop, and he cleared his throat.

Karen stood straight in an instant, eyes alert and ready to perceive a threat. But when she saw Peter, she relaxed, and a smile crept onto her face.

“Peter, you have just become my favorite person,” Karen said at the sight of the coffee in his hand.

“Peter’s here?” Foggy called out from inside his office, the door slightly ajar. After a moment, he appeared in the doorway, his suit jacket off but tossed over his shoulder, and a messenger bag in hand. “And he brings gifts.”

Peter couldn’t help but grin. He already kind of adored these two.

“It might be a little cold.” Peter picked up the two lattes at the front, distributing them to their waiting hands. Then his eyes instinctually flickered to the other doorway. He could smell Matt, was wholly aware of the fact that he was a room away. Matt had probably clocked Peter before he’d even had the chance to change out of his spidey suit. His bones thrummed with the anticipation of seeing him again. Being touched by him.

Peter doused the fire of his thoughts before they could roam too far.

“Were you guys leaving?” Peter asked, nodding to the personal effects Foggy had set aside to take his drink. “I can head out. I don’t wanna stop you from going home.”

“Matt’s still working, but Karen and I were trying to get out of here.” There was a hinting in Foggy’s tone at the mention of Matt that Peter pretended not to notice. “But our internet went out and the cable guy gave us an estimated arrival of—” he checked his watch. “3 hours ago.”

Karen rubbed her forehead. “I have to send out a few files before we can go.”

“That sucks.” Peter set the remaining coffee cups on the edge of Karen’s desk. “Want me to take a look at it?”

They looked surprised, but Foggy stepped out of the way with an inviting wave. “Yeah, please do.”

Peter slid into the office chair in front of Karen’s computer to work on troubleshooting, as Karen spoke. “Last time we tried to fix computer issues, Foggy managed to send a virus through the whole system.”

“It could have happened to anyone,” Foggy grimaced. “I’m a book guy, not an engineer.”

Peter refrained from pointing out that an engineer absolutely wouldn’t be needed to fix their router issues, but set to work regardless. He checked the modem, kneeling to ensure the cables were plugged in, then returned to her desktop to run through the network settings.

After a few minutes, he’d narrowed it down to the firewall, which must have been updated recently, and was blocking their internet access. He adjusted the allowances and hit refresh on the browser, Karen’s email loading as the ancient computer fans chugged along.

Karen and Foggy let out a cheer akin to a crowd at a Mets game.

“Now you’re my favorite person.” Foggy clapped his shoulder, and then raised his voice to call across the room. “Hey, Matt, we have the budget to hire IT, don’t we?”

Peter’s heart did a flip when he heard Matt’s lighthearted reply. “Karen is the only one that knows those numbers.”

“I don’t think Peter needs another job,” Karen laughed.

Peter stood up to give Karen her seat back, thumbing over the flap of the manilla envelope. “Speaking of work,” He said, an oh-so-smooth segue. “If the Bulletin was still interested in Spider-Man photos, I printed new ones.”

There was a slight hesitation in both Karen and Foggy, but Karen reached out to take them.

Foggy watched over Karen’s shoulder as she pulled out the copies. “How do you manage to track Spider-Man down so often?”

“Industry secret.”

“Have you met him? Talked to him?” Karen asked eagerly.

9 years ago, a similar conversation would have sent panic skittering through Peter like a firecracker. He wasn’t great at lying as a teenager and a newly designated superhero. Selling pictures of Spider-Man under his name, and the attention it garnered, prompted a lot of questions that Peter stuttered out vague answers to. He was terrified that talking about his hero persona was like putting a spotlight on himself with the words ‘I have powers’ printed across his face.

After years of practice? He’d learned that the average person didn’t look at Peter Parker and expect him to be anything but a dedicated career photographer with a specialty in sticking his nose into fights he was too insignificant to interrupt.

Peter just smiled warmly back. “Yeah, a few times. He knows who takes his pictures, at least.”

Foggy tsked with jealousy. “I keep hoping he’ll show up at Tony Stark’s during a case.”

“Hopefully not because he’s getting sued,” Peter added.

Karen laughed. She set aside the envelope of photos, typing away on her desktop to finish the emails she’d been trying to send earlier. “If he needs a lawyer, tell him our firm would be happy to represent him.”

“Agreed.” Foggy took a long sip from his paper cup, then picked up his bag and jacket again. “I think we can still make it to Khoury’s before it closes.”

Karen finished up her work, then shut down the computer, tossing her hair back as she looked up at Peter. “It was nice to see you again,” she said. “I’ll let you know when I run the photos past Ellison.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Try not to distract Matt too much. He still owes me another couple hours of work.”

Warmth crept up the back of Peter’s neck at Foggy’s knowing words, and he heaved out a flustered breath. “Got it.”

Karen flashed a parting smile at Peter as she joined Foggy and they headed out the front door. It squealed shut behind them, groaning with its ancient years of use, to encase Peter in the large, empty lobby, barely illuminated by the glow of the winter sun setting in the distance.

In the hallway, outside of the office, Peter could still hear the clicking footsteps of Matt’s departing partners.

“Did he mention it? The kidnapping?” Foggy asked, his voice hushed by echoing off the stairwell walls.

“If it were you, would you want someone to ask?” Karen murmured back, before their conversation grew too quiet to hear any further.

Peter’s gaze dropped to the coffee cups still in the cardboard tray, Matt’s name scrawled on the top of one in a silver sharpie. He swallowed, grabbed them in both hands, and walked into the open doorway of his office, anticipation buzzing through him.

Stepping into the small room, Matt was at his desk, a small tablet in front of him. He paused the voice of a woman's dictations coming from it, and turned his attention up to Peter, then smiled.

Being in the same room as him was like someone had rebooted Peter’s systems, like he was coming back to life. The dark, spicy scent wrapped around Peter until he felt like melting.

It was humiliating to react that way to an alpha, to crave everything about them. But Peter knew that Matt was the last person to judge him.

“I have some work to finish up.” Matt said apologetically.

“I can leave if I’ll distract you.”

“No, don’t worry about it. Come sit.”

Peter shouldered off his bag and jacket, dropping them in the corner near a dying potted plant. He walked over to the chair he’d sat in the last time Peter had stopped by, about to take a seat when Matt’s head tilted up.

“Here,” Matt pushed aside documents that rested on the top of his desk, creating an empty space just beside his arm. Then he patted it as an invitation.

Peter’s mouth went dry.

“I’ll be in the way.”

“I can multitask.” Matt was smiling again, in that cool way that made Peter want to throttle him. Like he could read right through him. “It’ll help you more to be closer, won’t it?”

The crawling off his skin had already started to fade the second they were in the same building. It would feel better to be within arm’s length.

Peter sucked up his pride. He made his way around the desk, hesitated, and then hopped up to sit on the desk, setting the coffee cups down beside his monitor, his calves dangling down near Matt’s leg.

And Matt, as if he couldn’t tell that Peter was ablaze with embarrassment, slid a hand to rest on Peter’s hip and went back to listening to the voice recording, sipping his coffee. 

His thumb drew a circle over Peter’s hipbone, the fabric of Peter’s jeans rubbing against his skin. It was the way Matt had been calming Peter’s symptoms for the past day; his hand was always somewhere on him, massaging his muscles or resting on his shoulders or back. 

It was a light, tingling touch for the first minute, made raw the longer that Matt went over one spot. Peter bit his lip, gazing out the window above Matt’s head. He focused on the side of a nearby building, tracing the shape of windows and broken blinds. He made out a shadow passing by the pane when Matt’s fingernails scratched down over Peter’s thigh and he caught his breath.

Warmth bloomed in Peter’s stomach. He focused harder on the windows to distract himself, but the repeated scrape of his touch was hard to ignore.

The voice of the woman faded to the back of his consciousness, vowels blending into a blur. The heat of Matt’s hand permeated through denim, and his fingers trailed back up towards his hip again, nearly brushing the waistband of his jeans, then traveling back down. The friction was maddening. Peter was on the edge of squirming under the attention. 

Peter felt the moment his blood began to rush, when sensitivity made his touches burn. He tried to focus on anything else, but Matt’s scent was inviting, and so close, and he couldn’t resist the pre-heat desperation that pulsed through him.

Matt palmed over the outside of Peter’s knee and the first quiver rocked through him, as his breathing went a little jagged.

Belatedly, Peter realized that Matt’s attention was back on him. His hand had slowed. And Peter’s pheromones had twisted with need.

“I’m sorry,” Peter stammered. 

Matt’s eyebrow raised. “You’re sensitive.”

He said it like a mundane observation, like scientific fact. Peter’s chest heaved.

“Y-yeah, a little bit.” Peter wished he were home. Somewhere he could work himself through this, instead of having his legs splayed out and his face red. “I—uhm.”

Matt pushed his tablet to the side, the voice droning on. He slid his office chair until he sat in front of Peter, between his knees, and his free hand moved up to rest on Peter’s waist.

Peter’s stomach went taut. His heart picked up, fluttering rapidly in his chest.

“I wanted to wait,” Matt muttered, voice low. His hand smoothed under Peter’s shirt, to run over his navel. “To touch you. Until your heat started.”

Peter’s abs spasmed under Matt’s touch. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

“We can wait,” Matt continued. “You don’t have to rush into this.”

Matt was waiting for an answer. It was an honest offer, giving him the choice to control how their soothing played out without consequence.

“I don’t feel rushed.” Peter breathed. “It—” he paused. “It would… help, actually.” 

Matt’s hands hooked under Peter’s knees and tugged him, light enough that there was plenty of time for Peter to change his mind if he wished. Peter slid down the desk at the same time that he tipped backwards, until he was splayed out on the top, his feet resting on Matt’s hips and his back pressed into the surface.

Peter looked down the line of his body, towards Matt’s face hovering above the hardness in his jeans, and he felt a pulse of wet need between his legs.

Oh fuck.

Matt’s fingers deftly popped the button on the front of Peter’s waistband, and he worked his jeans down his legs with his boxers. Peter kicked off his shoes, clattering to the floor behind Matt, so they could shove his pants off fully, and then Matt was right back between his legs. His hand wrapped around one of Peter’s ankles, tracing the dip of it, while Matt pressed a stubbled kiss to the side of Peter’s knee.

Peter keened. The sensations were so much, and not enough.

Matt mouthed up the inside of his thigh, sucking and biting with such careful precision that it felt like a honed skill. When Peter twitched at a particular spot, a soft groan leaving his throat inadvertently, Matt spent extra time sucking on it until Peter was shaking. 

By the time Matt traced the slick heat of his ass, Peter could already feel the first peaks of an orgasm tight in his stomach. Two fingers curled inside of Peter, a familiar but addicting burn, and he arched down into them, horniness throbbing through him.

“S-Shit,” Peter gasped.

There was a smug look on Matt’s face as he pressed another open-mouthed kiss to the v of Peter’s pelvis. “Feel okay?”

Peter tried to sound annoyed as he grumbled back, “You already know,” but his voice was too unsteady to be convincing.

Matt’s fingers pressed fully into him before retreating, slowly fucking him as Peter unraveled bit-by-bit. Matt sucked marks just beside his dick, hot breath ghosting over him, keeping him on the edge of finishing without letting him spill over.

Peter wanted to ask for more. Hell, he was close to begging if it meant he’d finally get the relief he’d been so desperate for. But there was enough sober thought in his brain to protect that part of his pride, even if it meant he was left clenching and shuddering on Matt’s fingers, his hips jerking towards his mouth every time he so much as brushed his erection.

Then, suddenly, Matt’s fingers drew out. Peter nearly whined at the sudden emptiness, the heat throbbing through him. He dropped his eyes back down to Matt’s face, and his lips opened, but Matt was moving, kicking the chair back to roll towards the wall. He dropped Peter’s legs for just a second, then repositioned them to rest over his shoulders as Matt lowered himself to his knees on the floor.

Hot and wet, Matt’s mouth closed over his entrance and his tongue slid into him as Peter jerked on the top of the desk and screwed his eyes shut.

Peter felt like he’d tremble out of his own skin as Matt’s tongue lapped at him, running over his hole and then inching back inside. His thumb hooked on his rim, pressing inside enough to stretch him. Peter’s thighs clamped around Matt’s head, and it took all of his self-control not to use too much strength, leaving his moans to fall freely from his mouth.

Matt worked him over with precision, dragging him right to the edge several times before he’d slow down just enough that Peter couldn’t spill over. Peter’s hands moved from the edge of the desk to grip his own hair as Matt devoured him, and just when he swore he couldn’t handle getting edged again, Matt sucked on his rim and Peter’s world split as he cried out.

His climax wracked through him in crashing waves. Peter jerked and moaned, one hand scrambling from his head to stick onto the desk for an anchor. Matt didn’t let up as Peter came, groaning into him like he felt just as good taking Peter apart.

Every bone of Peter’s body was throbbing with pleasure when Matt finally drew away. He struggled to catch his breath, heart thumping. Gradually he came down, dazedly scooting back up to sit on the desk, streaks of cum drying on his bare stomach.

Matt’s hair was a little messy, and there was a shine of slick on his lips. Peter’s cheeks flooded with heat. 

“Thanks,” Peter finally managed, the only reply that his stupid brain could offer.

Matt chuckled, a warm, pleased sound, and reached to fix his tie. 

“Foggy told me not to distract you from your work,” Peter grimaced.

Matt rose to his feet, making Peter incline his head up to look at him. He reached beside Peter to click the side button on the tablet, until it shut off, and the dictation disappeared from the room. “It’s the same work if I do it here or at my place.” He licked his lower lip, and heat flashed up Peter’s spine, knowing that it tasted like him.

Peter spoke before he could lose the confidence of the post-orgasm haze. “Are you asking me to go back with you?” 

Matt seemed a bit surprised at his forwardness. But after a moment, the corner of his lip rose. He stooped, picking up the pile of clothing at his feet, and pressed it into Peter’s hands. “I thought relieving your symptoms would be better somewhere comfortable.” 

Peter’s heart skipped a beat, and he shoved his legs into his boxers, pulling them on. He tried not to think about the mess on his stomach as his shirt fell to cover it, clumsily working on dressing himself. “I’m starting to think you’re enjoying this.”

Matt looked slightly abashed. “You are?” 

“I’m gonna owe you a crazy amount of favors after this.” Peter grabbed his coffee cup to chug it, then dropped it into the trash can.

Matt was quiet for a moment before he spoke. “I don’t want anything back,” he said. “I get your situation.” Before Peter could retort back, Matt grabbed his things and kicked his chair back in its place, then walked out of the office. 

Chapter Text

The morning of Oscorp’s Expo for Health Science Innovation, the sun still rose.

It cast a golden glow over the city, an oddly warm day considering the iciness of the past few weeks. Despite the heavy disappointment that weighed on Peter’s shoulders, and despite the opportunities that had gone up like wildfire in front of his eyes, the world kept turning, the day of the expo still came, and their team still hadn’t made it to the event that could make or break their careers. 

The streets of Midtown were alive with visitors from schools across the world, carting sizable projects from their hotel rooms towards the newly rebuilt convention center. Over a thousand tables had been set-up in neat rows with no apparent sorting scheme besides the goal of intermingling. There were half-a-dozen tables for Empire State University scattered throughout the building, organized by professors across the life sciences departments. They’d brought impressive displays: a VR program designed to be used for therapeutic settings, a new method of studying cancerous cells that could lead to a breakthrough in a cure. Peter had seen a few of them on his way to his classes, and admittedly, while they’d been impressive, he had been so sure that Dr. Octavius’s invention would steal the show, if not help thousands of people when it entered clinical trials. 

Peter flashed his exhibitor’s badge to the guard as he entered through the side door closest to where their table was supposed to be. He’d considered heading to the lab at school, to tinker on Spidey-tech as a way to clear his head— to keep himself from dwelling on the loss. But, almost instinctively, he’d instead switched buses to head to the expo, hoping he’d at least get an afternoon of seeing the work of other programs.

Even if getting out Matt’s bed that morning had been the hardest part of the entire week. 

Walking through the rows of tables, surrounded by the sound of graduate students putting the finishing touches on their displays, Peter was acutely aware of the smell of Matt under his jacket. 

He’d gone back to Matt’s apartment after his trip to his office. Matt let Peter borrow his shower, and then his clothes, since his own smelled like sex. They talked for hours— about school, work, and friends more than their vigilante halves— until Peter’s scent had spiked and Matt worked him over with a reverence that had left his heart racing.

“Tell me what you want,” Matt had mouthed over the shell of his ear, his fingers tangled in Peter’s hair as he nearly trembled out of his skin underneath him. 

Peter’s lips wordlessly moved. For all of his easy quips and the way his mouth could run without a filter during fights, this was a different kind of nervousness. A different way he could break. 

Matt smirked against his ear, his other hand stroking down his side, oversensitive from the orgasm that had been drawn out of him minutes ago.

Peter keened, gripping harder onto the bedspread, as he whispered, “ Jesus fuck, Matt ” and Matt had obliged by nipping at the bonding point above his shoulder. 

Peter slipped past a group of women from the Taipei STEM institute, fidgeting with the hem of Matt’s sweater that stuck out from under his coat. His eyes flickered along the banners, finding tables D26, D27, and D28. They’d been given D39, in the center of the row, and, as Peter spotted it, he went still. 

It wasn’t empty, like he’d assumed it would be. It wasn’t an unoccupied reminder that they hadn’t made the cut, or filled by another school from a wait-list. There was a tri-fold poster board sat atop it, with papers cut and glued on like a throw-back to their childhood science fairs. Beside it was a computer with a looped video that Peter hadn’t seen in a year, and a chamber that contained a replica of an injured arm and a patch being held up by small metal pincers. 

MJ spotted him first. She turned from where she stood in front of the booth, her auburn hair tied up in a ponytail like a newscaster, a blazer giving her the impression of a true professional. Her fingers stopped adjusting the booth to instead curl and both hands pressed to her hips, striding over with a stern press of her lips. 

“Peter Parker,” MJ scolded, ignoring the stunned look on his face, demanding his attention. “You are damn near the most impossible person to get a hold of in New York.” 

Peter blinked rapidly. “You guys brought the patches,” He gaped. 

On the top of the tri-fold, sure enough, read the words ‘Biosynth Patch’, with scrawled explanations of the microorganisms it housed and the mosaic of electrical connections that made up the device. Their names were written just below it all— not too large as to catch the attention of anyone looking to use Harry as an in to talk to his father. 

MJ, once again, stole his gaze, as she quirked an eyebrow. “We tried to tell you that last night, but you lost your phone,” she sighed in a dramatically exasperated way. “And you didn’t check your school email. I went over this morning to pick you up, but you weren’t home, so I called Matt’s number because you said it was on your corkboard and he said you’d just left to go to ESU.” She clicked her tongue admonishingly. “Gwen’s probably almost back by now.” 

“You—- You called Matt?” Peter’s head was spinning. “Holy shit, MJ, you guys did all of this last night? ”

MJ smiled coyly. “Well, Gwen and Harry did most of it, with the promise I wouldn’t pull an all-nighter so I could do the talking.” Someone bumped past them, as MJ waved him towards the booth. “Come on, Tiger. Doors open soon.” 

Peter followed behind her towards the table, and when Harry caught his eye, they both grinned. The set-up was minimal, certainly amateurish next to the printed banners and tables and lights that the other schools had around them. But it was perfect. It was theirs. And Peter fucking loved his friends. 

“God, I’m sorry I didn’t come over to help,” Peter apologized the second he scooted around the edge of the table to join them, where three chairs were set-up for the scientists. 

Harry just waved it off dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Glad you made it, Pete.” 

Peter took in the pieces of the project they’d created for the last expo, only half-complete, but a decent enough representation of the work they had done. Besides, the patches had been a massive success, even if they hadn’t seen a public reception. The functionality would speak for itself. 

“The one time being the son of the CEO pays off,” MJ hummed. 

Harry grimaced, but nodded his resigned agreement. “My Dad talked to the coordinators, and requested we be allowed to change our submission due to ‘extenuating circumstances.’”

“Did you tell him about A.I.M.?” Peter asked. 

“Hell no,” Harry laughed. “He’d drag me out of school and stick me at MIT. He never even wanted me to go to ESU. I told him our Professor destroyed all of our work and went on a bender.” 

Peter winced. “And Clint?” 

“He wandered off somewhere.” MJ waved above her head. “We told him they sold concessions up front.”   

“Peter!” Gwen squirmed between passing men and pressed her hands to the top of her table, a passionate look in her eye. She beamed across at him, proudly quiet, waiting for feedback. 

Peter couldn’t help his wide grin. “It’s great.” 

“It’s so great,” Gwen repeated as she adjusted her headband and took the seat beside him. 

They gazed out at the sea of scientists and inventions, through the noise of chattering, excited students, recruiters, and potential sponsors, and for once, everything felt good. 

Peter stole a glance at MJ where she stood, organizing a set of notecards in her hand, memorizing the information written across it. She’d called Matt. She knew that he’d spent the night with him. And still, after that, the world hadn’t imploded.

Even if things had changed so dramatically in the past 2 weeks, even if Peter had been dealing with so much shame and guilt, the sun still rose and the expo still went on. 

The sound of a microphone turning on came over the intercom system, cutting off the voices of students. There were two large screens in this section of the convention center, embedded in the walls. They flashed between the Oscorp logo and the name of the expo, as well as general information about the time of specific events. 

“We have a special message from the CEO of Oscorp.” A woman’s voice echoed through the pavilion. 

The screens faded from their scrolling words, to the image of a man that Peter had met on several occasions. His brown hair was gelled up, and he looked like the epitome of designer wear and old money. There was a couth curve to his lips as he spoke, oozing confidence and challenge. “Ladies and Gentleman, distinguished inventors, welcome to the Oscorp Expo for Health Science Innovation. As a co-founder of Oscorp, I extend my heartfelt gratitude to each and every one of you potential stars who have graced us with your presence today,” He boasted. “I want to express my sincere appreciation for your understanding and flexibility, especially to those who have returned this year after unforeseen complications that led to the cancellation of our last conference.”

“Does he still blame Tony Stark for that?” Gwen murmured. 

“Probably,” Harry grimaced. “He’s always looking for a reason to.” 

“Your resilience mirrors the spirit of innovation that drives Oscorp, and I’m confident that today’s gathering will be a testament to the incredible strides we’ve collectively achieved. To those that are here not only to explore the cutting-edge developments, but also to look for investment opportunities— both in your time for future employees, or project sponsorships— your presence today is very much appreciated,” Norman continued. “You all are integral to fostering the growth of the next generation of brilliant minds in health science.

“I encourage each and every one of you to explore, engage, and envision the future that lies within these walls. The collective brilliance showcased here today is a testament to the dedication, passion, and ingenuity of today’s students. I wish each of our exhibitors luck as they present their work. May this expo serve as a platform for fruitful collaborations and a shared commitment to the betterment of health. Thank you, and let the journey into the future of innovation begin.”  

The screen flickered back to the Oscorp logo. The woman’s voice returned. “The front doors will now be opening to the public.” 

“Always one for a show,” Harry snorted.

Peter let out a short breath, sinking back in his chair. “We made it.” 

MJ looked over at the three of them, and she gave them a dazzling smile. “You guys made it!” 

***

Time passed unexpectedly quickly when they were showcasing their work to the crowds of passing people. 

Their booth was meager in comparison to the displays surrounding them, easy to ignore, but MJ’s charisma as a spokesperson drew in a decent amount of interested parties. She sounded well-versed in the science of the biosynth patches as she gave her presentation, and when people had questions, Harry, Gwen, and Peter would jump in to answer. They made a great team, a cohesive system of passing off information and showing diagrams and videos of their invention in action. Peter was so focused on his work that it was easy to ignore the cramps in his stomach and the warmth on his thighs, symptoms of hours without Matt. 

Gwen and Harry took a break from the booth first to walk together through the tables, to be able to see the work that others had done. Once they’d returned, it was Peter’s turn, so he wandered off towards Taipei’s team he’d seen earlier and made a loop around the large space, looking for the least busy booths to peruse and avoid getting stuck in a crowd. 

He’d made it from their row, D, down to row AA, when Peter’s world narrowed down to a pinprick of focus and a sharp tingle ran up his spine. 

Breathing measured and focused, the world seeming to run in slow motion, Peter looked rapidly around himself. He couldn’t see any threats, or issues with the machines around him. No, it was bigger than that. It was worse than the constant warnings of feet slipping or forgetting to brush his teeth that his spidey sense had been feeding him in his pre-heat. It was dangerous. It was above him.

Peter’s eyes shot up as the screen morphed. The image of Oscorp began to flicker. It warped. It disappeared. 

The power went out. 

Peter became acutely aware of the spandex of his suit under his layers of clothing, and the mask tucked into the waistband of his pants. 

Voices rose at a booth a few rows down. Over the tops of displays, Peter watched as a humanoid robot dressed in scrubs stepped off of its platform, a malfunction that seemed to take its creators by surprise. 

Across the pavilion, Peter spotted a laser shoot into the ceiling, creating a sharp hole in a large glass window. 

The lights came back on. So did the screens. 

This time, they didn’t have Norman Osborn, or the logo of Oscorp. This time, it was a mop of brown hair and black glasses. Two metal appendages hooked over the shoulders of the man, serpentine and fluid, as if they were alive. 

Peter’s heart stopped.

The majority of the crowd started to notice his presence, and the oily smirk that didn’t match his facial features. It was alarming to see his expression. Like a possession. 

“A disgusting sight.” Dr. Octavius spit out over the screen. Where he was watching from, Peter couldn’t see. He needed to get back to Harry. Find out where the production room was.

But there was a cry from behind Peter. He spun, seeing the Stanford team flee their booth when a small fire erupted inside an oxygenated containment unit. 

With the chaos people shouting, and running for a nearby fire extinguisher, Peter slipped behind a large display. 

Dr. Octavius continued to speak on screen. “Invention has been desecrated by these gross displays of pageantry. Like rats, fighting for scraps.”

“Put it out!” One of the Stanford students screamed. 

The one holding the fire extinguisher was trembling, sweaty hands slipping over the pin. “I-I’m trying!” 

“Innovation is no longer the product of true brilliance— of greatness. These children run to damned corporations that reduce our achievements to meet profit margins.”

Dressed down to his suit, Spider-Man shot a web at the fire extinguisher, tearing it out of the student’s hands. He grabbed the pin, which had been bent in an odd direction, and ripped it out. 

It’s going to—

“Get back!” He shouted at the students and nearby booths cleared, people scattering. Peter kicked the hyperbaric chamber back as it rolled towards the water fountain just as it exploded, raining fire and water from the burst pipe down on the tile floors. 

Peter squeezed the handle, spraying chemical foam over the flurry of fire before it could spread. No one was hurt yet, but there were thousands of people stuck inside the building. They needed to get out, before this could get any worse. 

“Their monuments to excess, to empty, cheaply made creations, built on the graves of genuine progress. And scientists are forgotten. Stepping stones for CEOs, their names less than pigshit.” 

An electric prickle ran over Peter’s skin. He spun, as an older man was lunged at by the scrub clad bot he’d seen earlier, a scalpel extending out from the robot’s hand. Peter caught its wrist joint with a web and tore it back, out of reach of the man. He leaped up to the top of a banner and shot a web out, swinging over to land on the shoulders of the robot as he shoved it into the tile floor. 

Peter looked up as an electric wire broke free of one of the displays, sparking like an eel, and slammed down towards his face. He rolled out of the way when it struck the ground beside his head, scorching the tile where he’d been.

“You maggots want to shun me for my methods of funding? For pushing boundaries without signing my life over to the likes of Norman Osborn?” Octavius sneered. “I am remarkable. My work is extraordinary! And you, Spider-Man, will not get in my way!”

Peter’s head shot up to the screen at the mention of his name. The robot was already rising back to its feet. Groups of students shouted and ran, as their technology malfunctioned and turned against them. Hundreds of projects— chemicals and circuitry, machines and micro-robotics, spilled out across floors and launched themselves in the air. 

Peter turned back to the robot as a large amputation saw extended from its arm, sparking as it spun. He crouched, and was planning the best way to take it down without jeopardizing the people hiding behind tables and chairs, when an arrow whizzed and buried itself in the back of the robot’s head, jutting out the front. 

The robot stilled. Another arrow sliced through the arm of the robot, severing the saw, and it clattered to the floor, spinning to a stop. Then the bot fell with an echoing bang, and slammed into the ground.

Peter looked up. Back in row D, standing on top of a large tank, was Clint Barton with his bow clutched in his hand. 

He nodded at Peter, then dropped off the tank, disappearing into the crowd to help the others. 

Red flashed over the pavilion as a loud siren blared. “ Attention ,” A robotic voice rang out, “ A fire emergency has been detected. Please evacuate the building immediately using the nearest exit. ” 

Those that hadn’t yet begun to rush towards the exits began to frantically flee out of the rows of tables. Peter’s eyes darted around, searching for the production booth, for Dr. Octavius, hoping that a power box would be located within to cut the electricity to some of the inventions. 

He didn’t have to look for long. Metal screeched from Peter’s right. A panel that led to another section of the building was torn away, as easily as ripping a page from a book. Behind it, a metal claw slithered out and dug into the wall, crushing it under its impossibly strong grip. Another followed, shattering tile. Dr. Octavius stared Peter down from where he was suspended by the arms, acting as his own appendages, his lips drawn back in a jeer. 

“Spider-Man,” Dr. Octavius spun his name like an aria. “It’s a shame that imbecile Toomes has to miss this.” 

“You can get help, Octavius.” Peter said as his eyes flickered to the arms as they carried him into the pavilion. He remembered how it had felt to be slammed into the metal beam, how, if he were human, his body would have been broken in two. And Octavius hadn’t even been trying to hurt him. “There’s no reason to waste your life’s work like this. This isn’t your legacy.” 

Octavius studied him, his expression unreadable through his glasses. “I've awoken to a new sort of legacy, boy,” He said. “And it begins by killing you for ruining everything.” 

The claw that clutched the panel whipped out, and the half-crumbled sheet of metal was sent flying towards people grouped up at the emergency exit, a jam of attendees trying to squeeze through blocking half of them from escaping. 

Peter flung out his arm to catch the panel with a web, shoving his feet into the floor to stop it in its momentum. It bowed when it hit the extent of his web and his shoulder screamed in protest at the weight, but it came catapulting back in his direction, at the same time that his spidey-senses warned him to dodge a claw coming up from the side.

Peter ducked under the panel as it flew over his head, crashing into a set of tables where viscous green liquid spilled over the floor, and though the first claw missed, he hadn’t expected the second to be so quick. It caught his wrist and squeezed, his bones feeling as if they were fragmenting, carrying him into the air, up and up, until he was 12 feet off the floor. He reached his free hand to pummel the claw, attempting to wrench his wrist free. 

Dr. Octavius’s face swam into view as Peter was carried closer in by the claw, just out of reach of him, but near enough to look across at his glasses, occasionally illuminated by red flashes of the fire alarm. Peter yelped when the claw whirred, feeling as if his bone had been punctured by something sharp.

“Parker,” Octavius hissed, and the sound of his name made Peter freeze, betraying his identity, to the ghost of his professor. “You would have been a brilliant mind. Perhaps even a brain to rival my own.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—” 

“I found your photos.” 

Peter’s stomach churned. 

“You left them in the van, after that Devil came to help you escape. Though I had suspected for a while. You failed to stop Toomes that day in my lab.” 

Panic welled in Peter’s chest, making his breaths hot and jagged. He pulled harder at his wrist, but the claws weren’t coming loose. 

“I was trying to protect your work!” The soreness in his wrist spread up his forearm, practically through his bloodstream. Like every muscle was cramping and burning. “And I was trying to protect you. But you betrayed us to him. To A.I.M.!” 

“I never cared that you were an omega.” Octavius mused. “Though you were one of few that had found a home in my department.” 

Peter grit his teeth, his spidey-senses blaring. 

“Though it is useful information to know how exactly to get rid of you.”

The magma that had spread through Peter’s body, and the puncturing sensation he’d felt from the claw, was starting to make horrible sense. 

Whatever Octavius had injected him with was agonizing. It was worse than his pre-heat. There was no need. No desire. Only unadulterated pain and fire, as sweat gathered on his neck, his back, his face. 

He didn’t have much time to ruminate on it. Octavius winded him up like a rag-doll and slammed him face first into the tile floor. Once, twice, more and more, until he felt his nose pop and blood spilled into his mouth. 

Through the haze of sweat and blood flooding his mask, he saw an arrow hit its mark in Octavius’s thigh. Octavius shouted, and the constant pummeling of Peter’s body stopped temporarily, as he was left hovering just above the ground. Peter took his chance; he shot a web at Octavius’s head and jerked it, forcing him to lose his balance, and his concentration. 

The arm holding Peter hit the ground to catch his footing, but it spread enough that Peter could get free, and he dove out from under another arm that tried to seize him, predicting the speed that time. He shot another web to swing free of his grasp, despite the agony and the weakness in his limbs, sticking to a wall near the large screens. He was breathing hard, and his body was shaking, Octavius’s injection making quick work of forcing him into some sort of half-heat. He wasn’t sure how long his body would take to burn it off, but it needed to be soon. Clint seemed to have taken care of some of the rogue inventions, and the pavilion was nearly clear, but that didn’t mean Octavius couldn’t take control of them again to turn on him or the Avenger. 

Octavius turned his attention on Clint, and Peter already knew that Clint wouldn’t survive a direct hit from his claws. He coiled up, preparing every muscle in his body to launch at him, praying that he could dodge all 4 arms when he was slower than he wanted to be. 

The sky opened up above them with a crash of glass. It poured down over Octavius, slicing his cheek, pieces of it scattering across the floor. Peter looked up, at the sight of red and gold armor, and he was never quite so happy to see Tony Stark in his life. 

“Hey, Calamari,” Tony’s voice came out over the speaker of his suit. In the palm of his hand, a blue light ramped up as a high pitched whirring filled the room. “I really didn’t want to destroy more of this expo center, but you’ve forced my hand.” 

“Stay out of this—!” Octavius began to shout, but the blast of the repulsors cut him off. 

Clint, as it turned out, had reached out to Tony as soon as Octavius made his appearance on screen. 

Octavius shouted as he was shoved into the back of a SHIELD truck, his tentacles bound with vibranium cuffs, his jacket singed from the heat of repulsors and fire. Johnny waved at the crowd of students that were behind the police line, as they screamed out in appreciation for saving the day. He’d shown up just behind Tony, apparently put on Octavius-watch thanks to his well-known friendship with Spider-Man.

And that left Peter, standing over a sink in the convention center, washing blood off of his face with cold water and wincing whenever he brushed his swollen nose. 

He was shivering, so hard that it was hard to stay upright. He looked up at his reflection, dark bruises blooming over one cheek and his lip bitten and red, and reminded himself that he had to stay knit together. 

Peter shoved his mask back on, and shouldered the door open, shuffling out into the pavilion. He stepped over shattered glass vials and a torn banner from one of the tables, stopping to grab his discarded clothing from earlier. He stopped at their modest booth, the trifold out of sight, and picked up the box with the biosynth patch inside, looking at the invention with a grimace. 

Don’t let your seams break. 

“It’s impressive.” 

Peter looked to his left, as Tony, dressed in a casual t-shirt and jeans, made his way down the row. He jut his chin out towards the box in Peter’s hands, stopping a few feet away. 

“It was from last year,” Peter admitted. He set it back down on the top of the table and turned, folding his arms. “But our other project was… in the end, just a weapon, I guess.” 

“That kind of tech would be good at Oscorp.” 

“I’m not sure that’s where I wanna be.” 

“Or at Stark Industries,” Tony said, raising an eyebrow. “Our biochem department is small, but it’s growing.” 

Peter swallowed as he looked back across at Tony. He didn’t feel like mentioning he’d been planning to apply. He, Gwen, and Harry wanted to get into things off their own merit. Now all of their work just felt pointless. 

“You should get home, kid.” Tony frowned. “Your scent is…” 

“ Peter! ” 

Shoes squeaked on the floor as MJ, Gwen, and Harry ran down the row, trailed by Johnny as their escort. Gwen was the first to wrap her arms around his neck, squeezing him in tight relief. Peter winced at the way his muscles burned with any kind of pressure, but he hugged her back regardless. 

“I pulled the fire alarm,” Gwen babbled, pulling back enough to look up at him. “I’ve never pulled a fire alarm before in my life.” 

“It was great, Gwenny,” MJ smiled behind her. 

“You’re shaking.” Gwen laid her hands on Peter’s shoulders, and her eyebrows knit. “Are you okay?” 

Peter’s lips parted to reply, but then slowly shut. But with Tony and Johnny watching, he had no choice but to jerk out a nod. 

“Can you make sure they get home okay?” Peter asked Johnny over the top of Gwen’s head, but Harry was quick to interrupt. 

“You aren’t swinging home, dude. I drove. We’ll take you back.” 

Peter’s throat was tight as he spoke, “I’ll be fine.” 

“We are taking you back,” MJ repeated firmly. “Come on, Peter.” 

Peter looked exasperated at the three of them, but turned his head back over his shoulder towards Tony. “Thanks. For helping.” Begrudgingly, he added, “I owe you one.” 

Tony snorted. “I’m used to it being the other way around.” 

Peter pulled out of Gwen’s grasp to grab his backpack, shoving his clothes in, and slinging it over his shoulder. They headed towards the car park under the convention center, his focus on putting one foot in front of the other, forcing strength into his legs. 

They crawled into Harry’s car, as Peter shucked off his mask and dragged Matt’s sweater back on over his suit, to hide from passing cars. MJ sat in the front, probably to avoid being too close to Peter’s oddly warped scent. He didn’t smell quite in heat, but it was worse. Artificial. Agonized. 

They said their goodbyes outside of his apartment building, and Peter took the back entrance, scaling the wall and slipping in through his open window. He threw his backpack at the couch and shoved off all of his clothes. The spandex felt like confined torture, rubbing at his skin in all the wrong places. He felt like he could crawl out of his skin. He wanted to crawl entirely out of his body. 

He was home for a little over 20 minutes before there was a knock at the front door. He adjusted the ice pack on his nose, every inch of his body feeling so wrong , so out of place, and he walked down the hallway to tug the door open. 

Matt stood there, leaned against the doorway with one hand, and breathless, like he’d run all the way from Hell’s Kitchen. His eyebrows knit, concern plain as day over his features, and his head tilted, studying… something in Peter that he probably wasn’t even aware of. 

“Mary Jane called me,” Matt explained through small gasps of air, chest heaving. His hand started to reach out towards Peter’s face, then stopped, hanging between the both of them. “Again, after the fight.” He pushed off of the doorway, straightening. “Said you would need someone.” 

The thread snapped. The seams broke. Peter’s eyes stung. 

Matt didn’t say a word as he let himself inside, gingerly shutting the door behind him. His hand moved to hover over Peter’s shoulder, deliberating. 

Then he wrapped him up in his arms, holding him tight, and Peter let himself unravel. 

Chapter Text

The envelope slid out of Peter’s fingers into the slit of the drop box, clattering when the wad of cash hit the metal casing inside. 

There. Rent was paid, just in time to avoid a late fee, and Peter rubbed his hands on his sweatpants to erase the texture of the paper from his fingertips. It felt like his nerves had been set ablaze, and the dryness of the envelope was awful on his skin.

His body was sore, like he’d been out on patrol all night, even when he’d spent most of it wrapped up in Matt’s arms, periodically shifting between laying his head on Matt’s shoulder or restlessly fidgeting on his own. The injection that Octavius had given him had turned his discomfort up to 200, and being days off his heat anyways, his body hadn’t been able to heal. Maybe he wouldn’t recover from it. He couldn’t stand the idea of spending the next few days like this, with all of his sensory input like knives in his skull. He was so tired of fighting himself. 

Peter climbed the rest of the stairs to his hallway. He left the door unlocked after he’d returned, and scrubbed a hand down his face, padding the way into his empty living room. 

Matt had left that morning, promising to return once he’d dealt with a few last minute arrangements. Peter had tried to convince him not to keep ignoring his work, that he could just come back when Peter’s heat actually hit, but the lawyer hadn’t looked at all convinced. 

Going to school wasn’t going to happen, and putting on his Spider-Man suit was unrealistic. He'd already put in for a week off from work, to give himself time to recover from the expo.

The best thing that Peter could do was to try to sleep it off and try not to imagine what it had felt like to lay in Matt’s lap.

So he crawled back into bed and shut his eyes. 

Matt had barely let himself in the front door and slid out of his shoes before Peter was hugging him from behind and burying his face in his shoulder.

Though he’d certainly sensed him approach, Matt stiffened underneath his touch, as if he hadn’t expected it so suddenly. 

“You’re back,” Peter said, muffled by his shirt, breathing in his scent. It was rich, and deep, and everything, and it warmed him from the bones out. 

Matt shifted, and his duffel bag thudded to the floor. Calloused fingers slid over Peter’s cheeks, both hands cupping his face, and they rested there, so cold compared to the fever that flushed him. 

“I’m not leaving,” Matt said, and to punctuate his point, he reached back and locked the door with a click, and returned his palm to Peter’s cheeks. “Have you eaten?”

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“I’ll make you something.” 

“I can’t stomach it.” Peter’s eyebrows knit, frustrated by the sharp edge of discomfort. Everything hurt. Everything felt so awful. Except Matt. Matt made him feel so good. 

“Okay,” Matt conceded after a moment. “Then later.” 

Matt guided him backwards, back into the apartment that smelled too much like Peter’s twisted scent, and not like the both of them. Peter’s throat was dry, but his body was damp with sweat and the first signs of wet heat between his legs. He pressed his face closer into Matt’s palm, as if the scratch of his nails near his ear would chase away the aches and the cramps, the loneliness that had threatened to swallow him whole. 

Peter’s knees bumped into the edge of his bed. He hadn’t realized Matt was leading him to his room but he looked dazedly up at his stubbled chin, his slightly crooked nose that had taken a few too many hits, and to soft, hazel eyes. 

His hands covered the back of Matt’s, squeezing his fingers. Peter leaned up and brushed their lips, the movement brief, but igniting a spark in his stomach that contradicted the dark hollowness. 

It didn’t go much further than that. Matt gently pushed Peter onto the bed, so he sat on the end. The world was teetering, unbalanced, and Peter felt himself sway against it, his head too heavy to support. 

Matt unwound the scarf from his neck, and he set it on the ground, neater than Peter’s piles of dirty clothes strewn about. His jacket followed, button by button, draped over the back of the computer chair. Then he lowered himself, crouching, between Peter’s knees. He was touching him again. Somewhere. Always. Like he had been since he’d agreed to help him. 

He was always helping him. 

“How lucid are you, Peter?” 

Peter blinked slowly. Enough to register his words, even if his body wasn’t quite responding the way he wanted it to. 

Matt made a noise of understanding. “I don’t think we’re there yet.” 

“Not yet.” Peter said, his voice too breathy, too high to be his own. "But it's early."

“I’m sorry I left, but I’m staying now. Everything is taken care of. You can let go.” 

Everything. 

Dr. Octavius had been taken into SHIELD’s custody, and was presumably getting help. His friends were safe, and fine, and they’d even survived the disaster of an expo. His nose had healed within a few hours, the bruises had faded entirely, and A.I.M., and Toomes were nowhere to be found. 

The world was fine. Safe. Peter didn’t have ghosts in his corners or people threatening to kill his friends. And he had Matt there, promising that he would look after him. That he would be okay.

The anxiety ebbed. 

“Thank you,” Peter breathed. “For being here.” 

Matt squeezed his forearm. “I told you I wanted to help.” 

“I know, but I’m— I’m glad that it’s you.” 

And Peter meant it, in the most logical, coherent part of his mind. He liked Matt. He’d seen both sides of him, and he’d seen what he hid, and he’d really liked the guy that laid between. If only it hadn’t taken them so long to become friends. 

But it would be different soon. Peter would fall fully into his heat, and he’d be submissive, and needy, and begging , and it was a side of him he wished he could keep just for himself. 

There was only one person that had been with him during his heat, when he was at his most vulnerable.

Matt wouldn’t hold him against it. He was sure of it. Sure of him. Sure of this. 

“Let me change, and get things ready.” Matt pressed his lips to the inside of Peter’s wrist, above his vein, his pulse thrumming quicker underneath his touch. “I’m not leaving,” He repeated, a reassurance to the omega instincts half-controlling him. “I’ll be right back.” 

Peter bit his lip. “Actually, can I have a few minutes? Alone?” He could see the concern forming on Matt’s face, and rushed to continue. “It’s easier to think straight. Before it…hits.” 

Matt released his wrist, standing from the floor. “I’ll wait until you call me in.”

Matt’s scent lingered longer than he did, enveloping Peter in the feeling of safety, and reassurance. When he’d gone, moving around in the kitchen, occasionally unzipping his bag, Peter gazed up at the corkboard, at the business card, at Foggy’s handwriting. 

The less logical, less coherent side of his brain bristled at the words scribble on it. Because Matt wasn’t single, his head told him. Matt was there, looking after him. And that meant Matt was his. 

Peter’s body was unbearably hot. 

The air in his room was freezing in comparison to the sweltering fever on his skin. He had tugged off his t-shirt minutes ago, shivering against the comforter, fighting the urge to rip his pants off as well. Between his blanket, pillows, and clothing, the touch of fabric was agonizing on his nerves.

The loneliness had started to feel more intent, more isolating, as it pulsed through his core. 

He was at the worst of it, he knew. The last point of any semblance of clarity before he’d start to forget it all, forget himself. Lose himself to the agony of a heat, but also the need, and the delusion. And he was grateful that Matt hadn’t been in the room for the last half-hour, trying to soothe him through it. It was the last few moments of privacy he’d have in the coming days. 

But it hurt. It hurt worse than any heat he’d experienced in the past. If it was because of… because of Wade, because he’d left, or because of the stress of Dr. Octavius’s betrayal, he didn’t know. The only clear thoughts he had were that his guts felt like they were trying to claw their way out of his stomach, and all he could do was writhe on the bed spread, holding a pillow against his face to keep from whimpering. He was wound up so tight that he felt like he’d break. 

Peter was torn between the physical pain, and the aching of his dick, the throbbing between his legs. He panted into the pillow cover, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, wishing he could pass out to get through it. 

But there was Matt. Matt would make him feel better. He’d fuck the pain away, fill him with so many sensations that the bad ones wouldn’t matter. Just like he had before. He could trust the alpha taking quiet steps around his living room. He needed him. Needed to feel him in, on, and around him. To take up his space. To claim him. To let him implode.

Peter couldn’t handle much more alone. He didn’t want to anymore. He pulled the pillow away from his mouth to gasp out, “Matt , please.” 

The door creaked open. Peter looked back over his shoulder, spotting him, and his lips parted. By way of words, a desperate sound left his throat, his ability to talk utterly failing him. 

Matt understood, regardless. 

He kneed onto the bed, as Peter rolled onto his back. Matt’s hand brushed over his forehead, through his sweaty hair, and tingles ran up his spine. 

“You’re burning up,” Matt murmured. 

Peter watched his face, somewhat flushed, but steady and calm, and Matt stooped to capture his mouth, swallowing down Peter’s noises of pain. 

Matt straddled him, his weight an anchor, a safety net. He kissed him in earnest until Peter was breathless, the hardness in his pajama pants pressed against Matt’s clothed thigh. His hips canted up, a frizzle of pressure aching through him with the friction of it. 

Matt drew back enough to pepper open mouthed kisses down the curve of Peter’s jaw, onto his neck. His hands slid under Peter’s waistband and tugged on his pants— he had skipped on wearing underwear— and they disappeared somewhere else in the room. Then Matt was back on him, dragging teeth over his throat, fully taking his time with Peter, even if he could feel Matt’s erection through his jeans. 

His hands slid over each of Peter’s ribs, as if he were memorizing every curve, every dip of his sweaty skin. Peter moaned into the brisk, empty room, his stomach quivering when a tongue traced his navel. He was growing desperate, vision darkening at the edges, sparks of need dancing behind his eyes. It was too much, and not enough. He needed relief. He needed to cool the fire pooling in his abdomen. 

“Please ,” Peter keened, legs spreading for Matt, as if it would urge him on. He was begging, so far into the burning desperation that he had stopped caring what he sounded like. What he looked like. “I need you.” 

His heartbeat threatened to suffocate him, pounding mercilessly into his ribs. Blood rushed through him, almost loud enough to hear in his veins, and Peter felt the slide of two fingers push inside, as he shuddered around them.

He rocked against his fingers, and Matt curled them, as Peter grew wetter, and the stinging burn of it zipped up his spine.  

Matt didn’t stop him from moving, from searching for the pleasure that would send him over the edge. He added another finger and Peter gasped, trying to feel them where the sensitivity was the highest, where his nerves were alight. 

“Not yet,” Matt murmured into Peter’s chest. “You’ll just exhaust yourself.” 

Peter’s dick was hard, and desperately leaking, but Matt didn’t touch him. Even if Peter was hopelessly searching for an orgasm, he wasn’t letting him spill over. 

But the fingers drew out. 

Peter choked on the emptiness, the strike of loneliness, of insecurity. It was his own personal hell, clenching around nothing, a whine working up his throat. 

Matt had shoved off his own clothes. He hiked Peter’s legs up, and up, resting them on his shoulders, bending him nearly in half. For all of his flexibility, it wasn’t a strain, but it did pin him down into the mattress, shoulders buried against his pillows, and Matt leaned down to slide his lips against Peter’s mouth.

“Tell me if it's too much,” Matt said against Peter’s lips, his own breathing unsteady. 

Peter reached up to tangle fingers in the hair at the back of Matt’s head, and he dragged him back down and slid his tongue into his mouth. 

Matt started to push in, fireworks shooting up Peter’s spine. Peter forgot how to breathe with every inch, slowly stretching him, deeper and deeper until he could feel him burning inside. He felt so far out of himself that he was made up entirely of feeling, of nerves and pulsing pleasure, and a sense of completeness that he couldn’t put a name to. 

Then Matt began rocking into him.

It was ecstasy thrumming through him each time he buried himself inside, electricity coursing all the way to his fingertips. He groaned into Matt’s mouth, feeling the vibrations of it on his lips, and Peter had to pull away first to catch his breath. Matt took the chance to adjust the angle, and then he was deeper than before, driving into him hard enough to make the bed springs squeal underneath them. 

Stars burst when Matt hit that spot in him that sent pleasure rippling through him. It was too much, and he grabbed at the blankets, at the sheets, as Matt repeatedly fucked him towards shattering, wound him up and then fractured him as his climax tore him apart. Waves of erratic pleasure and pressure whitened his mind, left him shaking and mindless.

He tightened up around Matt as his thrusts turned less precise, irregular. He heard far-off praises, words like “ There you go, ” and “ Just like that ,” but it was hard to make out over his own voice, gasps and shaking moans that were so unlike him, it was hard to believe they were his.

Matt shoved into him one last time, a jolt of a movement, and he spilled over. Peter felt him twitch, felt the fire of it. Then he was letting go of his legs and tugging Peter into his chest, and Peter, caught up in the hormones flooding his body, clung to him, burying his face into his neck.

They panted together, stuck like that— Matt’s face buried in Peter’s hair as Peter gasped into his heated skin. Matt held him tight as he trembled, letting him fall apart and get put back together again over and over. 

It took minutes for the tremors to die down, for Peter to slowly release his hold on Matt’s shoulders, fingers peeling away. He could feel Matt still inside of him, softening. His chest rose against Peter’s sternum with each breath. Gradually, awareness sunk back in. The sound of a shower in an apartment above. Cars honking far off outside. The stickiness of cheap cotton to Peter’s sweat. And the smell of Matt’s scent, so intense under his nose that it seemed to burn through his entire being.

Peter dropped his head back into the pillows, gazing up at Matt when he pulled out. His hair was messy with sex, his cheeks flushed, and his neck and chest peppered with the red splotches of his orgasm. 

“You’re kinda beautiful.” 

The words caught Peter off guard once he had said them, his voice weak and throat aching from the noises he’d made. Matt’s eyebrows rose in surprise. 

Peter’s palm smoothed out over the cut muscles of Matt’s stomach, and he wrapped his arm around his waist, tugging him down to lay on top as he slotted one of his legs between Matt’s. 

They laid in the relative quiet of the apartment for minutes, as Peter came down from his fever. 

Finally, Matt spoke. “How do you feel?” 

Peter wasn’t really sure. His muscles had finally started to unclench, leaving him aching and exhausted. But the burning need was a manageable tug at the back of his mind. “Thirsty.” 

Matt started to roll away to get him water, but Peter tightened his hold on his waist. “Not yet,” Peter said quietly. “Stay with me for a little bit.” 

Matt settled back against him. “As long as you need,” he promised.

***

Before they had even been able to make it out of the bed, Peter’s second wave had hit.

Still wrapped in Matt’s arms, listening to the thrum of his heartbeat above him, he’d felt the stirring of his heat, the pull of emptiness all the way down to his bones, before he had even come down from the high of their first round. 

Peter’s hands slid up the muscled expanse of Matt’s back. The telltale rushing of his blood to his lower half, the simmering of warmth under his skin, was starting to make him squirm. 

Matt pressed a forearm into the mattress beside Peter’s head and leaned up, giving Peter’s lungs full room to expand. He sucked down the heady air that was tinged with pheromones and sex, and turned half-lidded eyes up to Matt’s face. 

“Peter,” Matt said gently. “Let me take care of you.”

Peter had enough sense to know that Matt’s stamina wasn’t nearly as high as his own. He knew that he could wear him out if he demanded too much of him too fast. Could break him. 

His hands on Matt’s shoulders pushed, and he rolled them over, until the alpha was laid out underneath him. His knees pressed into the bed on either side of Matt’s waist, and his thighs shook as he pressed down onto him.

The slide inside was easier than the first time, a delicious burn. And Peter grinded and rocked his hips until his orgasm spilled over Matt’s stomach. 

It was easier after that, to let his mind sink into the heat that his body was burning with. He stopped fighting it, let go of any remaining threads of control he held tight to. 

Dim afternoon light melted into evening darkness without any sign of a real reprieve. Peter fucked himself on Matt through a third orgasm, but when he still couldn’t catch his breath, Matt took his length down his throat and coaxed out another. 

Sensations melted into a blur of fever and ache, of pressure and relief. He lost track of time, of himself, as he drifted out of real coherence. Matt’s heat enveloped him, muscular arms wrapping him up, his touch everywhere, overwhelming his senses. 

Matt whispered soft praises into his throat, kissed him hard when Peter demanded it. Tongue and teeth, slick and spit. It was wet, and dirty, but the first pains of his heat, the agony of insecurity and anxiety, gradually melted into pleasure, and safety, and the love that his heat had convinced him he had for Matt.

Peter came back to himself sitting on the counter in his kitchen, the comforter from his bed wrapped around his shoulders. Matt was drawing a glass down from Peter’s lips, the metallic taste of tap water he’d swallowed on his tongue, and he blinked through the fuzziness to slowly take in his surroundings. 

The clock on the stove said it was past three, and Peter guessed it was the early hours of the next morning. He was sore— in his ass, his thighs, his back. He couldn't remember much past his fourth wave, the last few hours a dizzy mist he only remembered small glimpses of. There was a sticky sheen of sweat on his skin, and cool fluids dried to his thighs, stomach, and chest. 

“I feel gross,” Peter said as he tipped forward to press his forehead into Matt’s shoulder. 

Matt studied him for a minute, probably much more attuned to his needs than he was. A hand settled on the back of Peter’s hair, coaxing him to relax. For once, Peter could just melt into it without the prickling of warmth in his lower half. He set the glass down on the counter beside them, and stroked his fingers down his side. 

“We can shower soon.” Matt let go of his head, reaching over to the side, as his shoulder made a jagged back-and-forth motion. Peter looked up, following his arm, and he watched him serve plates of eggs and toast that he must have cooked while Peter was still out of it. 

Warmth swelled in Peter’s chest. Not the burning lust of his heat, but something more affectionate. Fond, and sweet. 

Peter sat up, tugging the blanket around his body. He smiled lazily, utterly exhausted, but content.  

Matt must have heard the acceleration of his pulse, the skipping of his heart. Holding the spatula, he felt his forehead with the back of his hand. 

“It’s not another wave,” Peter reached up to slide his fingers through the spaces between Matt’s. “I’m back, I think. For now.” He drew his hand away from his forehead, settling it in his naked lap, and leaned up to kiss Matt.

It wasn’t open mouthed and insistent tongues, gropes and searching for ways to feel claimed and taken by Matt in every possible way. It was a soft, long press of their lips. Fireworks dancing down his arms and legs, sparkling in his chest. His ankle hooked around the back of Matt’s knee, drawing him closer, and the hand that wasn’t clinging to Matt’s set to tangling in his hair. 

“You need to eat,” Matt murmured into his mouth, then kissed him again. “It’s been too long.” 

The reminder of food made Peter’s stomach growl. So he gave in, letting Matt lay a plate in his hand, and they ate in companionable, comfortable silence. 

Once they had finished, Matt dumped their dishes in the sink, and helped Peter to slide off the kitchen counter onto shaking legs, though he had enough strength to stay standing. He wrapped his arms around Peter’s shoulders, steering him towards the bathroom, letting him shuffle at a slow pace towards the cold tile floor. 

Matt flicked the shower on, the pipes rumbling to life inside the walls. He let the water heat up to a bearable temperature, then reached out a hand to Peter, guiding him into his shallow bathtub and the lukewarm spray. It spilled over his face, his messy hair, unsticking it from his forehead. Peter scrubbed his hands over his face, over dried streaks of tears and spit, and the swollen, bitten up redness of his own lips. He leaned until his shoulders pressed into the hard angles of Matt’s chest. He tilted his head back, baring his throat, shuddering when Matt’s fingers explored the curve of it. 

He jolted when he touched his bonding point again at the base of his neck, hypersensitive, unmarked. 

Peter let out a breathy moan. Matt’s heart jumped against his back. 

“I’m not gonna break,” Peter whispered. “I know you’re trying to be gentle. But I can take it. I want to take it.” 

The exploring fingers on Peter’s neck stilled. 

“I shouldn’t wear you out. You’re tired already.”

“Then we’ll sleep together.” Peter turned in his arms to face him. His arms circled his waist, but his head rested into his chest, the flooding of his pheromones soothing his aches. “I like it, Matt. When you push me. When I can’t breathe.” 

That’s what it had been like, the day before the expo, before the start of his heat. He’d been cocky and withholding, testing Peter’s limits, his stamina. Brutal with his efficiency at manipulating his sensitivity, until Matt himself was satisfied enough to let him finish. 

Matt kissed behind his ear. “That’s different. My job now is to get you through the next couple of days.” 

“And you’re doing that,” Peter protested. “But you’re holding back.” 

He’d felt it when Matt showed back up at his apartment. In the way his touches had become more tentative, letting Peter take the lead. Even when Peter had ridden him twice to search for his own relief, his hands had been on his hips, calming him into a slow rhythm that wouldn’t drain him.

Matt inhaled and exhaled, a controlled movement. “Your heat wasn’t supposed to start yesterday.” 

Peter blinked. 

It had come early. Because of what Octavius had done. The thought of it, the lingering stress, rose in a pang of panic through his stomach. Sensing it, Matt held him more firmly against his body. A silent reassurance of safety. Of security. 

“You were pushed into fight-or-flight. Your heart was racing for hours. Even before you asked me to help, you were sick from your pre-heat. And then he made it worse,” Matt gritted out the last bit with venom, as his thumb drew over Peter’s spine. “I don’t want to cause you any more pain.” 

Peter opened his lips to protest, but Matt shushed him to continue. 

“I know that I don’t need to treat you like you’re frail. You heal incredibly fast. Even now, you have enough strength to make it clear if I was hurting you,” Matt sighed. “But it’s damn near impossible not to worry when you were in agony for over a week without slowing down.”

“Pot, meet kettle.” Peter said into his shoulder. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Matt paused. Then his chest jumped as he broke into a chuckle, and he wrapped Peter up into his arms to hide the sound in his sopping hair.

God, Peter loved the way he laughed.

Peter loved him.

He’d started to tell him so when he felt the first ignitions of a flame coiling in his stomach. Pressure under his abs, demanding his attention. His knees wobbled. 

Matt read him faster than Peter could tell him what was happening. He draped him against the wall, letting it support the majority of Peter’s weight before he could lose his footing. He reached up to tilt the cheap faucet, sending the angle of the water streaming over their legs so Peter didn’t drown in it. 

“Shit, not already,” Peter groaned, his head tilting back against the wet tile. 

Matt’s body weight trapped him against the shower wall, heavy and warm. “I’ll get you clean first.” He reached for the sorry excuse for soap that sat on the edge of the tub, a remnant of a bar that Peter was trying to make last. He foamed up his palm, then smoothed the bubbles out over Peter’s chest, the pungent woodsy scent overbearing on Peter’s senses. 

He jolted when his fingers brushed over a nipple that had hardened in the cold air, then continued down over his navel. “ God , Matt.” 

Matt’s fingers scrubbed over his ears, then behind them, as Peter’s temperature heated. The water was frigid in comparison to the fever, but he tuned it out, focused entirely on the touch that made its way down his neck, over his clavicle. 

Peter stared up at the popcorn ceiling of his bathroom when Matt set to dragging the soap down his biceps and his wrist. He tremored, buzzing with hypersensitivity when Matt reached his hip bones, nearing his slowly-hardening dick. He stroked the base of it once, then cleaned him off up to his tip, but released his shaft to instead focus on the curve of his ass, where new slick had already begun to slip out of him. 

The lightest touch against his entrance made Peter stick his fingertips to the wall and his hand flexed, struggling to stay upright. 

Matt dropped the soap back on the tub ledge, and his grip returned to Peter’s hips, holding him firmly. There was a wrinkle of concentration between his eyebrows. His cock was swollen against Peter’s stomach. He realized that it must have taken a lot of Matt’s self-control to ignore his instincts as much as he had. 

Peter rocked forward against him, and Matt held tighter to steady him. 

Peter exhaled sharply as need cut through his stomach. “I want you to fuck me,” He breathed. “Please, Matt. Don’t hold back. I’ll be okay.”

Matt’s dick jumped against Peter’s abs. His scent twisted, darkening with interest. Like a switch had been flipped, he let go of Peter’s hips, and drew away. 

“On your hands and knees, then.” Matt said lowly, and he guided him to the bumpy floor of the tub. 

Matt folded over him, kissing his lower back as Peter panted into the yellowing ceramic. Between his legs, he could see Matt on the ground behind him, anticipation coursing through him. Precum dribbled onto the ground, then was swept away by the cascade of water. 

He didn’t try to finger him open that time, just lined up his tip and pressed into him enough to test the give. All at once he jutted forward into him, burying himself to the hilt, and Peter choked out a pathetically desperate moan that echoed through the bathroom.

Matt gave him a moment to adjust, to clench and then relax around him. His body throbbed with rising need, and small gasps left him when Matt grinded forward, and then wrapped his hand around Peter’s throat. Not pressing, or constricting his breath. Just there, a steady pressure keeping his head from falling forward. 

He drew back, nearly pulling out, before burying himself back in. He set an agonizingly quick pace, less finesse than before, driving his hips in until Peter was suffocating. There was no dampening his sounds in the bathroom acoustics, whimpered gasps and incoherent half-words being forced out of him with each thrust. He used one shaky arm to hold himself up, and the other wrapped around Matt’s wrist, securing his hand to his neck like an anchor. The floor scratched against Peter’s knees, and the water froze his feet, but nothing mattered besides the burning pleasure that coursed through him. 

It was mind-blowing. 

One of Matt’s brushed over Peter’s bottom lip, and he sucked it into his mouth. 

Lightning zipped through his stomach when Matt fucked into his prostate. Intentionally, mercilessly, Matt drove into the spot until Peter was melting in bliss.

Pressure built in Peter’s pelvis. His back arched, and he rocked back on his cock so their hips snapped brutally together. He didn’t have time to stop the cry that shoved out of his lungs, and Matt’s hand wrapped firmly around his throat as he was pushed over the edge. 

Jaggedly, Matt drilled into him, his thrusts turning erratic. He buried his cock as deeply as it would go as he spilled inside of him, hot and twitching. 

Peter tried to catch his breath, torn apart by the roughness of what they’d done. Spots of black splattered his vision. Finally, his arms gave out, and he slid to the bottom of the tub, spent and dazed. 

***

Matt had moved them back into his bed sometime after he’d blacked out in the shower. Peter woke up in his arms, tucked in his blankets, his hair still damp from the water, and a brutal ache forming in his stomach that he needed to search for relief from. 

He didn’t want to wake Matt up, so he shifted instead to crawl on top of him. But Matt stopped him, his hand pushing him back down into the sheets. 

Matt nipped the shell of his ear, and took Peter into his hand, stroking him slowly to full hardness. “You need more sleep.” He murmured. 

“So do you.” Peter shivered from the friction of his palm. “You’ve done so much for me already.” 

“It’ll only take a minute.” 

Peter bit his lip, hips jerking as a finger traced his slit. He rolled onto his side, facing Matt, as he stripped him with embarrassing efficiency. 

Matt kissed him as he came, swallowing his moans. Then he pressed his forehead into Peter’s and they drifted off, breath mingling together in the dark. 

Chapter Text

Peter reached the apex of his heat as the second day rolled around.

When the intensity of his symptoms peaked, and the breaks between waves grew shorter, he began to lose himself in the burning sensitivity and desperation. Tingling touches and the scrape of fingernails blurred with the hours. His sense of awareness melted down to Matt, Matt, Matt. The friction of his calluses, the headiness of his scent. Before Peter felt any real sense of lucidity again, he’d seen the sun set at least twice.

He sighed in content as Matt’s length slid out of him, still tingling with the orgasm that sated the sharp edge of his wave. Soreness throbbed between his legs, his healing factor weakened by the strain on his body. He breathed out against the damp sheets his face was pressed into, exhaustion throbbing down to his bones, and Matt kissed his shoulder then draped his arm across Peter’s waist.  

It felt good to be caged underneath him, and despite feeling so depleted, he was still more than strong enough to support Matt’s weight. The fever that burned his face started to cool, and his heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm. He relaxed, slowly. Muscles that had been contracted for days gradually unwound. 

Matt shifted. He must have noticed the changes. Then in a thick voice, he asked, “Peter?” 

“Hey,” Peter murmured, blinking groggily.

“Feeling better?” 

“Sorta.” Peter braced his foot on the mattress, then rolled over onto his back. He took in the sight of Matt’s flushed cheeks, and the messiness of his hair, sticking up where Peter had tugged at it. “What day is it?” 

“Friday morning. It’s still early.” Matt leaned on his elbow, propping himself up, and pursed his lips. “You should sleep while you can.” 

Peter’s eyebrows knit. “I think I’ve been doing that a lot.” 

“You don’t remember?” 

“Not much,” Peter admitted. “I dunno. Small things.”

He recalled pieces of it, mostly shadows of Matt, the groan of his voice in Peter’s ear of the taste of him on Peter’s tongue. He knew that, when Matt had made good on his promise to let go, he’d made it his mission to explore every inch of his skin, to learn all the ways he could make him squirm, how far he could push him. He’d worked him through blissful, mind-blowing orgasms and dragged him down from painful highs. Peter wasn’t sure he’d be able to make eye contact with his neighbors after the noises that had come out of him.

Matt sank down to wrap Peter up in his arms, pressing his nose into the space behind his ear. The warmth of his exhale tickled Peter’s neck, and goosebumps rose on his skin. “Because of your powers,” he guessed. 

Peter faltered, but he nodded. His hand rested on Matt’s arm over his stomach. “I think so. I presented a few years after I got them,” He grimaced. “But nothing in textbooks said they’d suck this much.” 

Despite slipping so frequently in-and-out of coherence, Peter had learned a lot about Matt through the heat. He could tell when Matt was really asleep by the relaxed evening of his breath, or the way he twitched when he was close to finishing. He knew the richness that took over his pheromones when he was getting aroused, and the way his voice darkened if Peter twisted his wrist when he stroked him. 

So he could tell when Matt’s scent changed, when it started to smell like concern.

Instinctually, he wanted to soothe his worry. The alpha getting distressed would only make Peter’s anxiety rise, and he couldn’t stand the thought of upsetting him. “It’s better with you here though,” he said. He ran a thumb over Matt’s eyebrow, easing the creases between them. 

Matt petted his side, and Peter shivered at the tickling touch. 

Peter’s eyes shut, relishing the coolness of Matt’s skin against his own, the smell of their sweat embedded in the bedding, all around them. “You’ve been great, Matt. I’m tired, but good”

Matt took stock of his body, but eventually accepted that Peter really was okay, and he relaxed. His arm flexed over his stomach then went slack. It was a wonder that Matt had been able to keep up with his constant waves with such short reprieves. The heat was debilitating on Peter, even with his superhuman stamina. Matt was incredible, but he was still human. 

“Mary Jane called me last night,” said Matt after a long silence. “To see if you needed anything.” 

Peter tilted his head towards him, surprised. “What’d you say?”

“I asked if you wanted to talk to her yourself. Reassure her that you’re fine.” 

“Huh. I didn’t?” 

“You certainly tried to.” Matt chuckled sympathetically. “You were out of it at the time.” 

Peter frowned, trying to recall any of the conversation, but it was mostly a blur. He wasn’t sure, in the throes of his heat, if he would have been able to handle the thought of another alpha, even if it was MJ. “Did she seem okay? I think the stuff with Octavius really freaked her out.” 

He’d been a disaster after the expo. Emotionally drained, like someone had been chiseling away at him for weeks until he’d finally cracked and crumbled. His friends had seen him in dire straits too many times over the years, but it was different when they were so close to it. He’d forgotten how to breathe every time Octavius mentioned Gwen and Harry’s names. It had taken too much of him to try to fix everyone else. 

But he couldn’t regret any of it. Everyone else was safe, and he could endure the consequences. Even if MJ had avoided him like he’d fall apart if she looked too long.

“She didn’t mention it.” 

Peter dropped his arm onto the pillows above his head and sighed. “I don’t know what I’d tell her anyways,” he said. “Any of them.” 

Because they didn’t really get it. Not all of it. 

Nobody ever had. 

Living two lives was isolating. Peter loved being Spider-Man. He’d never give that part of himself up willingly. But he was always holding onto secrets, lying to the people he cared about, or downplaying just how bad situations could really get. He couldn’t burden his friends with the full truth of it. Secret identities were exhausting . Work and school and an endless bad-guy roster meant he was constantly finding things to sacrifice to fit it all together. 

“I wanted things to work out for once,” Peter muttered. “I guess I’m just relieved no one got hurt.”

“There’s always going to be disappointment doing what we do. Fighting that is a battle you won’t win.” 

“Yeah, well, acceptance feels like shit.” 

Matt chuckled against the back of Peter’s shoulder. “I’m not much of a fan of it either.” 

Maybe there was one person that really understood. 

At the thought, Peter smiled sleepily into the pillows.

***

Waking up the morning after a heat was like coming out of a vivid dream. The kind that left him disoriented, believing that family members were still alive, that he’d managed to save people that he’d let slip through his fingers on patrol. Or that he’d been desperately attached to the idea of loving and being mated by Daredevil for the better part of a week.

His eyes opened on a dark room, nearby apartment lights glittering outside his window, with Matt dressed but asleep against his side. 

Shaky arms pushed him up in bed, and his lower half ached from the stretch. He got to his feet, unsteady at first, and padded silently towards the bathroom, careful not to wake Matt.

He flicked on yellow, buzzing lights as soon as he shut the door, the brightness burning his eyes. Peter shoved his toothbrush in his mouth, scrubbing his teeth clean, as he gazed at himself in the mirror. An assortment of fading hickies covered his throat and his jaw. His face went hot at the sight.

The last time they’d had sex, in the final hours of his heat, Matt had been gentle. His hands were featherlight against his bruised, hypersensitive skin. He kissed him until he was breathless, and fucked him with the same heedy intensity and attentiveness. 

But he’d left one more mark, above his shoulder, a dark splotch that Peter traced with one finger over his bonding point. 

A shiver ran through Peter’s body. He brushed his teeth harder, to focus on something else other than the memory of Matt’s hands on him. 

He finished cleaning himself up— washing his face, somewhat flattening his hair where the curls ran wild— and headed to the kitchen to drink water. He found a packet of instant ramen in his cupboard and set a pot on the stove to boil, avoiding looking directly at the counter he’d been sitting on when Matt had cooked for them, or the island that he vaguely remembered being bent over a day before.

Peter grabbed for the paper bag that he kept on top of the fridge, pulled out a crinkled box from inside. The expiration date was 8 months before, but there was one more pill in the aluminum blister pack, and he’d been determined to use them all before dropping a small fortune on a new container of morning after pills. 

Peter swallowed the medication and went back to heating his meal. A growl rumbled in his stomach at the promise of cheap food. Once he finished he all but inhaled it, the hot broth soothing on his sore throat. He dumped his bowl on the growing pile of mismatched dishes in the sink and took a long look around his apartment. 

It hadn’t changed much. It was still dirty and cluttered, with paint chipping off the walls and dirt caked into the window sills. One of Peter’s blankets was strewn over the couch, and a tattered wash cloth hung off the corner of the coffee table. Mess was typical for him. It looked like home. 

But it was different. Matt was everywhere. Peter knew what he looked like, stretched out on his couch, or standing in his kitchen. And the entire place smelled like them. 

He wasn’t sure what came next. What was he supposed to do with that knowledge? Pretend he hadn’t been convinced he was in love with Daredevil? Wasn’t still craving his touch? Peter set to picking up the mess to avoid thinking about it. No spiraling that early in the morning. 

He’d only ever shared his heat with Wade, and the alpha had stuck around for days afterwards to help cool his hormones, to keep him company as he got back to normal. They spent so much time together anyways that he never had to overthink his sober mornings. 

But what the hell was Peter supposed to do after nearly a week of begging Matt to fuck him? Shake hands? 

He was still cleaning when he heard movement from within his bedroom, and he looked wide-eyed at the shut door. Footsteps creaked across his carpet, and then Matt emerged wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking a lot cleaner than Peter felt. His eyebrow rose, and he leaned in a half-sit on the back of the living room chair, head pointed towards him. 

Peter’s brain shorted out as he stared, lips moving but words failing to leave them. He swallowed, and balled up the old paper assignments he’d been cleaning up. 

Matt folded his arms. “You have far more energy than anyone should have after a 5 day heat if you can get up and start cleaning.” 

Peter snorted, and tossed the paper at his growing mound nearly spilling out of the trashcan. “Super healing is a gift.” 

“So I’ve been told.” 

“I guess you don’t need it if you wear a suit of armor.” 

Matt smiled wryly. “You would think that would be the case.”

Peter relaxed, relieved by the ease of talking to him. He studied him, gathering the right words to say. “Thank you, Matt,” he settled on, after a moment. “For just… everything.” 

Matt nodded slowly. “You were balancing a lot at once.” 

“It’s more than that, though.” 

Peter hadn’t mentioned the break-up to him. The sudden spike of his symptoms due to Wade’s absence. The fact that he’d basically kicked Wade out of the country to get over him. He would have been far worse off if Matt hadn’t been around. If he hadn’t checked on him so frequently, or helped him with Octavius, or made sure Peter was keeping up with his fierce metabolism. 

“Whatever you need, Peter,” Matt said, his voice low, but kind. “Anytime.” 

It was the way he spoke that had Peter realizing he hadn’t fully recovered from his heat. Because his first reaction was that he desperately wanted to make out with Matt against the armchair. 

Peter’s ears burned at the impulse, and he shifted, hoping that Matt’s super senses didn’t include some freaky form of mind-reading. “You at least gotta let me buy you breakfast. I know I wasn’t really stocked up before the expo.” 

The corner of Matt’s lip quirked. “If you’d like to.”

“Give me a couple minutes to shower.” 

“Take your time.”

Peter smiled, then split off into his bedroom to search for clean clothes, digging them out of the deepest recesses of his closet. He was already dreading his next laundromat day, and the pile of bedding he’d have to wash twice. Everything in his room seemed to be in need of cleaning. 

He scrubbed down quickly in the shower, then pulled on a hoodie that covered an acceptable number of the bruises on his throat. By the time he’d gotten back out to the living room, he found Matt back in the formal clothing he’d come over in, unfairly put together in comparison to Peter. Peter paused when he noticed the duffle bag sitting on the living room floor, zipped shut and packed.

Matt grimaced apologetically. “Foggy called. It’s urgent.” 

“Yeah, no worries,” Peter said. “Everything okay?” 

“It will be.” Matt slung his bag over his shoulder, then started to slip into his shoes, Peter in step behind him down the hallway. “Rain check?” 

Peter nodded, and smiled. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.” 

Matt buttoned his coat, and Peter watched him, expecting him to immediately head out. But Matt turned to face him instead, and he closed the distance between them in one step, his hand circling around to the back of Peter’s head. Matt pressed his lips to his hairline for a heartbeat, planting a kiss on his forehead, then drew away entirely to head for the door.

Peter stared after him, his stomach in knots.

Matt said his goodbyes as Peter managed to stutter out his own, then the door clicked closed behind him, and Peter was left with Matt’s scent engrained in every fiber of fabric in his apartment. 

****

Peter had stopped two break-ins, multiple attempted muggings and assaults, and a group of men that were getting aggressive with a passing teenager by 3 am on patrol that night.

He landed on a bank awning and peered through a large window, spying the time on a bronze analog clock inside. His Sunday morning barista shift was just an hour off. He needed to leave himself extra time to swing over. His strength was sapped from the heat, and his pulls on his swings were slower than usual. 

Midtown had been pretty lively that night. He usually covered more than one neighborhood to search out crime, but he’d stayed close to home, the area providing more than enough opportunities for him to step in and help. It had calmed down sufficiently in the past half hour, leaving him to circle the streets, making casual passes through the buildings, listening intently for a shout, or waiting for his spidey sense to go off. But the neighborhood had seemed to settle for the night, which meant Peter was out of excuses to hang around.

He looked out over 8th avenue, the bordering street where Midtown ended and Hell’s Kitchen began, and hesitated. 

It was late. If Matt had already locked in on Peter’s location and planned to seek him out, he would have done it hours ago.

Peter rubbed his temples through the mask, frustrated with the constant urge to see him. He’d wrestled with the idea all day, and trying to shove it down only made him think about it more. 

He’d only swung a few blocks towards work when he picked up on raising voices in one of the apartment buildings in his path. The tingling at the base of his neck told him there was a dangerous situation unraveling that he should deescalate. He dropped down towards the nearest window, clinging to the wet brick, and peered inside.

It was a bare studio apartment, a few couch cushions on the floor, but no frame in sight. There was a pretty sizable group of men and women throughout the space, abandoned dishes and trash strung out on the floor. Most of them were on their feet, crowding near the front door and blocking it from Peter’s view, while the others on the ground tried to spy through gaps in the huddle. The trio of arguing voices were near the door, but the rest of the group was starting to get restless.

“We don’t know anyone named that,” One of the voices shouted, muffled behind the window pane. It was the low, raspy voice of a woman, and she sounded venomous. “Get the hell outta here!” 

A thin looking man, with gaunt eyes and shaking hands, pointed towards the rest of his buddies and the mystery visitor still out of Peter’s sight. “I think that’s a fuckin’ demon, bro.” 

There was a wave of movement within the group, and a chorus of shouts, like it was starting to get physical. Peter stuck his fingers to the glass and tugged to open the window, enough space for him to slot through. He’d stop the argument before anyone could really get hurt. But the answering voice of the guest made Peter freeze mid-crawl. 

“If that's the way you wanna play, Katy Perry, you better buckle up, ‘cause Daddy’s pretty pissed off tonight.” 

A punctuating web splattered over the gloved hand that had started to reach for a gun holster, locking it in place. Peter, from up on the ceiling of the apartment, watched as the group jumped back in surprise, then turned wide eyes and blown pupils up to look at him. The woman that had been arguing was blue-haired with a large array of tattoos, and she clutched a pocket knife, fingers loose with tremors. He shot another string of web to tug it out of her hand, shut the blade, and dropped it to one of the haphazardly placed cushions. 

“Deadpool,” Peter said, unimpressed. 

The comically large lenses of Wade’s mask stared back, and his fingers wiggled on his gun holster like he still planned to grab it. “Ooooh boy,” Wade hummed, mostly to himself. “He caught us.” 

“Spider-Man, get this maniac out of our place,” The blue-haired girl demanded, spinning on him. “He showed up and started coming for Chrissy.” 

“Shut up ,” One of the other guys hissed. 

The girl blanched. “Whoever this Chrissy girl is.” 

Peter, frankly, needed to head to work. And that meant getting Wade out of the apartment before he hurt someone. He unstuck from the ceiling to land on his feet, and the group of people parted like the red sea, holding onto one another.  “What’d she do?” Peter asked the mercenary directly. 

“Gave drugs to some itsy-bitty second graders. Real cute kids too, Spidey. Ponytails and unicorns and all,” Wade cooed. “I wasn’t really gonna hurt her. Just rough her up a little.”

Peter’s gaze flickered to the bathroom door, half-ajar, where a middle-aged woman was trying to scramble out a privacy window that was far too small for her. He clicked his web shooter and Chrissy yelped as his web hit her shoe, cementing her foot to the lid of the toilet. 

“They told me they were old enough!” Chrissy bawled from the bathroom. She wrenched clumsily at her foot to get it free. One of her friends lunged for the knife Peter had discarded. He kicked the pillow and it slid across the apartment, the guy’s palms slamming into empty ground. 

Peter turned back to the group, and they retreated. A few shoved baggies under piles of trash, or blocked doorways to the bedroom, to hide evidence. He just walked through them, and up to Wade, then nudged him out the front door. “Just call the police, man.” 

“Weasey’s not gonna like that.” 

“You don’t even like him. ”

“Politics.”

The second they were both out the door, it slammed shut behind them and a lock clicked loudly into place. It was mildly insulting that they thought a door would be what stopped him. Peter shook his head, and held out his hand expectantly towards Wade. “Phone’s missing. Let me call on yours.” 

Wade popped his hips out towards Peter, his arm firmly stuck across his chest. “Inside the pocket on my right cheek.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You still have a free hand. Grab it yourself.” 

“Much more fun this way, baby cakes,” Wade said, a grin in his voice, and he wiggled his hips invitingly. “Normally I keep it down the front of my pants but I guess I just got unlucky tonight.” 

Peter swiped the phone from his back pocket, making quick business of the phone call. When he’d finished, he grabbed Wade's hand and shoved the phone back into it. 

Wade’s scent swam up into his mask, strong and demanding as always. For being a day off of his heat, Peter was surprised by how little it affected him. The keening he’d expected to feel when Wade got back into town was non-existent. He was more concerned about being late for work than any post break-up agony. 

He was fine. He was good, actually. And that was new. 

“So, Spidey,” Wade hummed. “I did some thinking on my little vacay.”

Peter raised an eyebrow under his mask. “That’s never a good sign.” 

Wade took that as permission to continue. “Maybe we could talk over some curry? Y’know, about you and I.” 

Staring at Wade like he'd grown a second head, he managed out a "GonnaBeLateToWork." Then Peter bolted out of there as fast as his webs could carry him. 

Chapter Text

“Have I ever told you I’m in love with you?” 

“Several times,” Harry grinned across the table, a flash of straight white teeth. “I’ve been fighting you off for years.” 

Peter turned the phone over in his hands, in awe of the sleek device that Harry just had sitting around in a junk drawer. It was only a few years old and in the kind of perfect condition only a CEO’s son could keep a phone in. No cracks, not even a scratch on the case. It was better than he’d ever be able to afford. 

“You already have two girlfriends,” Peter said. “I’m sure you can handle a third.” 

“And you’re way too high maintenance for me. I couldn’t keep up.” 

They broke down into snickers. The moment the sim finished its download into the phone, notification after notification came through, bells dinging one right after another. It was a flurry of messages from May, MJ, Gwen, and Harry, most of them from the hours after he’d been kidnapped. He winced at the repeated texts from May asking him to call her when he was ‘feeling better.’ He made a mental note to get back to her later that night, then navigated to the rest. 

Some spam and ads. A bunch from his friends. Then one from a contact he hadn’t expected to message him at all.

From: Wade ❤️❤️💀💀🖤🖤

Hey baby boy how was your week xxxxooooxxxx

It took Peter a minute to edit his contact, setting it back to the plain ‘Wade’ it was before he’d gotten ahold of Peter’s old phone and added the rest. There was a weird sense of finality in clearing it. But  thinking that way was assigning way too much power to the red and black hearts. 

Working on logging in to his apps, Peter said, “I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.” 

“Keep it.” Harry sipped his smoothie, the cafeteria packed around them with other graduate students studying for finals. Just as Peter started to protest, Harry spoke over him, “It was a gift anyways.”

Peter sighed in appreciation. “We’d be so good together, Har.” 

Normally, during dead week, they’d be packed with projects and papers, downing concoctions of Bangs and vending machine chips to finish their readings. But with Octavius’s sudden arrest and the collapse of the expo, the biology department was in shambles. The other professors were too overrun with their own students to take over the full bioengineering workload. So they’d made the decision to give his students their final grades based on the work they’d already turned in— which meant Peter had 3 guaranteed A’s and a tentative fourth on the way when he got his final paper in.

Besides Peter’s engineering final, his winter term was pretty much at an end. He was only really at school to see Harry, and use the empty labs to make more web fluid. It was possibly the most relaxed he’d been about school since he graduated from Midtown. After years of attending ESU, he actually got to sit down in the cafeteria. He wasn’t just rushing through the halls to get to lectures or out the door to end some supervillain crisis. 

“So.” 

Peter looked up, cocking an eyebrow. “So?” 

“Things are going well?” 

Peter held the phone up questioningly. 

Harry just snorted. “Yeah, with getting on your tinder account,” he said sarcastically. “No, dude. With the alpha.” 

Peter had always been told he was a bad liar. He wore his emotions on his face. His secrets too. It was why he was always so paranoid that he’d give away his secret identity just by blinking wrong.

His answer to Harry was a fumbled sound, somewhere between a high pitched “ Whaaaa —“ and a stutter of denial.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Harry shrugged, casually leaning back in the squeaky plastic chair. Somehow, he even made that look suave. “MJ refused to say anything. But I saw you change Wade's name, and you look, well, you know.” 

The dark hickey just under Peter’s collar had faded by Sunday, but the spot it had been still throbbed bone-deep. His ears burned, and his fingers picked at the trash from his smoothie straw. 

“Like I spent a week with someone?” 

“Happier,” Harry said, warm and interested. “His name’s Matt, right? Single. Attractive, according to you. And somehow he tolerates you.”

Peter flicked the balled up straw trash, and it bounced off Harry’s forehead before rolling across the table. “Some people like being my friend.” 

“I bet you think they laugh at your jokes, too.” 

“Take it back.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “He’s really just a friend after everything?” 

Peter’s lips parted, then shut. He coughed behind his hand, and sat up. “It’s hard to explain.” 

He didn’t really understand it himself. He’d gone from being terrified of the guy to being charmed by him; seeing that he was just like Peter in so many ways but also so much more in others. They’d only parted ways two days ago but Peter already forgot what it was like not to have him around. 

Hormones. Insecurity. All the fun after-effects of a heat. He felt refreshed physically, but an emotional whirlwind. Loneliness was just a symptom of it.

“Hey, your life is so overly complicated as it is,” Harry said. “Just give me the easy answer.” 

Matt’s smile appeared behind Peter’s eyes, and he shook it away, gathering his words. “He’s different than I thought he’d be.”

Harry hummed contemplatively. “In a positive way?” 

“I trust him,” Peter said more confidently. “He’s a really good guy.” 

Harry nodded, satisfied, and sipped the rest of his drink. He gathered up their empty cups and trays, walking it towards the trash can at the other end of the cafeteria.

Peter fiddled with his phone again, signing into his email to distract himself. He’d practiced enough self-control on Sunday night not to seek Matt out on patrol, and he didn’t have the heart to call the number on his corkboard. Matt had left Peter’s place in a rush, and he’d spent so much time helping him clean up his messes the two weeks before. He wanted to give him a break, even if his every cell was craving the opposite. 

His emails loaded up on his phone, the ‘unread’ number a lot higher than normal. He cleared out junk mail and updates from school, ignoring another message from Robbie asking if he’d be coming back. He scrolled past days of unimportant updates to the week before, and the messages he hadn’t gotten to read when he was out of commission. 

He froze, staring at the email last Wednesday, when he’d been too far out of it to even think about turning his computer on. He read the subject line, then read it again, fingers shaking when he finally decided to click on it and scan the message contents. 

Harry came back to Peter’s nose buried in his new phone. He slid back into the chair, then looked expectantly at him when he saw the expression on his face. “What’s up?” 

Peter let out a long puff of air. Without looking away from the email, like it would disappear if he did, he whispered, “I got the Stark Industries internship.” 

Harry’s eyes widened. “What?”

Peter turned the screen around to Harry, desperate for confirmation that he’d read correctly. Harry scanned the screen, but before he’d even gotten to the end of the letter, he was shooting up out of his chair. “You got it?” 

“I think I got it.” 

“Fuck, Pete!” Harry took Peter by the shoulders and shook the grin right into his face until they were both beaming at one another. “Even after the expo?” 

“I dunno. I guess so,” Peter breathed. “I forgot the acceptance letters were going out this month.” 

It was the only thing on his mind for a while when they’d applied months ago. But things got busy. Crime picked up. He’d lost all hope of securing a position when things went downhill with the expo, hoping instead to secure a low paying position after college. Internships were scarce. Peter didn’t have great school attendance, and he was sure that would disqualify him academically. 

“First Gwen and Stanford, now you and Stark,” Harry laughed incredulously. “No offense, but if I don’t hear good news soon I’m going to be insanely jealous.” 

Peter’s grin faltered. “Gwen got into Stanford?” 

He watched as Harry’s celebratory laugh stopped, and he paled with guilt. “Ugh, jeez, I forgot she didn’t tell you yet,” he winced. “I didn’t say anything. That’s her news to tell you.” 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t know,” Peter swore. “But Stanford? Like California?”

Harry gave a short nod. He glanced around the cafeteria, then jerked his head towards the double doors leading out to the frozen pavilion. 

Peter shoved his jacket on, then followed after him. 

Their shoes slipped on the ice but they found their footing quickly, leaning forward for balance. It was dead outside, enough so that they could hear the echoes of their steps between the buildings they walked through. 

“It’s great Gwen got in,” Peter finally said after a minute of silence. “But California’s pretty far.” 

“No kidding,” Harry smiled, but his eyes were forlorn. “She heard back on early acceptance just after Thanksgiving. Wanted confirmation from her other top choices after the expo before telling you.” 

“But she’s set on it now?” 

“Already looking for housing.” 

Peter let out a breath of air, as it clouded up in front of his face, then faded off in wisps. “How are you and MJ taking it?” 

Harry shook his head. “We’re supporting her dreams.” 

“Are you guys staying in New York?” 

Harry looked over at him, puzzled. Confused by the idea that they could even consider leaving work and school. Leaving him.

“Stanford is a good school,” Peter shrugged. “Far from here, but hours from LA. MJ has enough connections in the industry, I’m sure she’d figure it out for a couple years.” 

“I didn’t say we were leaving,” Harry countered. “Besides, our lives are here.”

“Well, the city isn’t going anywhere. We’ll all still be here.” 

Even if he hadn’t mentioned moving, Peter knew what the time and distance would do to the three of them. They balanced each other out. Kept each other sane. He couldn’t imagine separating them. 

Harry stopped walking, turning to him pointedly, and he frowned. “Well, what about you? All three of us can’t just leave you alone here.” 

“I’m not alone.” 

“You broke up with your long time boyfriend and your Aunt got married to your arch nemesis.” Harry studied him. “I love you, Pete, but I know that your ‘other job’ limits your social circle.” 

Harry was right. If they left, he’d be down to weekend brunches with Jameson in his Aunt and Uncle’s house. 

He didn’t falter as he spoke. “I’ll be fine. Seriously, Harry.” Peter lightly punched his arm. “If you factored me into your decision not to follow Gwen, I wouldn’t forgive you.” 

Harry threw one arm around him in an open side-hug, and Peter saved him from wiping out on a patch of ice a second after. They laughed their way back to the cafeteria, and Peter wondered how far his social circle really would extend when he let his three best friends go.

****

On Monday evening, just after Peter had gotten off the phone with May, there was a bank robbery in Harlem. Several reports of guns, one officer already down, and hostages taken. So he swung across the city to meet up with Luke Cage, working through the criminals for hours. He tracked them down in the streets and then offered to help Luke clean up some connected activity on the other end of the borough. There was no time to think about going to Hell’s Kitchen. 

Around 3 am, they took a break on a rooftop. People chattered on the sidewalk, but they hadn’t noticed the pair of them far above. The night chilled through his spandex, and Peter shivered, blowing into his gloves to warm his fingers. 

“You seem distracted,” Luke grunted. 

Peter blinked, glancing over at the other vigilante. They were never close friends, but could rely on one another when they needed each other’s expertise. 

“Just jazzed to see you, dude,” Peter shrugged. His mind was definitely elsewhere, but he wouldn’t admit that his thoughts were stuck on the way Daredevil’s teeth felt on his throat.

“Sure, Spidey.” Then, to Peter’s anguish, he added, “Heard you’ve been hanging out with Red.” 

Peter wheezed, the cold air twice as frigid as it evacuated his lungs. “Where’d you hear that? ” 

Luke chuckled. “Jess has got a big mouth.” 

“What happened to client privacy?” 

“I think you have to pay her for that.” 

“You got me there.” Peter shoved his hands between his thighs to warm his tingling fingers verging on numbness. “You guys are on good terms, aren’t you?” 

“As good as we can be, yeah.” Luke frowned. “Shit went down with him and some slumlord. Just wondered if you knew about it.” 

That was news to Peter. Faster than he should have, he asked, “Is he okay?” 

If Luke hadn’t suspected anything going on between them before, he definitely did then. “I thought you’d know.” He said after a moment. He rolled his neck, then looked out over the dimly lit neighborhood. “He’s dealt with bigger things. He’s good.” 

Peter nodded slowly, wearily. “Yeah, I’m sure he is.” 

***

A seed of doubt had been planted in Peter’s brain after talking to Luke. It sprouted its roots, burrowing itself in deep, until every thought he had was touched by the need to make sure Matt was really okay.

It was stupid. Matt had dealt with far bigger issues than tenant abuse. If Peter had gotten in a fight with a landlord and then had another member of the street heroes showing up at his doorstep, he’d wonder why they even wasted their time checking on him.

But Matt had been nothing but helpful over the past three weeks. He’d been kinder to Peter than anyone ever had been in his life. And, even if he blamed it on his heat, part of him still really wanted to see Matt. To cool that omega-urge to be sure his partner hadn’t completely abandoned him after mating. 

Peter wasn’t sure what time lawyers usually clocked into work, especially when they owned their own firm. He eventually settled on heading out in the late-morning, and got to their office in Hell’s Kitchen around 10 am. 

It was, surprisingly, dark and empty. There wasn’t a sign of Karen, Foggy, or Matt, and dread weighed heavy in his stomach as he decided if he should check Matt’s apartment next. 

He climbed up Matt’s fire escape, crowding under the awning to avoid the rain. He kept reminding himself that this was a stupid idea, that he wasn’t close enough to Daredevil to just show up unannounced at his place just because they’d shared a heat. But his heart told his brain to shut the hell up, because there was a very real possibility that the entirety of Nelson and Murdock could be kidnapped, bleeding out, or injured in some alleyway. 

The opaque window was warm when he touched his palm to its surface, like the heater had been on inside. He gingerly started to peel it open, and the moment it was cracked, he heard pleased giggles, though he couldn’t see through the discoloration of the glass. 

“You have a weird look again,” Karen said, somewhere in the living room. He heard a clatter of glass, like a bottle tinging against a cup. 

Foggy added, “Are you sure you don’t have a concussion? You’ve taken a lot of hits on the head. I wish I could say bullets were new.” 

Peter’s stomach rolled. Bullets . 

The couch creaked, followed by Matt’s chuckle. A wave of relief washed over him. He was still okay enough to have a sense of humor.

Then, Matt said, “There’s just a draft from the window. Peter was going to stop by, so I left it open.” 

Oh god. He totally knew he was there. He didn’t know what else he expected, but heat poured over his face harder than the rain showering the streets. 

“From the fire escape?” Foggy asked in disbelief. “That’s the kind of weird shit you would do.” 

Karen laughed, and from how uncontrolled it was, Peter realized she was probably drunk. He wasn’t sure who started drinking before 11 am, but MJ would probably be enthused by it. “You’re a match made in heaven.” 

Peter gave it a few minutes, their voices distant as he sat on the freezing metal. He focused on the buzz of the billboard across the way, his heart beat decelerating to a much more relaxed pace. It was stupid to be so worried. He’d never worried about other heroes that way, not even Wade, with his regeneration. Matt didn’t have super healing, but he also wasn’t weak. He could handle himself. 

Even against bullets aimed at his head. 

After enough time had passed by to not seem completely coincidental, he reached under the window and lifted. It gave way easily, sliding open to the top of the frame, and he looked around at the three as he met Karen and Foggy’s eyes. 

They both looked disheveled, in work clothes, but various stages of shedding layers. Matt, on the other hand, was stripped down to boxers on the couch, and wrapped in strips of rags that had been refashioned as bandages. He was bruised, and Peter could taste the metallic tinge of blood in the air. 

His head wound was the only one uncovered. An ugly purple splotch across his forehead, with dark circles of impact in the center. 

“Jesus,” Peter said after a moment of studying him. “Did you walk in front of a bus?” 

Foggy choked on surprise laughter. Karen grinned in amusement. 

And Matt just smiled, a pleasant warmth to it, despite how close he looked to death. “I should have been more careful when crossing the street.” 

Peter bit back a retort about knowing well what it felt like to get hit by speeding vehicles. His gaze flickering to the glasses around the apartment, half-filled with amber colored liquid. They must have all been at least a few drinks deep— they all smelled heavily of alcohol. 

“I’m so glad you’re here now,” Foggy said, wavering on his feet. He’d discarded his work jacket and his tie was loosened on his neck. “I need to get home and get some sleep.” 

Matt sighed. “I told you to leave at any time. You didn’t need to stay here all night.” 

“And find out you choked on a lung? Forget it.” 

“We can stay if you’re just stopping in,” Karen offered, though she had already picked up her purse. The strap dangled, not quite on her shoulder, giving him the chance to bail out if he wanted to. 

“My finals are done. I have time to babysit. You guys go home.” To punctuate his point, Peter sat in the chair that Matt had taken the night that he’d taken him home from the bar. “Trust me, I know how much he can wear you out.” 

As soon as it left his mouth, Peter realized that was exactly the wrong thing to say to Matt’s closest friends that knew they’d spent days having copious amounts of sex. 

Foggy gagged as he draped his jacket over his shoulder. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that and get the hell out of here.” 

Matt smirked devilishly. “No, I’d like to hear the rest of what he has to say.” 

“We’re leaving,” Karen said loud enough to overpower anything more on the topic. “There’s a new bottle open on the island, Peter.” 

“It’s not even noon,” Peter pointed out. 

“And you’re a college kid. Aren’t you guys not supposed to care about that?” Foggy said. “The only thing that stopped Matt and I was when he had mass.” 

Karen laughed as she stumbled up next to Foggy, nudging him out the front door. They leaned on one another and said various goodbyes, shutting them in the apartment. 

Matt grunted as he started to sit up. 

“Don’t push it,” Peter admonished, leaning forward in the chair. “Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean I’ll let you rip your stitches.” 

“It’s not bad.” 

“And I know not to believe that,” Peter snorted. He stood, walking over to place his hands against the smooth panes of Matt’s chest and back. “Let me help, at least.” 

Gently maneuvering him, Peter got Matt upright, and leaned against the back of the couch. He checked that he wasn’t straining any bandages, then moved back towards the seat. 

Fingers wrapped around his wrist, firm, but not hard, stopping him from getting too far. Peter looked from Matt’s hand back up to his face. 

Matt’s eyebrows were pinched. He was clearly in pain, but doing his best to mask it. His fingers tightened a fraction. “Sit with me.” 

It was a request more than a demand. 

Peter obliged. 

It was warm in Matt’s apartment, but his skin was hotter. He could feel it through his clothing, radiating off of him, a sweet burn. He wanted to lean into him. Absorb it. Feel it melting down to his bones.

Matt’s thumb brushed over the vein on his wrist. His breath caught. 

“I bet the other guy looks worse.” Peter said distractedly. 

“The whole army of them.” Matt shifted, and groaned quietly at the pull of his injuries. “A client was attacked by some men that had deep connections. It took a while to sort out.” 

“Did you clean yourself up?” 

“A friend. My needle work isn’t nearly as steady as hers.” 

Peter’s eyes ran down the map of scars on Matt’s body. They snaked across half of his visible skin, some raised and jagged, others faded lines of white. He had more than Peter had realized, too out of it during his heat to properly study him. 

Before he knew what he was doing, his hand rested on a particularly dark scar near his heart. He felt the pounding of it under his sternum, steady and strong.

He remembered listening to it for days in his bedroom. Under his ear, Peter resting on his chest, or thundering against his back. His throat felt dry. 

His phone went off in his pocket, and he jumped at the sudden obnoxious trill of bells, his hands leaving Matt’s skin. 

“You got a new one?” Matt asked, settling back into the couch cushions. 

“My friend Harry gave me an extra.” Peter grimaced as another message came right after the first time, and they started to pop up one after another. He muted it, though it still buzzed in his hand every time a new text came in. 

“You’re popular today.” 

“Sure,” Peter snorted. “Except when it’s just a thousand texts from Deadpool.” 

He felt it when Matt went stiff beside him. Peter looked up, and the once gentle face was tight, his jaw ticking. 

A lot of people didn’t like Wade. Couldn’t stand him. But it was usually followed by a sound of displeasure, not… hatred. 

They’d worked together multiple times in the past, the three of them. Daredevil and Deadpool were brutally efficient, and Peter could take enemies down aerially. Their reflexes, abilities to read one another, and their lack of self-preservation made them an amazing team. Matt and Peter would never have admitted it to Wade, but Wade liked to brag about it for hours after their team-ups. 

In all of that time, he’d never seen Matt give Wade more than irritated scolding or a frustrated sigh. He’d been scary, before Peter really got to know him, but he’d never seemed like he genuinely despised them. 

“Wade just got back into town.” Peter felt the need to over explain their messages, a tinge of guilt in his gut, though he wasn’t sure why. “And now he’s obsessed with patrolling together again.” He dropped his phone on the couch, as it continued to vibrate repeatedly. “But it’s always been a thing, you know?” 

“I’m aware.” 

Peter gave him a sideways glance, put off by the sudden shortness. He frowned, and turned to face him on the couch. “What’s wrong?” 

Matt chewed back whatever he meant to say. Finally, he shrugged, though he flinched at the movement, pained by his wounds. “It’s nothing.” Then, before Peter could question him further, “Foggy and Karen were over exaggerating. I don’t need anyone to watch me sleep.” 

Peter blinked. “Okay,” he said cautiously. “Let me get you water or something then. Or I could help you shower if you need it.” 

“I don’t.” 

“You did a lot for me this month. Let me pay it back.” 

Matt’s split, bruised lips pressed together. “I told you you don’t owe me anything.” 

Peter breathed out in exasperation. “Then this is me just trying to be a friend and—“

“Peter,” Matt cut him off. “I said I’m fine.”

Peter stared at him for a long moment. He wasn’t going to press where he wasn’t wanted. He at least had enough dignity for that. 

He rose to his feet, looking for anything easy he could do on his way out. But Matt’s bandages weren’t that dirty, his water cup was filled, and he had more than enough alcohol to last him the rest of the day. 

“My number’s the same, if you need anything,” Peter said. He trudged out of the living room, taking the front door.

Matt didn’t try to stop him.

It was only when he was out on patrol that evening, dwelling bitterly over being kicked out, confused and humiliatingly upset, that he came to the realization. 

Throughout the time he’d been at Matt’s apartment and wanting to touch him, to be close to him, and blaming it on his heat— there hadn’t been a trace of pheromones in the air. 

Matt had been wearing blockers, leftover from when he’d been out in his suit. The alcohol was strong enough to cover any remaining traces of his scent underneath. 

It was just him. 

Peter’s post-heat hormones had never lasted that long. He usually recovered within a day or two. Without a scent, there was no excuse as to why he wanted to kiss him, why his heart raced when he heard his voice, why he’d gotten over Wade so quickly after so many years of heartbreak, and wouldn’t even humor a conversation about getting back together.

It was a fleeting thought. Just a second where he considered that maybe there was a reason why he was so burned by Matt’s reaction that afternoon. 

It snowballed, almost immediately. Once he gave attention to the idea, it spun out of control. He started to make connections, to notice patterns in his own behavior. Like a torrential downpour, or maybe the end of the world, it consumed him—Agonizing and nauseating. 

He wanted Matt. 

The epiphany left him gasping for air in an alleyway in Queens, clinging to the side of a dumpster for dear life. 

Chapter Text

Peter Parker didn’t half-ass anything in his life. 

He messed up, constantly and consistently, disappointing those around him so thoroughly that it was a wonder anyone voluntarily maintained a relationship with him. He lost jobs quicker than he had lost his childhood teeth, and he nearly failed out of his classes every semester— his participation points in the absolute gutter because of various injuries and emergencies, scraping by by the skin of his teeth with aced finals and well-executed assignments. 

When he fell for someone, it was never just a sweet thought in the back of his mind, or a casual fling. He fell hard, and he loved harder, with the kind of commitment that could tear him to shreds if he didn’t protect himself.

At least until he had given himself permission to move on. And that could take years of effort, as seen in exhibit Wade. 

MJ had come first. She’d been his neighbor for half of his life, and even when he’d been nothing more than the guy who’d been socially rejected by half of the school, she’d looked at him like he could hold the world on his back. Finding out he very nearly could hadn’t changed that— she’d loved him for all that he was before and after the Spider-bite. 

Neither of them had really noticed when the love became less romantic, had melted into something gooey and platonic. One day, they held hands outside the movies, and she became his first real kiss. The next, they both shied away from terms like “boyfriend” and “girlfriend,” and just preferred to be MJ and Peter. 

It was a bittersweet breakup. But they were better that way. He wasn’t sure he would have survived presenting if she hadn’t been his best friend, keeping him grounded. 

Then there was Wade. Peter hadn’t even realized that they’d started to date when they did. He loved Wade so suddenly that he never really had time to process it. 

But this, with Matt? It was like Peter’s entire reality had been turned upside down. Once he’d accepted that he liked Matt, every second he didn’t tell him felt like things were just wrong. And the more he tried not to fixate on it, the worse it got. 

He wasn’t spiraling this time. He just plunged, straight down into the depths of it, unsure of when he had even lost his footing to begin with. 

Peter typed out of his final essay on his laptop, moving mechanically, on instinct. He’d reached his 30 page requirement paragraphs ago, but the more he wrote, the more he wanted to explain. To break down each of the functions and explore the hypotheticals. He needed to put every outcome into words, needed to see each path on paper. 

He was going overboard. He should just turn in what he had. 

Frustrated, he closed the computer and pushed it away from himself, then flopped back into bed. The popcorn ceiling stared back at him familiarly. It had kept him company for years when he was overthinking or in too much pain to sleep. Or, more recently, when he was pinned underneath Matt and writhing in pleasure. 

The bed was stripped of his sheets, but he hadn’t washed them yet, so they sat in a pile on the floor. Even without them, the mattress hadn’t lost its faint smell of heat. It would fade eventually; it always did. But for now, he was still surrounded by Matt. 

Everywhere he went, he couldn’t escape him. His apartment, the streets they’d walked back to Peter’s after Octavius, the neighborhoods where they’d cleaned up crime together. Everything reminded him of the alpha, and it was excruciating. How was he supposed to ignore his feelings when they just kept coming back to taunt him? 

He should tell Matt, he thought. 

The idea of it made him feel winded, like he’d run multiple marathons back-to-back and was ready to dry heave all over the track. 

He was kind of a mess. 

But not enough of one to not be stupidly impulsive. 

Or at least that’s what he had told himself, about ten minutes before he’d shoved his suit on and swung directly towards Hell’s Kitchen.

He planned to stop by Matt's apartment first. He never made it, though, because a few blocks into the neighborhood, a warning zing ran up his spine, and he heard the familiar commotion of fighting near a movie theater. 

Peter knew who it was before he’d even veered off his path. He swung low to the right, just in time to see them pour out onto the street. Three men, one scrambling to get a gun out of the waistband of his pants while another’s hands glinted as he arched a metal pipe down towards a red horned helmet. The third was crashing down into the street after a well aimed punch into his nose, shouting through the stunned pain. 

With crazy grace and ferocity, Daredevil turned on the pipe-wielder and dodged his attack, catching his shoulder on the down-swing. He dragged him forward and kneed him so hard in the gut that the pipe guy stumbled forward, then collapsed when Daredevil elbowed him hard in the back of the shoulder blades. 

It was rough, and quick, and frankly, far more attractive than it should have been. 

Peter didn’t need to step in. Three guys were nothing for Daredevil, especially low level street criminals. But Peter knew that Matt was still injured, probably putting a stupid amount of strain on his stitches, and the third guy with the gun was aiming it at Matt’s head from behind him. 

And since Peter was already there, he might as well help him clean up quicker. 

The gun holder flailed in confusion when his hands closed around the air instead of the pistol that was now in Peter’s grasp. He unloaded it and stuck it to the brick wall of the theater. Matt took the last criminal down, and Peter landed in front of the man with the broken nose just as he had clambered back to his feet, ready to charge Matt again. 

“You probably should have stayed down, man,” Peter said, then kicked him back by the stomach. He knocked him to the ground and webbed him up, and by the time he’d turned back towards Matt, the last criminal laid unconscious on the asphalt, face oozing blood from large gashes, several teeth scattered under him. 

Peter let out a breath, and looked across at Daredevil. So did the dozen onlookers from the theater that hadn’t run, but just aimed their cell phones in the pair’s direction, recording. 

Not here, Peter decided. He choked down the competing thoughts in his head and steadied his breathing, then wondered if Matt could hear the way his heart raced. 

“Hey, Magoo,” He said, flexing his fingers to get rid of some of the nervous energy. “Can we talk?”

Matt kept his back to Peter, though his head inclined just enough of a fraction to acknowledge that he was there. 

Peter grimaced. “Don’t strain yourself to answer.”

Slowly, the vigilante turned to face him. He moved stiffly, and favored his right leg. Peter wasn’t sure if it was from this fight or the one against the slum lord’s army that he’d hurt it. He ignored the shouts of their hero names from down the street, his senses honing in just on Matt, and the only visible skin he could see, from his chin to the bottom of his nose.

Matt contemplated, and Peter watched the minuscule movements of his lips as he worked out his decision in his head. Finally, as if it pained him, Matt jerked his head in the direction of a low roof nearby. 

Peter went first, swinging up with ease. Then he paced the rooftop, wringing his hands. Matt was making his way up slowly, hindered by his injuries. He hadn’t decided what to say yet. That scared him, because without a solid plan, he’d just end up saying everything.

It took Matt a minute to get there, the window ledges a gentle rattle under his shifting weight. When he had, Peter was still scuffing a small circle out in the gravel, and trying to decide what the right thing to open with was. 

“Mr. Magoo is new,” Matt said suddenly, catching Peter off guard. 

He turned to face him, eyes wide under his mask. Matt was unmoving, and his shoulders were squared and guarded. Absent was all the easiness he’d had with Peter over the past weeks. 

Peter swallowed. “Yeah, ‘cause he’s… yeah,” he said lamely. 

Silence. Heavy, uncomfortable silence. The kind that Peter could only rush to fill with unfiltered thoughts. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Peter asked, breathless. 

He wasn’t a stranger to being in a bad mood when he was healing, especially when it was from something agonizing like a stab wound. He’d thought they’d be fine next time Peter saw him. Now, it felt like Matt had one foot off the rooftop again, ready to ditch him the second Peter said something wrong. 

Matt, for all of his usual calculations and deliberations, seemed at a loss by the question. So he ignored it, and said instead, “I assumed you’d be with Deadpool today.” 

Peter snorted in surprise. “Because he’s back in New York? Jeez, I’m not his keeper.” 

“Just his ex on occasion?” Matt said tightly. 

Peter froze.

“I’ve heard you two argue and break-up at least four times over the years,” Matt continued. With every word, Peter felt cold water flood his chest, his lungs, and he was startled by it. “You broke up again the night at the docks.” 

“ How —?“ 

“You’re both very loud.” 

Peter’s hands clenched into fists. 

“I didn’t think you’d forgive him after he ditched you.” 

“He didn’t—“ Peter started, but then swallowed back through the tightness in his throat. His thoughts were roaring, and the nervous pounding of his heart had become something painful and red. “What the hell, Matt? You knew?” 

It had never been a secret that he and Wade were dating, not really, but he hadn’t told the other powers either. He didn’t want anyone to get involved, to feel entitled to judge him or Wade based on their relationship, or act a certain way when they teamed up because of it. He would have told Matt eventually, but he had just started to get over Wade, and he didn’t want to jeopardize it by letting other people in. 

But Matt knew about Wade, and had known far longer that Peter was an omega. If he could really smell past his scent blockers, then he would have known exactly when Peter’s pre-heat hit, and when he’d started to get sick.

There was something unreadable in Matt’s body language, the flatness of his lips. He hid it behind his brutality, like Peter was just another goon. “You broke up again and suddenly you drunk dialed to come over and sleep with me. It wasn’t hard to figure out that he’d left town.” 

Anger had soured any plans that Peter had when he’d headed out that afternoon. The warmth he’d felt towards Matt before had been snuffed, frozen over. “You came to find me after meeting Karen. You said you wanted to help.” 

Matt shook his head, chuckling without any humor. “I made a lot of bad judgments.” 

“That’s not fair,” Peter took an indignant step towards him. “You don’t get to do that.” 

“And what do you think I’m doing?”

“Offering your help and then making me feel bad about taking it.” 

Matt sounded exasperated as he said, “I didn’t offer because of ulterior motives.” 

“Then what the hell is your problem?” 

“Him. My problem is with fucking Deadpool coming back in the second the hard part is over and the fact that you’re just letting him. ” 

“You don’t know anything about it.” 

“You’re right, I don’t.” Matt grit his teeth. “But at least I was the guy that could keep you company until he got back, right?”

Peter stuttered for the right thing to say for a long second, then gradually shut his mouth. Frustration burned red hot on his face, agonizing.

Matt let out a calculated sigh. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I agree, it’s not fair. I knew who he was to you and I— I let myself believe that you weren’t just waiting for him. That was my fault.” 

“What do you want from me, Matt?” Peter asked bitterly. 

It was quiet between them, broken only by their huffed breaths and the sounds of the city below them. 

He finally replied, “You fully recovered and don’t need me anymore. So let’s leave it at that.” 

Matt left him standing there, disappearing down into the alleyways. Peter couldn’t even hear his steps over the blood rushing in his ears. 

***

It was late, far too late for Peter to be out when he had his first internship meeting at Stark Industries in a few hours. But after his argument with Matt, the only thing that would make Peter feel any better was hitting big things, and since his usual roster was locked up in the rift and Toomes had found a good hiding spot to nest in, he had to settle for hours of cleaning up street crime instead. 

It had been half a day, and he was still wound up tight like a bow string, ready to snap. So when he heard the familiar thud of boots from behind him, he tensed, the same frigid anger stinging in his stomach.

“I’m not in the mood, DP,” Peter hissed over his shoulder.

Wade was undeterred by his bad mood. If anything, he probably felt encouraged as he skipped out of the shadows towards him. “Aww, you always have such a funny way of noticing me,” he cooed. 

“You’re not easy to ignore, even when I’m really trying.” 

“Such a romantic. Careful, I might swoon.” 

Peter shook his head, and took off down the empty street, swinging off in search of anywhere else to be. The area was quiet, so he found a fire escape in front of an apartment with a ‘for rent’ sign to settle on, to at least get some silence. 

It didn’t last long. Like the skilled hunter he was, Wade was back on him and climbing the fire escape within ten minutes. 

Peter let out a groan and flopped back on the metal grating, covering his eyes. “Seriously?” 

“Come on, let me patrol with you for the next hour,” Wade whined, as he heaved himself up onto the same platform as Peter, crowding him until he was suffocating. “We make such a good pair, the two of us.” 

“I didn’t think I could be more clear about my no.” 

“You can run again, but I’ll just track that ass down.” 

Peter couldn’t take it anymore. He was boiling over. The grief over his fight with Matt was too much. Wade’s insistence was excruciating. He sat up, throwing his arms to the sides wildly, as he bit out, “Holy shit, Wade, just leave me alone .” 

It was worse than if he’d just hit him. Wade stood there in shock, the whites of his mask exaggeratedly large and gaping. 

Slowly, he let out a deflating breath. “Wow, Petey. We really are done this time, aren’t we?” 

Peter’s throat constricted. His arms fell back down, and he averted his gaze. “We probably should have been a long time ago.” 

The bitterness melted out of him. He wasn’t mad at Wade, anyway, just redirecting his feelings poorly. He’d made Matt feel like he was Wade’s replacement. And he hated that Matt could think he was capable of that. 

“Did you start thinking that around break-up number 9 or 10?” Wade joked. “I thought 13 was pretty final-sounding.” 

“Har har.” 

Wade sighed. He sheathed his guns, so that his hands were free to move around animatedly as he talked. “Who is it?” 

Peter set his jaw. Wade was the last person he wanted to talk to about Matt, but somehow, he was also the easiest. “A lawyer I met when you were gone.” 

Wade let out an impressed whistle. “So you’re marrying rich, huh, Webs?” 

Despite himself, the corner of Peter’s lips quirked as he shook his head. “He’s a ‘save the world’ kind of attorney.” 

“Good, good. You dated the grim-reaper type enough the past few years.” 

Peter grimaced. “Wade, I’m sorry—“ 

“Nope. Nuh-uh. No way,” Wade crouched in front of him and set his big hands on Peter’s shoulders, cutting him off. “I’m not letting you apologize for finding someone better.” 

“You’re not a bad person.”

“Better for you ,” Wade corrected. “I knew you were over me this time, and being the asshole I am, I didn’t just let go easily. Sorry, sweetie, but you’re kind of a hard catch to release.” 

Peter made a face. “Ew, I’m not a fish.” 

Wade’s grin was visible under his mask. “I know right?”

Letting out a shaky breath, Peter finally turned his chin back up to him. “I still want to be friends, you know, eventually, if you’re up for it.” 

“It’ll probably take some time.” 

“Yeah, for me too.” 

Wade's hands squeezed his shoulders. “I might wanna do some not nice things to this new beau of yours.” 

“Things aren’t going well anyways,” Peter muttered. “So I doubt you’ll ever find out who he is.” 

“You’d be surprised what I can find out.” 

“Then please don't hurt him, because I’ve done that enough.” 

“No one could stay mad at you forever,” Wade said. “You’re too forgivable with that big, pure heart of yours.” 

Peter sucked in a slow breath. “Thanks,” he said softly. 

He moved first, falling over onto his knees and wrapping his arms around Wade’s waist. His head pressed into the crook of his shoulder where he’d always fit in. Wade took him in easily, holding him in tight, until the tension had faded from both of them.

When Peter drew away, it was with invisible walls erecting between them. New boundaries, a new ‘them’ that they'd have to learn to exist as. But that was okay. He’d be fine. 

“I’m gonna let you get back to your Spidery-ing.” Wade said as he wiggled his fingers to mimic the movement of an arachnid. “You know, I uh, I’ll find you at some point. In the future. Maybe in a long time.”

“No more daily cat pics?” Peter asked with a weary smile. 

Wade gasped weakly, putting on a show as he stood up. “You’re right.” He considered it. “Fine, I'll just send them all at the end of the month. But don’t bother asking for any in advance.” 

“Deal,” Peter said, then, “Bye, DP.” 

Wade saluted him, stepping backwards off the platform and catching himself on one of the rungs of the ladder. “See ya later, Spidey,” he hummed. 

And just like that, Peter felt free. 

Chapter Text

When Peter was a kid, barely six or seven, he’d told his Uncle that he’d be a scientist that would change the world. And Uncle Ben, being the supportive, kind man that didn’t know any better than to blindly encourage the dreams of the child he was raising, believed him.

He believed it so deeply that he nurtured Peter’s passions down to his last pennies. After working long hours at a demanding job, he still came home to drive Peter to the library, to day camps at museums, to after school events and science shows. He sat through documentaries on space or engineering, let him click through cable to find his favorite programs on invention, and let an elementary aged Peter lecture him on subjects that were far too complex for Ben to understand. But he smiled through it all and nodded when it was appropriate, despite the confusion evident on his face. 

If he’d seen Peter standing in the lobby of Stark Industries on the first day of his internship, Peter was almost certain that Ben wouldn’t have regretted a second of what he’d sacrificed to get him there. And May seemed to think so too, as she cried on the phone after his first day and told Peter they were both so proud of him.

He’d spent the morning in a meeting with the other 19 interns being introduced to the program. Then they’d gone off with a few of the lab techs, getting a full tour of the floor and the facilities they’d be assisting in. Despite the fact that he’d probably end up doing more paperwork than actual lab work, he still couldn’t have imagined anything more fulfilling than clutching a Stark Industries badge with his name and photo printed on the front. 

He should have been glowing with the excitement of all of it. He got to work under Pepper Potts— one of the most prolific omegas in the business world— and if he performed well, he was a shoe-in for a contract position post-graduation. It was everything he could have hoped for, the best that could come of the catastrophe of the expo. 

He wanted to be thrilled. He wanted to feel the exhilaration. He wanted to perform the best that he could and show his bosses that he had numerous skills to bring to the table. 

Most of all, he just wanted to be on time to his third day. 

A groan was forced up Peter’s throat as he was slammed, ribs first, into yet another brick wall in Manhattan. He scrambled to keep his grip on his web, buffeting wildly behind Toomes like a flag in the wind. Toomes took sharp turn after sharp turn, trying to shake Peter off, but Peter had had enough practice fighting the Vulture to at least know the tells of his flight patterns. 

“Come on, man,” Peter called over the whistle of wind roaring past his mask. It had been sliced open over his cheek and neck, and held in place by his own webbing. There was nothing to protect his skin from the volume of the wind and the bite of winter. “It’s been like eight hours . Just give it up! Some of us have actual work.” 

“You will not send me back there, pathetic Spider!” Toomes shouted. Peter had a second of warning to let go of his web and let himself fall a foot to avoid the sudden trajectory of Toomes turning back on him, making a grab for his throat. Peter hit him in the stomach instead, and as Toomes recoiled, he swung around to kick him, but missed by an inch. 

They devolved into a series of hits and dodges, worn out from the night of fighting, both bruised and bloodied. But Peter had the upper hand physically, and half of Toomes’ razor feathers had been bent and ripped apart. Peter just had to find an opening. 

It came sooner than Peter had expected. He took a hard smack to the sternum as the air evacuated his lungs, but he managed to rip open one of the joints of the wings. He shoved in his last web cartridge and then pushed off, flipping away to swing back. When Toomes’ banked to take off towards him, the metal of the joints caught his cartridge and it shattered. 

Toomes disappeared in an explosion of strings of hardening web fluid. The razor wings were too far and few to cut himself out. So Toomes plunged towards the earth, and the more he fought the strands, the more entangled he got until he was completely trapped in the white haze. 

Peter wasn’t going to let him crash, despite how tempting it felt. He caught Toomes just feet above the ground, and stuck himself to the side of a window. With a flurry of calls from watchers below, and the squealing of NYPD sirens screeching onto the street, Peter dropped him in his web prison onto the asphalt and let out a relieved breath. 

Peter collapsed back against the glass, waving a lazy hand towards the gathering crowd below. He was drained, and his body was throbbing with overuse and the battering he’d taken throughout the evening. Bruises were blooming up the side of his jaw, and the places he’d been sliced were stinging from the cold. His muscles shook as he dropped off the side of the window, swinging down towards his backpack. 

Vandalism lined the path he took back. Bricks had been sprayed where they hit the walls, and Peter’s webbing was melting away from where he’d shot it. There were small fires where Toomes’ wiring had fallen, catching on cardboard cloth awnings, but the fire department was on most of them. 

Peter turned into the alley he was sure he’d left his backpack, then froze. Smoke rose from the dumpster, and the flame had spread to the bags beside it. It was a disgusting stench of melting plastic, burning rotten food, and the smoldering chemicals of his webs. 

“Shit.” Peter stared at the strap of his bag poking out from under the pile of flames, too tired to fully process the sight right away. Then, with horror, he gasped louder, “Shit!” 

He grabbed the fiery bags of trash and shoved them into the dumpster, shaking his hands off to avoid the heat that threatened to melt his suit. Peter grabbed the lid of the dumpster and slammed it shut to cut off the oxygen fuel, then turned to grab his backpack as he beat it on the concrete until the flames had dissipated. He panted when he was done, holding the burnt remains of his bag and staring at the dumpster, in disbelief of his awful luck.

“Please be okay,” Peter whispered and he pulled open the zipper of his bag. The polyester was hot between his gloves and stuck together in weird places. There was small embers flickering fibers inside that he snuffed out between fingertips. He dug for his badge, hearing the jingle of it at the bottom, and pulled it out. 

Pieces of his backpack came with it. He dangled it in front of his face and let out a string of curses. What once was a crisp white rectangle on a lanyard, his smiling face on the front, had become a ball of warped, blackened plastic, picture charred right off of it. 

He dug out the clothes he’d worn for work yesterday, but there were black holes burned in his button up and the hems of his pants were jagged. He shoved them back inside and took deep, steadying breaths. Maybe he still had time to run home and grab a new outfit, even if he’d have to shamefully request a new badge at the front desk. 

Peter grabbed his phone out of his boot and stifled a shout at the time. His internship had started over an hour ago.

He shoved his bag unceremoniously on and took off in a stumbled run towards the mouth of the alley. His shoulder jerked as he rounded towards the tall tower in the distance, the large blue ‘A’ sign taunting him from half the burrough away.

Despite his fatigue, Peter moved quickly through the city, avoiding traffic and signs and the usual obstacles. He zipped past a class of children that gawked up at him, and the campus of ESU, determined to make it to Stark Industries before his termination got processed. He passed by a stand of hero merchandise being sold by a street vendor, his eyes drawn in by the flashy, familiar colors. There were sweatshirts with Reed Richards’s face plastered on front, or plastic American flag shields being offered in children’s sizes. He did a double take at one of the kids when he saw the red horns of a Daredevil helmet, his heart leaping up into his throat. 

Matt. The one reason Peter couldn’t enjoy the beginning of his internship. He was too preoccupied with the thought of the Devil that it ached. 

They hadn’t spoken in the three days since the argument. Peter hadn’t tried to seek him out again, stamping out all the urges the second they rose. He didn’t see any new news about Daredevil, and hadn’t heard a thing on his police scanner. 

Radio silence. It was like he hadn’t ever existed in Peter’s life. They’d fractured so quickly that he hadn’t even gotten the chance to feel whole. 

It was an awful feeling— to be so angry with someone that he missed. 

He hated it. 

He should probably just call him. 

But between the coffee shop and the internship, he hadn’t had a chance to call before patrol. He’d been spending days tracking a lead on Toomes that led him to the farthest neighborhoods of Queens and the Bronx each night. He finally flushed the Vulture out the late evening before and was led on a wild chase through New York that ended in Upper Manhattan. Toomes was inevitably on his way back to the Rift, so nothing would impede him after work that night. He’d go find Matt and talk it out face-to-face. 

Peter yelped and dove to the right, avoiding a balcony he’d nearly swung into in his rush. 

He neared Stark Industries in impressive time, ignoring the painful numbness in his shoulders. He swung directly for a glass pane above the lobby, arching down towards it. He aimed a web at an apartment building to the East and tapped his web shooters, preparing to slow his descent. 

His nearly empty web cartridge spluttered, giving off only a lame string of fluid. Right. He had sacrificed his last one to take down Toomes. 

“Oh fu —”

Peter only had time to throw his arms up over his face before he crashed into the angled glass pane, the impact reverberating into his teeth. He let out a long sound of pain as he ate the force of it. Every injury he’d gotten that night throbbed. When he started to slide down the glass, it took great effort to move his arms out from his head and stick to the window. Inside the building, a group of visiting businessmen pointed up at him in surprise, as the assistant leading them apologized profusely and gave him a dirty look. Peter ignored him, blinking through the colors in his vision to search for his coworkers.

He didn’t see his internship group anywhere. They were supposed to get their assigned positions today, and Peter had missed it. He couldn’t sneak in when he had no idea where he was supposed to go. 

He rolled onto his back on the brick, out of sight, and looked again at his melted badge. The ‘PE’ of his first name was still printed on the front, but the rest had been seared. It wasn’t like he could present it in his suit anyways, and his work clothes were all but destroyed. 

There was one resource that Peter hadn’t tapped yet, but he’d been avoiding utilizing it. It felt like cheating or… or nepotism. He’d gotten his internship on his own merit and he didn’t want to taint that with connections.

But there wouldn’t be anything to taint if he didn’t find a way inside. Pride be damned, he still had one more favor he could call in. 

Peter swallowed his dignity and started up the 50-floor crawl. 

He peered in each window he passed in search of anyone he recognized, but half of the rooms were corporate offices or labs with privacy partitions blocking their work from sight. By the time he’d gotten to his goal floor, he’d only seen one familiar face dashing to a bathroom in an empty corridor. So he had no choice but to ask FRIDAY to let him in. 

“Thanks, Fri,” Peter said when the latch clicked open. He slipped inside and shut it behind himself, standing against the wall of a spacious but bare room. There was one dark oak desk near the windows furthest from the doors with a desktop on top, and a leather office chair angled away from it. “Where’s Tony?”

“Boss is in the room next door,” FRIDAY answered. “I can alert him that you require his assistance.”

“Don’t worry about it. I need to talk to him anyways.” Peter spotted a tall cabinet against one of the walls, which seemed like an ideal place to keep jackets, or possibly extra clothing. He stepped around his couch, avoiding getting ash from his shoes on the carpet.“It’s me,” He called out loud enough to be heard down the hall. “This sucks to have to ask but I just spent 8 hours on a wild bird chase and I’m kinda desperate to keep this job.” 

He was met with silence, and for a moment, Peter wasn’t sure that Tony was even on the floor. But after a moment he heard footsteps growing louder as they echoed in the hallway. Tony appeared in the door, an eyebrow cocked, and watched him curiously as he picked through his wardrobe. 

Looking over his shoulder, Peter asked,“Do you have dress pants? I think I can make my button up work.” 

“No, please, feel free to raid my office,” Tony snorted, stepping in and nudging Peter out of the way. He pulled open a drawer where there were neatly folded graphic tees and a pair of trousers that probably cost more than a year of rent at Peter’s place. “I didn’t know that I still owed you after your Octopus problem.” 

“I keep track,” Peter grinned and accepted the pants Tony handed over. He dropped his backpack from his shoulder and found his badge and what remained of his clothing, handing the badge over to Tony. “Is there any way to get a new one? If I’m not fired yet.” 

Tony frowned as he studied the card, then gave Peter a dubious look. “When did I hire you?” 

“I started on Tuesday.” 

“FRIDAY? Why didn’t you flag him?” 

“There was a misspelling in his application,” FRIDAY informed him. “I believe it was to intentionally avoid my detection.” 

Peter shrugged. “I couldn’t get my favor in early.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I’ll call in a new copy of your badge and a shirt that’ll fit you. Hang out here until they come in.” 

“What about assignments?” Peter asked, wringing his hands. “I don’t know what department I’m in.” 

Tony waved for him to follow. “I’ll figure it out. Come with me.” 

He led him to one of the doors half-ajar, and Tony nudged it open to reveal a small meeting room with six chairs. Four of them were empty, but sitting in two was a man twisted at the waist to stare at Tony and Peter, and another whose red glasses glinted in the sun streaming in through a window. 

Shock hit him so hard that one of his knees nearly buckled underneath him. 

“It’s fucking Spider-Man,” Foggy whispered. His hand shot out to grab Matt’s shoulder, but Matt looked cooly unsurprised. “He finally showed up.” 

“These are members of our law team, from Nelson and Murdock,” Tony introduced,  oblivious to the fact that Peter was paralyzed behind him. “Though I’m sure you’ve met.”

“Uh,” Peter searched for an answer, and came up short. “I try to avoid legal dilemmas.” 

There was a crack in Matt’s impassivity. The threat of a small smile tugging at his lips. “We can continue this meeting later if there’s other matters you need to attend to.” 

Tony waved it off. He crossed, taking his place at the head of the table where a laptop waited. “Just gotta handle something quick.” He looked up when Peter didn’t move, still rooted in the doorway. “Scared of lawyers?” 

Peter swallowed. “I watched a lot of Suits growing up.” 

“Then you can hang out in my office. I’ll just have my assistant pass you the things you need.” 

Peter nodded jerkily. He spared another glance to the star-struck Foggy and Matt’s unreadable expression, before he spun to go. 

The chair scraped against the carpet as Matt stood from it, catching Peter’s attention. “Spider-Man?” Matt called. 

Like a tether, Peter stopped immediately. “Yeah?” He asked breathlessly.

“Let’s talk before you go,” Matt said, then more quietly he added. “Please, if you’d like to.” 

A pretty woman with a stern face was the one to drop off Peter’s things, and he was relieved that she seemed to be the ‘no questions asked’ type. He made a dumb excuse about delivering the items to the owner of them and she left without a word, leaving Peter to sit cross legged on Tony’s couch in his office and wait for their meeting to finish.

Waiting was the worst part. He couldn’t sit still, fidgeting as his thoughts were torn between what he’d say to Matt, and the fact that every passing minute made him more late to his internship.

Just when he couldn’t take it anymore, the door to the meeting room creaked open. Peter heard Tony say some sarcastically professional parting remarks, and he leapt off the couch and halfway across the room to skitter down the hall.

Tony held out a small slip of paper with pen markings scribbled on the front, and Peter clutched it in his glove. “They filled your spot, but this will work better for you anyways with your other commitments,” he said. “Just don’t make me look bad.” 

“I won’t.” Peter looked past him, and spotted Foggy leaving the meeting room. He swallowed. “Thanks, Tony,” he said distractedly. “Now we're even." 

Tony looked amused. "I'll remember that, now that I know you're keeping track."

He pat Peter’s shoulder as he passed, disappearing behind him into his office. Peter jumped at the sound of the door shutting behind him, and Foggy finally looked his way. The same giddy smile crossed his face again, and he waved. Matt stepped out beside him. 

Peter’s heart hammered in his throat as he took the steps down the hallway that seemed never ending. 

“I’ll be right out, Foggy,” Matt murmured to his partner when Peter got close. “Just give us a few minutes.” 

“Sure thing, buddy.” 

Peter steeled himself as he stepped past him into the room, tension heavy on his shoulders. He sat on the edge of the table that dominated the space and crossed his arms, bracing himself for the coming conversation. Matt quietly shut the door behind them, sealing them into their own world, and blocking any way to escape. 

Then they were facing one another, the gravity of Matt’s presence threatening to draw Peter in and crush him. In the charged silence, his resolve wavered; he decided he hated the anger between them. It was bitter, and unsatisfying. He pulled his mask off and dropped it in his lap, his fingers absently twisting and wringing the fabric. 

Matt breathed in slowly, and then said, “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting.” 

Peter fixed his gaze on the lenses of his mask. “Yeah,” he muttered. “It kinda sucked.” 

They were only a couple feet apart, so when Matt started towards him, he closed the distance in a few steps. Standing within reach, Peter could have reached out to touch him, but his arms were locked at his sides. Everything felt possible— but fragile. 

Peter was acutely aware of every breath Matt took, every shift in his stance. 

“I shouldn’t have—” Matt’s voice broke off, and he let out a ragged sigh. “I was too harsh about Deadpool. It’s none of my business.” 

“You knew I was sick because of him, right?” Peter said quietly. “You heard us break up, so you would have made the connection.” 

“...I did.” 

“A lot of omegas would think that you kept that to yourself to sleep with me.” 

Voice strained, Matt asked, “Do you think that?”

“No.” Peter grimaced. “So I’m hoping you don’t surprise me.” 

“I wasn’t trying to take advantage of the situation. I wanted to help you— In ways other than sharing your heat.” 

“And the… the food, letting me come over, visiting me at work? That wasn’t part of a ploy to fill Wade’s spot?” 

“I respect your relationship, Peter,” Matt said. “I’m not going to stand in your way. And it was wrong for me to be upset on your behalf.”

Peter paused. He dragged his eyes up to look at Matt, and his eyebrows knit. “I’m not dating Wade.” 

“Even if you’re on a break.”

“No, like, we ended it. For good.” 

Matt’s cool demeanor cracked wide open. His eyebrows rose and his mouth fell open. Quietly, he made a noise of understanding. 

“Things were going downhill for a while,” Peter continued. “But after that night at the docks, he did offer to help me again. I said no. I was planning on handling it on my own. Until you and I started becoming friends.” 

“When he was texting you,” Matt exhaled. “It wasn’t because you had gotten back together?”

Peter shrugged. “He does it with everyone. Don’t give him your number.” 

“I’ll… keep that in mind.” 

“Is that why you were so mad at me? You thought I used you to get over him?” 

“I wasn’t mad at you.” 

“Kicking me out and ditching me on a rooftop sure doesn’t feel friendly.” 

Matt cleared his throat. “I was jealous.”

Peter’s heart stumbled in its step. 

“I never wanted to hold you to expectations. I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me. I tried not to overanalyze things, or put too much weight on the things that you said, the way you reacted to me,” Matt said. “I know that you couldn’t control most of it.”

Warmth spread up the back of Peter’s neck. “Just how much can you sense?”

Matt’s smile was flat and humorless. He ran fingers through his neatly styled hair, disheveling it. “Enough to get my own hopes up.” 

“What does that mean?”

“It’s my fault that I—”

“Hope that I liked you?” The question had slipped from Peter before he could even comprehend that he was saying it. He opened his mouth to backtrack, but shut it again. Nausea rose in the back of his throat, choking him. 

Matt’s response was slow, and deliberate. “Yes,” He admitted, voice soft, but sounding so loud in the small room. “I thought you felt the same.” 

Felt the same.  

In all the scenarios that Peter had run through his head when he’d set out days ago to confess to Matt, he hadn’t fully prepared himself for the possibility that Matt would have been interested in him first.

He swallowed, trying to moisten his throat, his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, stabilizing himself when the world felt so off-kilter. “I did— or, I do,” He managed. “I like you.” 

Peter watched Matt’s face as his words sunk in. Color formed on his cheeks, and his lips threatened to pull up into a smile. He seemed to be weighing his words, carefully crafting his response, his mind working overtime to keep up his balance.

Peter didn’t want him to keep up fronts. He liked the Matt that was temperamental, but kind— the version he’d seen when Matt had let his control go. So he tugged him forward by the front of his shirt until they were kissing. 

Matt moved automatically, melting into his lips, his hands pressing into the wood to bracket Peter down against it. Peter’s fingers tangled up in his suit jacket and his head tilted, until their mouths slotted together, messy, and perfect.

It started sweet and soft, but gradually their lips parted, and Matt’s tongue pressed into Peter’s mouth. His weight bent him down over the table until the muscles of his abdomen had to tense to keep himself up. Peter’s ankles hooked behind Matt’s back, and they moved closer, their bodies touching in so many spots, heat pooling in Peter’s stomach, lips being bitten and being pushed until they were breathless. 

Matt jolted a fraction of a second before Peter’s Spidey senses shot up the back of his neck. His hand shot out automatically to web his mask from where it had fallen on the floor, but Matt was quicker to drag the side of his suit jacket up to cover the side of Peter’s face that was closest to the door, just as it opened.

“Not to cut things short, but we have another meeting—” Peter could only see Foggy’s feet under the hem of the jacket, watching when he froze in the doorway. “Holy shit, Matt, that’s—” 

“I’ll be out soon,” Matt said. “Just give me a second, Foggy.” 

“But what about—?”

“ Foggy. ”

Foggy made a sound from behind the jacket blind. It took a moment for his feet to back out of the room, hesitant at first, and then the door clicked shut again. Matt dropped his jacket and drew away, giving Peter the space to sit up and cram his mask down over his face. 

“I have to leave,” Matt grimaced, reluctance evident in the tight press of his lips. “But I want to continue this conversation.” 

“Well, we weren’t really talking.”

“That too,” Matt chuckled, the sound rich and warm— unrestrained, and genuine. “Are you free tonight?” 

Peter nodded eagerly. “I’ll come over after work.”

“Then I’ll be waiting.” Matt turned as if he’d make his way towards the door, then paused and tilted his head back towards Peter. “Oh, and congratulations on the internship.” 

Like a splash of cold water, Peter’s good mood plummeted. “Jesus the internship— I’m so late.”

“You should go.”

“I definitely should.”

Peter gazed up at Matt’s face for a brief moment, then slipped out from underneath him, taking the clothes and the badge with him. 

He sprinted out the door, past Foggy, giving him a jumbled goodbye somewhere between “Nice to meet you” and “See you later,” and took off towards the elevator.

Leaving behind a locker that smelled suspiciously like burnt trash, Peter all but sprinted to the room number that Tony had written down— in clothes that were far too expensive to be worn by an intern with a budget haircut and bruises littering his face. 

He had missed a significant portion of the day, and had already forfeited his preferred placement to another intern. He was sure he’d be put in the mail room, or somewhere else that his tardiness and general unreliability wouldn’t impact official departments. But when he stepped into the elevator and read off the room number, it rose, floor-after-floor, until he was in the highest section of the tower. 

He should have been more stressed. But it was hard to feel anything past the exhilarating memory of Matt's hands on him, and the promise that he'd be seeing him again that night.

The doors opened on an office that took up the expanse of the floor, save for an empty secretary’s desk at the front of it. He walked past it and knocked on the gray doors, waiting until he heard a woman’s voice invite him in. 

Pepper Potts stood from her chair when he entered, giving him a pleasant smile, and she stepped forward. “Peter Parker, I was hoping you would come in today,” She said charmingly. “Maybe you can give me some insight as to why Tony decided you’d be my new assistant?” 

***

Peter dropped the pregnancy test onto the empty wrapper next to the sink, and scrubbed his hands clean. He set a timer for the recommended five minutes and leaned against the counter, opening Instagram to pass the time. 

He wasn’t too worried about the results when he’d taken his birth control on time. But MJ had called from Stanford earlier that night and scolded him about being too frugal to buy a test, so Matt had offered to pay for it in the end. It was a good precaution, anyways. They’d only been dating for two weeks, and there was no way that either of them would make even semi-functioning parents. 

Two weeks. It was hard to imagine that it had only been that long since they'd confessed their feelings when they'd spent nearly every night together after. 

Only a minute had ticked down on Peter’s timer when he heard a rise in volume from the trio in the living room. He glanced at the test where there was a faint, forming line, but only one, so Peter shoved it off the counter into the trash, and headed out of the bathroom. 

He made it out of the bedroom in time to see Matt’s dark hair disappear under the red shell of his mask. Matt tilted his head back in his direction, a guilty turn to his lips. “Rand called. Connell’s group is making a move on the bank tonight. 

“Come on, man, it’s New Years Eve,” Foggy complained from the kitchen. He held a bottle of champagne, and the opener in the other hand. “Peter came all the way out here to spend it with us, and—” After a beat, Foggy said, “Tell me you’re joking, Peter.”

Peter withdrew casually towards the bedroom, throwing him an apologetic smile. “I should really get pictures of it anyways.” 

“Am I the only one that thinks you deserve one day off?” Foggy asked incredulously. 

“Hero journalism never sleeps,” Karen sighed. 

Peter took another step. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“Don’t wait for us to open the bottle,” Matt said. 

“Wasn’t planning on it now anyways.”

Karen waved them towards the door. “Go ahead. We’ll be here.” 

Peter disappeared into the bedroom, shucking his clothes off to change into his suit. The door creaked open behind him and he turned to gaze at Matt, who smiled warmly back. “If this wasn’t the Irish, I’d feel a lot worse about leaving.” 

“They understand,” Matt murmured as he moved forward. He slid his arms around Peter’s waist, and pressed their lips together lightly. “I don’t know how long you expect them to buy the photography excuse, though.”

Peter drew away and pulled his mask on, then made his way out the window. Once he was stuck to the wall, he held his arms out for Matt. “Until they call me out.” He drew Matt tight to his side and then shot a web out, leaping off the apartment building out into the open air of the night. 

***

Foggy was a smart man. A lot smarter than people gave him credit for. He may not have noticed that his best friend was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen until he found him half dead on his apartment floor, but he’d definitely realized when Matt’s weirdness had suddenly gotten stranger some time before that. 

He noticed other things fairly quickly. Details about dates or court cases, discrepancies in alibis that didn’t quite add up. It came with the industry, with years of training and research. So he’d figured out rather quickly that Peter Parker was Spider-Man since the moment he’d found Matt pinning him to a table at Stark Industries.

Foggy didn’t mention it to Matt, and definitely not to Peter. He was still a little in shock that he’d had a hero he idolized in their office, and drunk in the back of his car. He knew far too much about Spider-Man’s sex-life with his best friend and law partner. He wasn’t sure if Karen had fully deduced it yet, but it was only a matter of time before she had when they ran off together to fight crime that was in the news the next morning. 

He looked down at the bottle of champagne and sighed. “Happy holidays to us.” 

“Can’t say I expected much more,” Karen admitted. “At least they almost made it to midnight.” 

“I need to wash my mouth out. Those noodles were awful.” 

Karen giggled as Foggy headed into Matt’s bedroom, abandoning the champagne on the counter. He pushed open the bathroom door and stooped over the sink, scooping cool water onto his oily tongue. He appreciated Peter’s contribution to the celebration, but with his tight budget, Peter really should let them cover food so they didn’t end up with food poisoning.

Foggy flipped the faucet off and was just about to leave the bathroom when he spotted a white and blue stick in the trash. He stopped and stared, his curiosity piqued in an instant. 

It meant nothing. Matt had shared Peter’s heat, so pregnancy tests were expected. 

But Foggy could swear that it said… 

He kneeled beside the can and grabbed the sides, shaking it just enough for the test to lay flat so he could see the screen a little clearer. 

Then he read it again, just to be sure he’d comprehended it correctly. 

He jumped when he heard Karen’s call out, “Hey, Foggy?” from the doorway of Matt’s room. 

He dropped the trash can like he’d been caught and rose to his feet. He felt like he was floating, trying to make the neural connections between what he’d just seen and the vigilante couple that he spent so much of his time with. “Yeah?” 

“I don’t think they’re coming back any time soon. Wanna head to Josie’s for a bit?” 

Foggy wiped his hands off on his suit pants and stepped out, schooling his expression into something much calmer than he felt. “Yes, God, I can’t be here all night.” He threw a look back at the trashcan as he shut the door. “They probably want some alone time anyways.” 

Karen smiled, and they headed towards the front door. On the way, Foggy grabbed the champagne bottle and stuffed it under his arm. 

“What’s that for?” Karen laughed. She locked the apartment behind them, and they descended the stairs. 

“Matt won’t finish it by himself,” Foggy frowned. “And Peter…” 

He left the sentence unfinished. It wasn’t his business yet. Not until Matt decided to share it. They were honest with each other. He always ended up telling him the truth.

Eventually.