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mrs-dr-reid · 4 years

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The Girl Behind the Desk

(A Criminal Minds Fic)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Requested by @imagining-in-the-margins; “Spencer goes to the same library whenever he can. In part because he likes to read the encyclopedias, but also because he’s in love with one of the girls who works there. Unfortunately, he’s also convinced she doesn’t know he exists.”

Genre: Super fluffy, doods

Warnings: Pining, I guess? (is that a thing that needs a warning? I dunno, maybe)

A/N: Okay, this was so fun to write? Oh my god. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Word Count: 1858

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Spencer didn’t know why he kept going there. Well, he takes that back. He kind of knows why he keeps going to a very particular library in the D.C. area: There’s a very robust collection of encyclopedias there that he can go and read whenever he has time off from the BAU. Therein lies the kicker: he’s already read the entire collection at least half a dozen times. So why does he keep going there if he’s already read the one thing there that interests him?

The answer is quite simple... the encyclopedia section is within viewing distance of the check-out desk, and whenever he goes in to read them, there’s always a beautiful young woman there with shiny Y/H/C hair and striking Y/E/C eyes checking out books, answering the questions of other library patrons, and taking the reshelving cart to some other section of the library. He’s never plucked up the courage to go over and talk to her, but he knew from overhearing the conversations she had with her coworkers that her first name was Y/N.

Spencer’s played out a thousand interactions with her in his mind, but he’s never gone over to the desk to actually play one of them out. So for the past month and a half, he’s just been sitting in the corner by himself pretending to read a book while staring at the beautiful librarian from across the room like a lovesick idiot. And he was a lovesick idiot, because he couldn’t recall a single time in his life where he was utterly captivated by a woman he’d never even spoken a word to before.

He noticed every little thing about her: the way she would smile at young children who would plunk a Magic Treehouse or Percy Jackson book on the counter and stand on their tiptoes to hand her their library card, then give them a small lollipop from the glass bowl on the desk before they left, the way she laughed when one of her coworkers told a really lame library joke, the way she could pull her hair into a neat bun while she was working without one of those hair donut things he’s seen JJ use a couple times, and the way there was always a skip in her step and a song in her head when she was pushing the reshelving cart to whatever section she needed to go to.

She never looked over at his lonely little table because she was busy focusing on the more busy sections of the library, like the magazines, the research computers, and the children’s books, so the logical half of Spencer’s brain managed to convince him that she had no idea he even existed and that he really had no business being in the building. Still, the other more fantastical half of his brain kept him rooted in his plush library chair on the very slim chance that one day she’d look over and at least give him a smile. He highly doubted that would ever happen, but a guy can hope.

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Y/N could tell that the guy in a purple sweater vest with unruly brown hair and thoughtful brown eyes sitting at a table near the encyclopedias wasn’t really there to read all of them every time he came in, because she was pretty sure she saw him read every single one of them and put them all back in the right place in the span of a few hours the first day he came into her library.

Sometimes when she was refilling the candy bowl, she would steal a quick glance over at him and see him absentmindedly flipping through the pages of an encyclopedia she knows she’s seen him read in record breaking time with a furrowed brow, because she had to admit he was handsome in his own nerdy little way. And she’d always feel her stomach flip when he pushed his hair away from his eyes or adjusted his tie, because his hands look HUGE, even from far away, and she knows that if they ever shook hands, his would completely swallow hers.

She only knew his name because he answered his phone one time, and she heard him say, “Dr. Spencer Reid,” which made her raise her eyebrows in amazement, because he couldn’t have been much older than she was and he was a doctor. She could tell by the way he dressed that there was no way he was a medical doctor, so she assumed that he was a college professor with a proclivity for literature.

He came into her library sporadically over a month and a half period, and when he was gone for long lapses in time, Y/N assumed he was doing lectures either at the school he worked at or at nearby schools as a guest speaker. But whenever she looked over at the empty table where he usually made himself at home, she couldn’t help but miss him, which was utterly ridiculous because how could you miss someone you’ve never even spoken to? She then made a pact with herself: the next time she saw him come in, she was going to find some excuse or another to talk to him.

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Spencer got back from a really rough case, and he figured that a trip to his favorite library might lift his spirits. He walked in through the doors, expecting it to be a normal session of “pretending to read so I can stare at the desk girl”, but he stopped dead in his tracks when he heard a voice he’d only heard from a distance say, “We just got in a couple new ones about fungi and spores, in case you wanted to look at something new.”

He turned around to see the woman he’d been admiring from afar for nearly the last two months with her award-winning smile on her face. She pointed at his table and said, “I noticed you liked hanging out by the encyclopedias, so I thought I’d let you know if I caught you before you hunkered down over there,” making him struggle to find the right words to say. He finally settled on, “Ummm, okay. Cool. Thank you for letting me know,” and smiled before starting to walk away.

Y/N knew that was her last chance, so she said, “I’m Y/N, by the way. Y/N L/N,” and held out her hand, so Spencer hesitated before grabbing it and saying, “Hi, Y/N. I’m Dr. Spencer Reid. Sorry, but, handshakes aren’t normally my thing. You see, the number of pathogens passed during a handshake is outrageous. It’s actually...,” making Y/N say, “Safer to kiss, right? I’ve dealt with my fair share of germaphobes who whip out that fact,” before shooting him a wink.

Spencer didn’t know how to react to that, but he knows for a fact he went pink in the cheeks. Y/N continued, “And I already knew your name. I heard you answer your phone once. You’ve never checked out any books, so I just thought you were too busy with teaching to remember to return them and never went over to ask you about it,” while she started grabbing new books to stamp and stack.

Spencer didn’t really know how to respond to that, but he remembered how to speak English, and he said, “You think I’m a teacher?”, so she said, “Yeah. I mean, based on the way you dress and the fact that you’re slightly too germaphobic, there’s no way you’re a medical doctor. I figured you were a college professor, more specifically in the English department. How close am I?”, while sitting down in her swivel chair.

Spencer was impressed by her profiler-level deduction, so he said, “I’d say you were 70% accurate. I’m not a medical doctor, but I do have three PhDs in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering, 2 BAs in Psychology and Sociology, and I’m working on a BA in Philosophy. I am a college professor, but I teach Criminology. I’m also a Supervisory Special Agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI,” which made Y/N’s eyebrows fly up. She said, “Seriously?! All this time, I’ve been sneaking peeks at a super genius pretending to read an encyclopedia in the corner for the past two months?”, which made Spencer’s sly smile drop off his face.

He said, “You knew I was pretending?”, so Y/N grabbed her water bottle and said, “Yeah. You breezed through the entire collection in less than 3 hours the first day you came in, then you put every single one back in its rightful place. I even double checked after you left, and I didn’t have to swap a single book into the right place,” before taking a sip of water. Spencer said, “Well, I guess that’s what happens when you have an eidetic memory and can read 20,000 words per minute,” which nearly made Y/N choke on her water.

Spencer’s eyes widened in concern, and he said, “Oh my god, are you okay?”, but she waved him off and said, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just wasn’t expecting that,” before setting her water down. She checked her watch, then said, “Okay, my shift ends in a couple hours. And knowing you you’ll probably finish all those new encyclopedias by then, so how about when I clock out, you and I can go get coffee or something?”, which took Spencer completely by surprise. He said, “Uhhhhh, sure! Yeah, sure! That sounds great!”, his voice betraying him by cracking awkwardly.

Clearly Y/N thought it was cute, because she grabbed a pink sticky note and a clicker pen from the cup on the desk, jotted something down, then handed it to him before saying, “Be sure to think of some interesting fungus facts to tell me later, Dr. Brainiac,” winking, and heading off to reshelve some books. Spencer stood there awestruck for a solid minute before shaking himself and going to his usual spot. He finally looked down at what she had written, and he felt himself go completely red, because on the note was a series of numbers that could only be her cell phone number, an address that could only be hers, and the words “call me sometime, Boy Genius” written in a gorgeous looping scrawl.

Spencer looked up again to see her talking with one of her coworkers behind the desk, so he pulled out his phone and punched in her number before typing “Is texting okay, too?” and pressing send. He saw her pull out her phone, and she looked up and gave him a playful eye roll before typing something and putting her phone back in her pocket. His phone buzzed again, so he checked it to see that she had sent back “Of course it is, Dr. Reid ;)”, making him smile before going to grab those encyclopedias she was talking about.

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Tag List: @agenthotchner, @hurricanejjareau, @xgoldentigerlilyx, @therestisconfettis, @less-intelligent-spencerreid, @aryaarathornson, @thomasgibsonfan01

Let me know in the comments if you want to be added

#criminal minds #reader insert #one shot #dr spencer reid

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leviackermanscleaningbuddy · 3 years

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BTS DRABBLE-Jungkook

When your vampire boyfriend admits that he doesn’t know what he looks like, you’re completely flabbergasted. I mean, it makes sense, he doesn’t have a reflection. But you’ve never thought about how he just hasn’t ever seen himself-not in a mirror, or a picture, or even a passing car window. And suddenly, you have an important mission-though you’re no artist, not by any means-you’re determined to draw him as you see him. So he can see himself for once, even if it’s just through your eyes.

Tags: BTS. Bangtan Boys, Bangtan Seonyendan, Bulletproof Boy Scouts, Beyond the Scene, BTS Drabble, Fluff, Vampire!BTS, Vampire AU, Vampire!Bangtan, Boyfriend AU, BTS x you, BTS x reader, Jeon Jungkook, Jungkook, Jeon Jungkook x you, Jungkook x you, Jeon Jungkook x reader, Jungkook x reader

Genre: Fluff

Title: Through Your Eyes

“Wait, wait, wait.” You sit up, eyes wide, mouth still open, voice laced with honest and shocked surprise. You glance down at the boy still lying on the living room floor beside you, watching you with a slightly amused expression on his beautiful features, and cannot believe you head him right. “So you really honestly have no idea what you look like.”

Jungkook shrugs casually, as if it’s no big deal. “Nope.”

But it is a big deal.

“So you’re telling me-” You cross your legs beneath you and stare down at him hard, trying to compute what he’s telling you and how he’s so relaxed about it all. “You’ve gone your whole life never seeing yourself.”

“Correct.” Jungkook does that cute, quick little nod of his head that you love, the one that purses his full lips and sends his dark hair bouncing into his caramel eyes. “Vampires don’t have reflections, babe.” He grins at you, the smile lighting up his face, as if he wants to laugh that you haven’t realized this and put two and two together.

“I know, I know.” You wave your hand in an agitated motion. “I’ve heard that. I know that. But-” You stop for a minute, brows furrowed and lips pursed as you continue to mull over what your boyfriend has just told you. “I’ve just never actually thought about what that meant.”

Jungkook sits up beside you now, a slight smile still curling his pink lips, and mirrors your position, crossing longs beneath him as he faces you, reaching out to take your hands in his own as he squeezes your fingers reassuringly. “It’s fine, babe. It’s not a big deal. I’ve never been curious enough to care.”

You cannot believe him.

Not wanting to know what you look like? Impossible.

And yeah, maybe you care a little bit too much about what others think about you, but still, Jungkook is being way too nonchalant about this. Right?

“But you’re so pretty.” You blurt out before you can stop yourself, admiring the way his black hair falls across his forehead, the perfect flow of his flawless tan skin across his bone structure, the contrast of his white straight teeth and pointed fangs against the rose, plump skin of his lips.

“Ahhhh, babe.” Jungkook replies teasingly, reaching out to poke the end of your nose with his pointer finger, as he flashes you another white, blinding grin. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Shut up. This is important.” You snap back, and he tries to hide the smile behind a dramatic serious expression that has you fighting back your own desire to giggle and grin.

A light bulb clicks on in your brain, and has you scrambling to your feet, leaving Jungkook looking after you with a slightly surprised expression on his beautiful face, as you dart down the hall to the bedroom, calling over your shoulder, “Hold on. Stay right there.”

You reemerge a moment later, a notebook and pen clutched in your hand, and settle back onto the floor facing him, movements determined and focused as you whip open the book to a clean page of paper and click the pen into a ready position.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook asks, thoroughly bewildered.

“Shhh.” You hush him, and reach out to take his chin in your fingers, positioning his head in such a way that it’s easier to see all his features in the sunlight coming in through the apartment window. “Hold still. Don’t talk. Don’t move.”

Your boyfriend does as he’s told, clamping his jaw closed and sitting as still as possible.

There is silence in the room for what feels like hours, as you attentively focus on the page before you, swirling the pen across the blank canvas, and only sometimes glancing back up to your muse before you resume your work.

Jungkook-to his credit-doesn’t ask anymore questions, and is actually a pretty good model-remaining in the same position-until you finally click the pen closed and sit back with a sigh.

“Done.” You announce, hiding the page from his view, as you glance once more over your labor of love.

You’re not an artist-not by any means-but as you let your eyes flick from the page to the boy in front of you, even you have to admit, you didn’t do a half bad job.

The drawing on the page is most definitely one Jeon Jungkook

“Shit, I thought my jaw was gonna clench up if I had to sit still for one more minute.” Jungkook lets the words explode from his mouth as he releases the breath he had been holding, reaching up to massage along his sharp jawline with his fingertips. “Are you gonna tell me what that was all about?”

“You’ve never seen yourself.” You say mysteriously, and bite back a smile as Jungkook rolls his eyes in a good natured sort of way at your vague statement.

“Right.” He leans back on his hands and stares at you, one dark brow raised in your direction in an obvious expression of bemused exasperation. “We’ve established that.”

“So-” You glance down at the paper once more, held close to your chest, before you sigh and push it in his direction. “I wanted to draw you. So you can see yourself. At least once. Even if it’s just through my badly rendered impression.”

Jungkook’s large eyes widen even further if possible as surprise flashes across his face, long fingers brushing yours as he reaches out to take the shyly offered piece of paper. His mouth parts slightly-revealing the sharp tips of his fangs-as if he wants to say something, but can’t think of the words, so he simply lets his gaze drop to the drawing instead.

You watch him carefully, feeling your cheeks flush slightly, as he intensely studies your caricature in pregnant silence, dark eyes sweeping slowly and meticulously over each detail.

The large, doe eyes-almond shaped and rimmed with dark lashes-that you love so much, because you can see every emotion he’s ever felt swirling within the black of the blown pupil-as if they’re a window to his heart and soul.

The perfect slope of his nose that ends just above his full, plush, pink lips-the same lips that part to reveal white, gleaming teeth.

The same teeth that are one of your favorite parts of him, because when he smiles, they push forward like an adorable bunny, a testament to his happiness and the joy he feels in any given moment.

The dark, thick hair that falls across his forehead like he has been sculpted by marble-soft and shiny and so fluffy that you always want to have your fingers buried in it-only slightly softening the sharp angles of his high cheekbones and knife like jawline.

Your heart is pounding now, because it’s been several moments of silence, and you’re worried suddenly that Jungkook thinks you’re crazy, drawing him in such a way that clearly and loudly screams Hey, I’m insanely in love with you!

“Do you-” You start to say, and your words stutter to a halt, because he looks up at you sharply, as if he’d forgotten you were there. You force yourself to continue, swallowing hard. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah.” He nods, and the word is muted, as if he can’t quite get it to leave the tip of his tongue. He glances down once more at the paper held carefully in his hands. “Do you really see me like this?”

“I mean-” Your cheeks flush hot and red, and you flick your gaze away from his own as he meets your eyes once more. “I did my best to be accurate but I’m not an artist and I’m not sure if I did a good job-”

“(Y/N).”

Your eyes startle upward to his at the serious use of your first name, and it is so rare for him to say it, that you have to remind yourself to breathe as your eyes meet his own dark, unreadable ones, fingers twisting nervously in your lap.

“Yes?”

He cocks a brow at you, and holds up the drawing, and you can barely bring yourself to look at it now. “I didn’t ask if this is accurate. I asked if this is really how you see me.”

“I-” You try to think of how you can play it off, how you can make it into a joke, but the way he’s looking at you makes you answer simply and honestly. “Yes.”

There is another brief pause in between the two of you-as if the world is holding its breath-and you know, you just know in your gut, that Jungkook is going to call you out, going to acknowledge the fact that the drawing-still held in his hand-lays bare all of your unsaid feelings for him.

But instead, his eyes crinkle, and his lips part, and his bunny teeth emerge in a large grin, as he glances once more at the picture, before saying lightly, “Wow. I really am pretty.”

You laugh-and it’s breathless and slightly relieved-and nod. “See. I told you.”

Jungkook stands, reaching out his free hand to help you up off the floor. “I love it. Thanks, babe.” He leans over to press a kiss to your lips, and you let yourself relax into him for just a second, content in that moment, that he knows everything now, including what he looks like.

“You can throw that away.” You say shyly, cheeks still warm, as you glance down at the paper still held in his other hand.

“Are you kidding me?” Jungkook glances over at you with wide eyes. “This is the only portrait I’ll ever have of myself.” He tugs you toward the door, already reaching for the car keys where they hang on the wall. “Shit, we’re going to Hobby Lobby right now to get this masterpiece framed. I’m gonna hang it on the wall in our bedroom.”

You laugh and he shoots you that adorable grin you love, all front teeth and fangs, and you’re giddy almost, with the fact that Jungkook seems to be happy with the fact that he has now finally seen himself.

Even if only through your eyes, and the love that lives there.

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scoopsgf · 4 years

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can i get a good night’s sleep? can i PLEASE get a good night’s sleep?!

or: five times peter parker doesn’t sleep + the one time he does

my contribution to the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange! this is for @snarky-drabbles - I hope you enjoy it!

The first time is actually just the first in a while. Peter’s had problems sleeping ever since he was a little kid; it was just one issue of many that stacked up on top of each other, resulting in his personal belief that he must be the most difficult kid to look after on the planet.

Asthma meant hundreds of dollars spent on inhalers, covering what their shitty insurance didn’t. His poor eyesight was the same story and the bullies that used to break his glasses had never helped. But it wasn’t just physical crap, of course: he’s had anxiety for as long as he can remember.

There are cute side-effects like panic attacks and nausea, not to mention the constant sense of impending doom he’s been nursing since… well, birth, probably. When he was younger he’d worry about whether or not the taxi driver had enough gas in his car to get them where they needed to go, or maybe Ben would get shot at work (ironically enough, he’d never worried that Ben would get shot off-duty, and there is a teeny superstitious sliver of him that believes maybe if he had considered the possibility it never would have happened, like some kind of a reverse jinx or something).

One of the other cute things that comes along with it is insomnia.

So here he is, pacing in his kitchen at three in the morning because May isn’t home yet.

Her shift ended at two. She’s usually back within a half hour considering the hospital isn’t far, hence his agitation.

He’s tried calling and texting to no avail, and he keeps telling himself that everything is fine, that she probably just got held up; meanwhile his subconscious provides a great slideshow of mental images that speak to the opposite—her getting kidnapped because somehow someone links her to Spider-Man, her getting hit with a car, mugged, shot, slipping on black ice—and that’s actually not far-fetched considering it’s January, there’s a lot of it, and so he pulls out his phone and types, You didn’t slip on black ice and die did you? to May.

No little dots appear to signify that she’s typing. The message doesn’t even change from ‘delivered’ to ‘read’.

She has her read receipts on. She’s promised him. There’s no reason she’d change that, right? But maybe she accidentally switched them off when she was scrolling through her settings.

He calls her.

“Hi, this is May Parker, I’m unavailable at the moment but if you leave me a message I’ll get back to you as soon as—”

Peter hangs up with a dissatisfied grunt.

It’s only then that he realises, to his great dismay, that he’s paced all the way onto the ceiling.

In his shock he loses concentration and falls. “Ow, fuck.” He pulls his aching knee to his chest. It’ll no doubt be bruised soon. “God has forsaken me.”

He picks up his now cracked phone and texts Ned:

I just fell off the ceiling at 3 AM in the morning

Don’t ask me what I was doing on it

Every bone in my body is broken :(

No reply comes which is pretty typical; Ned probably passed out in front of his PC like, hours ago. Peter can picture it: the light of his computer screen casting a blue glow over everything in the room, his head probably tucked into his arms to muffle his snores (and there’s also probably a bowl of stale popcorn spilled across his floor at this point), his creepy mother lurking in the doorway—or worse, trying to find out how to snoop through his laptop while he’s out of it.

Peter could totally go swing down there and help the guy out. It would be something to do anyway.

But no. The door is too far. His suit… too much work. It’s definitely better to just stay here curled up under the table like a little turtle.

But wait—a blanket.

Is it worth the effort? Probably. Peter scans his immediate surroundings and, oh boy, Lady Fate is actually on his side tonight because there’s a gigantic purple fluffy one hanging off the couch and it only takes a little bit of physical exertion to yank it down and wrap it around his body.

He burrows deeper into it and scrolls through Instagram. MJ posted a picture of a banana today. Literally like, just a banana. No caption, no explanation on her story, nothing.

Peter double taps it and comments: i hope u asked before u took his jacket

No like. No reply. That makes sense. It is three in the fucking morning, after all.

No. Three thirty. It’s been an hour and a half.

What had May said once? That it was okay to call someone if she was two hours late?

Peter tries texting and calling one more time and then just sits there, staring at his home screen and watching the minutes pass. At exactly four AM after much deliberation and stomach churning, he calls someone else.

Three rings later: “I’m in Vienna right now so this better be good.”

Peter feels even more nauseous than before. “Oh,” he says. “I guess—never mind, then. Sorry.”

“Wait, wait, that was just for show and I’m greatly intrigued as to why you’re calling me so… early? Late? Anyway I’m out of the conference room now so lay it on me.”

Against his will, Peter’s lip quirks up. “Um, it’s kind of stupid—”

“Nothing is ever stupid,” Tony says. “Especially when it’s coming from the brain of a kid with an intelligence quotient of 260.”

He feels his cheeks heat up and then it all just comes tumbling out, “It’s really late and May was supposed to be off at two and home by two-thirty, but she’s not and I don’t know what to do. I tried calling and texting but she’s not replying and I know that I’m probably just building it up in my head but I can’t help freaking out because like, what if she got stabbed or slipped on black ice or—”

“Hey Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Breathe.”

Tony’s voice has softened immeasurably. Something uncoils in Peter’s stomach. He flops onto his side and closes his eyes. “I’m breathing.”

“That’s good, kiddo. Now just hang on a sec, I’m gonna call the hospital.”

“What? Why?”

“Well she works there, right?”

“...Yeah.”

“And you haven’t tried calling them yet, correct?”

“...Correct.”

“Ergo,” Tony says.

“But I—”

“Yeah?”

Peter bites his lip and then he just blurts it: “I don’t want you to hang up.”

He feels like such a child but the thought of losing connection with Tony is literally making his heart palpitate and his palms sweat. He needs someone. He needs an adult.

“Well lucky for us both I have two phones.”

Peter cracks an eye. “You what?”

“I’m Tony Stark, don’t question it. Hang on, let me just—hello, hi, um, I need this room. No, it can’t wait. Yes the whole room. Yes locked. I don’t know, five minutes? Ten? An hour? No, I’m not joking. Thank you. Thanks. Yeah. Okay. Bye now.” Something slams shut—the door to the office Tony just stole, probably. “Okay, just a sec, I have the number for the reception desk she works at in my phone.”

Peter, for some reason, feels immeasurably comforted by that. He sits in silence gnawing on his lip while Tony has a somewhat muffled conversation he can’t hear the other side of. Then, “You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Okay, well, they said she’s covering for someone and can’t get to the phone because a baby had to have emergency surgery so she’s literally in the OR as we speak. Pretty badass and not bad as far as excuses go. Now that you know she’s fine and not dead by ice, how about you get some shut-eye, okay kid?”

Peter swallows. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you, Tony.”

“No Mr. Stark this time, huh?”

“It’s too late for formalities.”

“I see,” Tony replies. “Sleep, okay?”

“Okay.”

The line goes dead. Peter, slightly relieved but not fully consoled, rolls over to face the door. He doesn’t sleep at all that night and is still there when May comes home at six in the morning with bagels and apologies.

—

The anniversary of Ben’s death is always super weird.

This time it takes him a few minutes to remember what day it is: he’s in the middle of brushing his teeth and then it hits him like a train: oh, it’s been three years.

Then comes May. She usually tries to cook something for breakfast but like always it burns. He leaves the bathroom to the sound of the smoke alarm and fans a cookie sheet at the screeching little device while she swears up and down in Italian.

“It’s okay, May, really—”

“No, it’s not!” She snaps, tossing a batch of blackened cinnamon rolls into the trash. “I just want this day to be easy for you!”

Peter goes over to her and, after kicking the oven door shut with his foot, pulls her into his arms. May starts to cry even though she tries not to; sniffles turn into barely stifled sobs. He knows that it’s harder for her than it is for him. Ben was her husband and they’d been married for thirteen years when he died. Sometimes he still catches her looking to see if he’s laughing too when they watch TV, only to find an empty recliner.

“It’s okay for it to be a bad day,” he whispers. “You know that, right? I mean, I love you to pieces, May, but I don’t wanna see you bending over backwards for me.”

“But that’s my job, doofus.”

Peter pulls back. He’s an inch taller than her now. “No it’s not. We take care of each other, okay?”

Then comes school. Ned usually hovers nervously like an agitated gnat, too afraid to say anything, not sure if he should act normal or be sad in solidarity, which means it’s kind of Peter’s job to set the tone. As he’s putting his combination in for his locker he asks, “So did you beat that level of Obra Dinn last night?”

Ned, shoulders slumping with relief, starts to ramble on about how hard it was to do and how it took him like, thirty whole tries.

They go to class. Peter zones out. He doesn’t bother making more web fluid or ditching and he gets so inside his own head that Coach Wilson compliments him again during gym class. Peter deliberately slows down after that, even if it’s kind of irritating; being physically active actually helps work off his anger.

Because that’s what he is more than anything else: angry. At the mugger, yeah, but at himself more than anything else. It was his fault that they were out that night, anyway. It’s a wonder that May doesn’t hate his fucking guts.

When school is up Peter comes home to an empty house. He thinks about going on patrol but doesn’t really feel up to it, and then he feels bad for not wanting to do it because like, what if someone is dying?

So he puts on the suit and swings from rooftop to rooftop, but there’s no action today. Peter eventually settles on a fire escape with a burrito. A stray cat hops up after a while and, despite his matted fur and crazy eyes, Peter decides he has a kind of quiet dignity about him and names him Charles.

“Do you like beef?” He asks, holding some out for Charles to sniff. The cat yowls and, without any warning other than that, nearly chomps Peter’s fingers off to get the meat.

“Ow, jeez!” Peter shakes his wrist. “I was literally giving it to you for free, but go off I guess.”

Charles blinks his big brown marble eyes and then literally jumps off the fucking ledge. Peter leans over and watches him scamper across the street, somehow not getting hit by any traffic. Sometimes he thinks his spidey sense is more like feline sense in that way: he could probably manage the same thing with his eyes closed.

After a while the sun sets and all of the streetlights turn on. Peter does another patrol around the immediate vicinity but again, nothing. He stays out anyway though because he’d rather do his Chemistry homework behind a dumpster than sit alone in the apartment with nothing but the quiet for company. At least out and about there are sewer rats and mangy dogs and shady characters who actually just turn out to be skateboarders.

Peter is almost done with his assignment when the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He looks up and finds Iron Man himself coming in for a landing. The suit drops with a barely audible clunk; it’s Mark 54, the sleekest and most lightweight model yet.

“Oh thank God,” says Tony’s voice, “you’re not dead.”

Peter frowns even though Tony can’t see it. “No,” he agrees slowly. “Why would I be dead? What are you doing here?”

“Well, your aunt called me in a panic at around four when she got home and you weren’t there, and then I checked the scanners and saw that you’d been here, completely stationary, for like five whole hours—needless to say I had a little bit of a heart attack and here I am, relieved and also mildly infuriated. Care to explain, young padawan?”

Peter opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Opens it again and, “It’s four AM?”

“Four fifteen,” Tony corrects.

“I didn’t even—I didn’t know! Shit, May’s totally gonna kill me, I might as well be dead—”

“Woah woah woah,” the faceplate lifts, “calm down, okay? No one is mad. Just, uh, concerned, I promise.”

Peter is still frantically packing up his school supplies and not really listening. He only stops when Tony gently touches him by lightly gripping his elbow. “Kid?”

Peter stares down at the older man’s hand. Behind the mask his eyes start to burn. “Ben died.”

“Pardon?”

“Ben died,” he repeats louder. “In this alley. Two years ago.”

All at once Tony’s face falls. He moves to sit by Peter on the grimy floor of the alley while the suit hovers nearby, a hollow shell, just the way Peter feels now.

“Kid,” Tony says, “take off the mask.”

“What? No, I’m in public—”

“No one’s around,” Tony says. “Just take it off, okay?”

Peter does, reluctantly peeling it back to reveal his tear-stained cheeks. Tony stares for a second and then, almost hesitantly, he wraps his arms around Peter. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I—” he chokes. “I’m just so tired. I’m tired of having to watch May be strong for me when I can’t be strong back, and I’m tired of Ben not being around. I miss him and it—it’s not fair.”

“Of course it’s not. It’s never fair. That’s why it hurts, kiddo. You’ve got all this love and no place to put it.”

Peter bites his lip to stop it from quivering and looks away, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I just feel pathetic.”

“Don’t,” Tony says firmly. “I felt the same way after my mom died and it… In some ways I don’t think the feeling ever actually went away, but uh, take it from someone who’s had a lot more time to process: no one is expecting anything from you, okay? And I can guarantee there’s not a single human that thinks two years is long enough to be perfectly fine again. You’re allowed to still be upset about this.”

And Peter is. He’s really, really fucking upset about it and so tired of holding it in. Tony pulls him against his chest when Peter starts to cry and it sort of seems like he’ll never be able to stop. There’s just so much, so much guilt and pain and all kinds of other bullshit that he refuses to lay on May.

So he lays it on Tony. And it’s surprisingly not horrible or awkward or even the end of the world.

“You good?” the older man asks, when Peter finally sobers up enough to wipe his cheeks dry and take a few steadying breaths.

“Yeah,” he says, voice ragged and awful-sounding. “Um, sorry. For freaking you and May out and ruining your shirt, I mean.”

“You know there’s this really snazzy invention called a washing machine—”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Tony laughs and it makes Peter laugh too, and the tension between them just sort of dissipates. “Speaking of clothes,” Tony claps his hands together, “you got any to wear in that backpack?”

“Uh, jeans and a hoodie?”

“Fantastic, incredible. Throw them on, I’m taking you out for breakfast.”

“But what if someone sees?!”

“Let ’em. I’ll have Pep release a statement claiming you as my personal assistant or head intern or something.”

“That’s totally unrealistic.”

“Do I care? No. Just—okay? Up and at ’em, make haste, come on. What do you feel like, pancakes or waffles?”

They bicker about which is better the entire way to the little diner Tony choses, and Peter comes home full an hour later. May is fast asleep at the kitchen table. He kisses her forehead and starts on breakfast for her.

—

He’s thirty minutes into helping MJ study for her AP French test when she finally gets a question wrong. “‘Il n'est pas clair que’?” Peter queries, holding up the flash card.

“‘It’s not certain that’?”

He makes a pitying noise. “Close. ‘It’s not clear that’.”

“What’s not clear, exactly? That if I see one more word in French I’m gonna blow my brains out?”

Peter snorts. “No, actually it says more clarification is required on how much you like your boyfriend. Suggestions to improve that include: a hug, a kiss, both—”

“Neither?”

He pouts. “Mean.”

MJ rolls her eyes, but she kisses him first. She tastes like the Twizzlers they’ve been eating and her hands are in his hair and she laughs when he presses his lips to her cheeks and nose and forehead.

They somehow end up in an incredibly compromising position. “You know,” MJ muses, “I don’t think I’ve been studying the right kind of French.”

Peter, hovering over her (oops), nods in agreement. “This kind is definitely way better.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and he’s so consumed with this: her and him and the smell of her jasmine shampoo—that he almost doesn’t hear it.

Almost.

Peter rips away abruptly. “What was that?”

She groans. “God, you’re such a dog sometimes.”

He ignores her, sitting alert with his eyes narrowed at the window and, sure enough, there it is again: a faint, blood-curdling scream. “Someone’s being attacked or something. Maybe four blocks away tops.”

MJ squints. “Don’t tell me you can echolocate.”

“I—” Peter’s mouth snaps shut and then opens again. “I actually don’t know. Anyway, I gotta go.”

He presses a quick kiss to her cheek, throws on his jacket, and quickly ducks out her fire escape (which happens to be the same way that he came in). He slips the mask on and tosses his hood up; it’s raining in heavy, icy sheets and Peter is drenched within seconds of swinging. He remembers the first time he’d gone out during a storm; the webbing he’d made hadn’t held up because the chemical formula hadn’t accounted for the massive amounts of water-based reaction, so the biocables had evaporated as they left his shooters. Thankfully he hadn’t jumped first that day, otherwise he would be a Peter Pancake.

Another scream sounds. Peter follows it and winds up latched onto the side of a two-story brick building. There’s an incredibly dark alley below, but a quick flash of lightning tells him everything he needs to know: one man is trying to wrestle a woman down, while another is rifling through her purse. He’s also holding a gun.

“Oh, cute,” he mutters sarcastically.

Peter tries to time it right: he takes aim and shoots a web right at the weapon with the next bout of lightning, but to his immense misfortune, the armed mugger had already seen him and was aiming right back. The bullet hits Peter in the side.

“Ow,” he says, “that was uncalled for.”

He drops. His side is throbbing and hot but he ignores it in favour of disarming the guy who shot him. It’s a brief struggle but Peter ends up whacking the gun out of his hand and webbing it to the wall opposite. Then he knocks the guy out with a solid upper cross to the temple.

Peter rounds. The assailant has already fled, leaving the woman shivering but relatively unharmed.

“You okay, ma’am?” he asks.

“Me? That guy shot you!”

Peter looks down at his side which is now stained with blood. “Oh, yeah.”

He’d actually forgotten for half a second. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, he’s starting to really feel it: a burning sensation in his abdomen, an aching that pulses from his stomach to his chest. Ah. Wonderful.

A little dazed, he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me. Super healing. Are you good? You need me to call you a cab?”

“What? No, um—the police station is like, down the block, I can go get them.”

“Are you sure? Because I can totally do that—”

“I can handle myself,” she says sharply, bending down to pick up her purse and the discarded items within. “It’s just… there were two of them and there was a gun and—”

“I get it,” Peter says, his hand pressing harder into his side as the world grows blurrier around the edges. “You really don’t want me to at least walk you down?”

“I’ll take a taxi,” she says. “You just, um, get yourself fixed up, okay? And thanks.”

“Yeah, sure, anytime! But, y’know, preferably never again,” Peter says, and proceeds to swing away.

—

Tony doesn’t expect to get woken up at two AM after only just falling asleep five minutes before, but such is life; FRIDAY’s voice bleeds through the speakers above to inform him that Spider-Man is currently rifling through the Med-Bay and bleeding from a wound on his side.

Pepper looks at him. “You heard that too, right? That was real?”

“It was real.”

They both scramble out of bed. Tony takes the lead, throwing on his jacket as he runs toward the elevator. It’s times like these when every second stretches out into an eternity; it takes maybe five of them to get from their floor to the Med-Bay, but it feels like forever.

The doors open and there’s Peter, perched on a gurney with his shirt gone and a whole lot of blood staining his side. He’s bent awkwardly, clearly trying to feel his way around whatever wound he’s got.

“Um,” Tony says, approaching, “What.”

Peter looks up and—yeah, he’s lost a lot more blood than Tony had originally thought. His face is fucking drained. “Hey,” he says, offering a jaunty wave before returning his attention to his side. “I got shot.”

“Oh!” Tony nods. “Oh, okay. What the fuck, kiddo?”

“I know, right?” Peter glances up. “Hey, Pepper.”

“Peter,” she returns. “Do you mind if I wash my hands and take a look at that?”

“If you want. It’s kinda gross, though.”

“Believe me, I’ve seen worse.”

Through this exchange Tony was already washing up, and now he dons a pair of gloves and sits on the rolling stool. “Looks like it’s through and through,” he tells Pep over his shoulder. “Could you grab a couple suture kits and, uh, the stuff?”

Pepper makes a face. “The stuff?”

“You know,” Tony says, “The Good Stuff.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, that stuff.”

Tony feels around the area. “Do you know what kind of gun was used?”

“Looked like your standard nine mil,” Peter replies. His voice is growing a little slurred.

That’s good though, about the gun. Means there’s probably not any bullet fragments to worry about. Tony grabs a load of gauze and presses it against the wound. He checks Peter’s pulse while he’s at it and finds that it’s slowed considerably. “We’re gonna have to get you some blood, too. A neg, right?”

“Yuppers.”

Tony excuses that because after all, the kid is bleeding out on a table. Said kid actually starts to swing his legs back and forth and, yeah, that’s not gonna fly. “Do me a favour and lay back? I’m gonna put this towel right under you for now.”

Peter doesn’t have any arguments, or if he does, he doesn’t vocalise them. Pepper comes back in with the kits and drugs and, because she’s just smarter than him like that, bags of blood.

Tony grabs the vials first and loads up a syringe. Peter is pretty numb to all of it until the needle goes in. Then he frowns. “Why are you injecting me with alien blood?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s not alien blood, it’s a pain killer. A serious one at that, so you’re probably gonna feel a little out of it for a while, okay?”

Peter frowns. “Is it for Steve?”

Tony tenses, but it’s only for a second. “Yes,” he says, somewhat tightly.

“Ugh. What a turd, Mr. Stark. You’re giving me turd vitamins!” Tony scoffs while Pepper laughs. Peter notices. “See? She thinks I’m funny.”

“You’re not helping me here,” Tony says to her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Here, have some thread.”

Tony sighs. “Just stay still for me, okay?”

Peter does. Pepper passes him various supplies and they work together to sew up both ends of the gunshot wound. By the time they’re done, Peter hasn’t moved once, but his eyes are open and he’s frowning.

“How do you feel?”

“Wired,” he says.

“Seriously? Bruce never said anything about the side-effects, but I figured they’d be like normal pain-killers; make you drowsy and all that.”

“No,” Peter sits up quickly and doesn’t even flinch. “I feel like I just got steroids or something. Are you—are you actually telling me that Captain America’s drugs are infused with a stimulant? What, so he can keep fighting even when he’s in the middle of dying?”

Tony blinks. “Well that was smart of dear Banner.”

“Yeah, or insane.” Peter flexes his hands. “I feel like I need to go for a run, or like, break something.”

“Let’s avoid that,” Tony says, pushing him back down. “You need to heal, not mess yourself up even more, understood?”

Peter stares. “Is it normal to see sounds?”

Pepper bursts out laughing again. “I’m sorry,” she says when Tony glares. “Really, I am, I promise. Peter, honey, how about we get you to a bedroom where you can rest up? We’ll call your aunt and explain everything.”

—

Everything is going fine until May asks, “How did you get to the Tower so quick, then?”

Peter blinks. “Hmm? Pardon?”

“If you were at Ned’s,” May says, “how’d you manage to swing all the way across town?”

Peter opens his mouth and closes it. “I, uh… well, funny story, um… I wasn’t actually at Ned’s?”

There’s a pause over the phone. Pepper, who’s holding it, raises an eyebrow. May says: “You told me you were going to Ned’s, Peter.”

His face feels hot. He hopes it isn’t red. Both Pepper and Tony—from the doorway with his hands stuffed in his sweatpant pockets—are staring. It’s almost as bad as if May were really here.

“Well I was going to Ned’s, but then I changed my mind and went somewhere else and oh—look at the time! I think we’re going through a tunnel—”

“Don’t even try to pull that crap! That’s it, I’m coming over there—”

“May,” Peter says, serious now, “you’re in the middle of a shift, there’s people dying. Just—I’m perfectly fine, I took my Captain America drugs and everything is gonna be okay.”

“But you lied to me.”

“No, I changed my mind.”

“And went where?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Peter.”

“May.”

She groans from the other end of the line and demands to speak to Pepper one on one. Tony’s fiancé grins and switches off speaker, before slipping out with a bright laugh to finish off the conversation. Tony stares expectantly. “So where were you?”

“Oh my god, not you too. You know, on second thought, I actually am completely exhausted and—”

“Uh, nope,” Tony flops down onto the bed. “Fess up.”

Peter sighs. He squirms down and covers his pillow with a head. “No.”

Tony joins him under it. “Tell me.”

Peter scowls. He rolls onto his side so they’re facing one another. “I was with my girlfriend.”

“Oooo—”

“Shush! It’s… it’s really not a big deal and I haven’t told May yet because MJ and I haven’t even really talked about it and it all happened super fast and—” he remembers to breathe, “I just… I always tell May everything, you know? But I kind of just felt like… this was something I had to figure out first on my own. Maybe it’s stupid, but I know she’s gonna be super hurt when she finds out it’s been a month and I haven’t said anything—”

“Kid,” Tony cuts in. “Calm down.”

“I’m calm,” Peter promises, because he is. He’s also just incredibly hyper and stressed.

“It’s a normal instinct to want to figure things out and define them before you start announcing them to the world. I get that. But you’re still a kid, Pete, and even if you don’t want people prying into your love life, we still need to know where you are in case something goes wrong.”

Peter harrumphs as he turns away. “There’s a tracker on my phone and my suit. It would be easier to find me than anything else.”

Tony clicks his tongue. “You got a point there.”

“I just wanted time.”

“I know.”

“But I really like her, okay? Like she’s so smart and she’s got this really dark sense of humour and she’s actually kind of terrifying sometimes—”

“Oh, the scary ones are always fun.”

They stay up talking through the night and, when the sun comes up, Pepper joins them with a tray of freshly made blueberry waffles. May arrives around the same time and, looking too tired to be mad, simply drops onto the bed with them and steals what’s left of his food.

—

Peter is on patrol when he hears it:

a soft, quiet yelping coming from somewhere down below the rooftop he’s perched on.

At first he figures he’s imagining things, but then his ears perk again. He leans over the building’s edge to find the source of the noise.

In the dark it’s hard to make anything out, so he climbs slowly down the side of the wall, squinting. There’s another yelp and a low whine, almost pained. Peter zeroes in on the sound and creeps toward a set of dumpsters; they’re so full of trash they’re overflowing, and it’s underneath a broken down cardboard box that he finds it...

A puppy.

Now, Peter is no liar. He’s wanted a dog since he was like, a fetus. The words ‘A dog’ have been on every birthday and Christmas list for as long as he can remember. It’s only recently, in the years since Ben’s death, that he’s pretty much given up—after all, May is so overworked and they can barely afford to feed themselves. How could they afford a pet?

But also…

This is the cutest dog he’s ever seen.

It’s tiny and fluffy and brown and has the biggest, saddest eyes he’s ever seen.

Peter kind of just stands there staring like an idiot for a good few seconds and then slowly kneels down. “Um, hi,” he says, in the gentlest voice he can manage. The puppy, who can’t be older than a few weeks and looks completely starved and exhausted, whines in response.

Peter holds out his hand for the dog to sniff. It lifts its head lazily and leans forward, nose twitching and dry. “You need water, huh? Come on, I know a place.”

—

“Shelob,” Tony greets without looking up from whatever project he’s working on. “What can I do for you at… one in the fucking morning?”

“I need your help with something, but you have to promise you won’t get mad or make me get rid of him—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, what have you done now?”

“He was just so helpless and cold and small and…” Peter swallows and reveals the puppy, presently wrapped up in his hoodie. “Meet Nugget.”

Tony’s face is the epitome of Disappointed Dad. He stares, open-mouthed, and after a second his shoulders fall. “Well, fuck.”

Peter snuggles Nugget against his chest and steps closer, but then Tony holds up a hand to stop him. “Nah-ah! Not until that thing gets a flea bath!”

Hope sparks in Peter’s chest. “You mean we can keep him?”

“I mean there’s no way I’m getting near him until I know I won’t break out in hives.”

“That’s not how fleas work.”

“Do I care? No. Come on, let’s go to the bathroom.”

—

“Why do you have flea shampoo?”

Peter’s inquiry is made tentatively. They both have their hands in the sud-filled sink as they systematically wash Nugget’s fur.

“There was… an incident a while ago. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Peter stares. Blinks. “Okay. Well, I think he’s clean.”

Nugget barks as if in agreement, and so Peter and Tony lift him out of the basin and set him on a pile of no doubt expensive, fluffy white towels. Tony takes the lead after that. He’s surprisingly gentle and patient with the yapping, impatient puppy—even when Nugget tries to claw at him and shake himself dry, Tony never loses his cool.

A few minutes later they’re sitting on their stomachs watching Nugget stomp around on a blanket. There’s water in a bowl for him at one corner and a plate of chopped up chicken at another.

“I can’t take him home,” Peter says morosely after a few minutes. “May won’t let me keep him.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Where does she even think you are right now?”

“...In my bed.”

“Wow,” Tony says, deadpan. “Okay, well, I most certainly can’t keep him either.”

“What?! Why not?!”

Tony sighs. “I’m Iron Man, if you hadn’t noticed, kiddo—”

“Oh, what, so you’re too tough to look after him?”

“No, I’m too busy. I spend like, twenty-three out of twenty-four hours in a day in my shop and the rest of the time I’m on my knees apologising to Pepper and begging for forgiveness. There’s no time in-between to feed the pup, walk the pup—”

“I could come by,” Peter blurts. “Like, once a day, and I could make sure he’s eaten and play with him and stuff. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger—”

“Except to press ‘purchase’ on my shopping cart full of dog food—”

“Tony,” Peter cuts in, pleading, “please? I can’t just drop him off at some kennel so they can—” he covers the dog’s ears, “so they can euthanize him in a week when no one buys him. He deserves so much better, you know?”

Tony frowns, considering it, and Peter waits with his breath caught in his throat until, “God, fine.”

“Yes!”

“But! But! A pet is a serious responsibility, okay? You might as well be adopting a child—”

“What would you know about raising kids?” Peter asks, only jokingly, but Tony just stares and then, for some reason, smiles.

“You have to make sure he’s happy,” Tony says. “You have to be there for him in whatever way he needs, alright? I’ll set up a pen in the penthouse and you can make sure he works off his energy there, and if I have time I’ll even take you both to the park. And if he ever happens to pee on my carpet, I’m counting on you to clean it up.”

“Don’t you have, like, housekeepers for that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, but this is character building stuff.”

“Ugh, fine, I’ll clean up the pee.”

They continue to iron out the details for a while and bicker over whether Nugget’s last name should be Parker or Stark, and it’s only when Pepper walks in—still in her pajamas, bleary eyed and complaining that they woke her up—that they both decide it should be ‘Potts’.

—

5. (+1)

It starts with a headache.

He’s bent over his desk studying for a Calc test when the throbbing begins. It’s not so bad at first, but after a half hour or so his vision is swimming and he keeps having to take breaks to massage his temples and close his eyes. The equations are all blending together and he can’t think straight anymore.

Peter decides to give up right around then. After all, if he’s not gonna retain any of the information, why bother?

May pokes and prods through dinner. Peter tries to fool her by acting like everything is normal and okay and even manages to make her laugh once or twice.

Inside, dread is coiling through his stomach like an irritated snake. He knows what’s coming next; after all, he doesn’t really get sick anymore, so what else could it be?

Peter tries to sleep but ends up tossing and turning for most of the night. He falls into some kind of half-conscious daze at around four in the morning and rouses about twenty minutes later, soaked with sweat and aching everywhere.

Feeling like he’s gonna vomit, Peter kicks off his blankets and strips the sheets off his bed. He takes his shirt off because the fabric is too abrasive against his skin and it’s like he can feel every fibre tickling against it, grating and chafing. He curls up into a tight ball and covers his ears with his hands to block out the now amplified sounds of the city: car alarms, dogs barking, music playing.

Normally Peter loves the way New York is never silent. Now, he just wishes everyone would shut the fuck up for once.

When he stumbles out of his room a little while later, May is already gone. She’d told him the night before that she had an early shift and for once he’s actually grateful. Haltingly, Peter gets ready for school. He’s already skipped three days this month and if he misses this Calc quiz he’s gonna fucking bomb the class.

May would kill him.

It’s better to suffer a little than die.

Brushing his teeth makes his head spin and the minute he wriggles into his clothes he feels like a caged animal about to claw his skin off. Everything takes so much longer than normal. He doesn’t eat because the mere thought of food makes the back of his throat sting with bile.

On the train, he closes his eyes and rests his head against the cool glass of the window, trying to tune out the constant screeching of the rails. One day, on God, he will make it a personal project to oil every fucking line in the subway.

At his fifth stop, an old lady boards and all the seats are taken.

Peter swallows thickly and stands. Black spots dance in his vision and he grabs onto the overhead bar—something he hasn’t actually needed to use since he was a little kid—and tries not to pass out.

He almost misses the stop to get to school, but slips out at the last second, millimetres away from getting his backpack caught in the doors. Peter is hot all over and lightheaded as he makes his way out of the station. It’s even hotter up above, what with summer coming now and all.

Peter is late and he doesn’t need his watch to tell; Flash’s car is already parked out front instead of zooming through the drop off to run him over (which, hey, silver lining), and the majority of the student body is already inside.

Peter has to stop multiple times on his way to Spanish just to breathe. By the time he gets there he’s at least ten minutes late for roll call.

“Mr. Parker,” his teacher greets, unimpressed. “So glad you could join us.”

Peter makes a noise and takes the proffered quiz. He wonders absently why some people choose to teach. What is it, like, some kind of power trip for them?

He has five minutes to finish the quiz but doesn’t make it past the first question. Ned volunteers to collect them and stops at Peter’s desk while Professor Scott outlines today’s lesson plan.

“Dude,” he whisper-hisses, “you look like complete shit. What on Earth are you doing here right now?”

“Test,” Peter mutters dully, resting his cheek on his hand and closing his eyes. “Here you go. Didn’t finish it.”

Ned takes it carefully, holding it with two fingers like it’s covered in disease. “Do you want me to get the nurse or something?”

Peter hums. “No. Just… headache.”

Slowly Ned backs away. “Um—”

“Mr. Leeds!” Professor Scott says, loudly. Ned jumps. “Is there a problem back there?”

Yes, Peter thinks. You’re the human version of nails on a fucking chalk board. Please, for the love of all that is holy, just start on the vocab.

Only he accidentally says all of that out loud.

The whole class is staring. Flash is slack-jawed. Betty Brant’s eyes are the size of small moons.

“Parker,” Scott grits out—and Peter has denominated him to just Scott now out of reciprocation and spite; “You just earned yourself a shiny new detention. I’d like you to take this slip to the principal’s office. Please.”

Oh, thank God. At least it’ll be quiet there.

Peter stands and brushes past Ned and it literally feels like flames of hell are licking against his skin. He almost vomits. This is decidedly not good.

He takes the paper. “Gladly, good sir.”

When he’s gone, there’s an outburst of muttering that his enhancements let him hear. It only makes the overload worse. Peter covers his ears with his hands again and, overcome with a sudden wave of vertigo, ducks into the bathroom.

He barely makes it to the toilet before emptying his stomach of last night’s food.

Peter sags against the wall, panting. He keeps his eyes closed and waits for the world to stop spinning. About ten minutes later, the smell of jasmine shampoo—normally welcome—causes him to lean over and retch again.

MJ pokes her head inside the unlocked stall. “Jesus,” she whispers. The second her hands touch his body he flinches and she immediately retracts them. “Fuck, sorry. Ned said you wigged out in Spanish. I looked for you in the Principal's office but you weren’t there and... What’s—what’s wrong? I thought you couldn’t even get sick.”

“Bad headache,” he mutters, spitting into the toilet. It’s easier than explaining about his freakish mutations and how they sometimes go completely haywire, leaving him on edge and nauseous and irritable.

MJ grabs him some toilet paper to wipe his mouth with. “Did you take anything?”

“Pain meds don’t work on me.”

“Does May know? You should have called in.”

“Couldn’t. Can’t miss my test.”

She sighs. “Your final is like fifty percent of your grade and you could pass it with your eyes closed. You can miss your test, you’re just afraid of getting anything lower than an A.”

Peter is silent. “You got me there.”

MJ’s hand twitches like she wants to touch him but knows she can’t. “You need to go home. Lie down, get some rest.”

“May is working,” Peter says, “and if I have to take the subway again right now I’ll die. I really will. It’s so—the smell and the noise and I can’t sit down and—”

“Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Just give it.”

She’s holding her hand out for it and giving him a no-nonsense expression that kind of reminds Peter of Pepper Potts on a rampage. He’s seen what happens to Tony when he crosses her, so he fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it over.

“Hold on.”

She stands and leaves. Peter closes his eyes again. He tunes out her conversation because if he doesn’t, he’s absolutely gonna vomit again and nobody wants that.

MJ slips back inside the stall. “Okay, solved. Do you still feel like you’re gonna vomit?”

Peter thinks about it. “No.”

“Good. We’re gonna go to the nurse, okay?”

“Oh boy.”

—

Tony Stark walks into Peter’s school and finds the hallways empty. The classroom doors are shut and the muted sounds of teachers lecturing are the only signs that anyone is here at all.

He finds Peter in the infirmary, sitting on the examination table with the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes.

He’s at his side in an instant. “Kid?”

It’s surprise that gets Peter’s eyes open, but the little spider baby immediately regrets it. He flinches and sucks in a sharp breath. “Tony,” he whispers, like the name is all he can manage and the questions will have to wait for later.

Tony looks him over. There are no obvious injuries. The girl on the phone had said it was just a headache, but Tony is way more experienced with Peter’s brand of bullshit and knows there’s usually something else going on beneath the surface.

“I’m gonna go talk to the nurse and then get you out of here, okay?”

A nod.

It’s always a bad thing when he doesn’t argue. Peter Parker would start a fight about what kind of pizza to order, even if you suggest the kind he really wants, just to be a stubborn little shit about things.

Tony slips out of the exam room. The nurse looks up when he enters her office. “Oh my—Mr. Stark?!”

“Yes, hello,” Tony takes a cautious step forward as she stands. He doesn’t bother to sit. “I’m here to pick up the little gremlin in there.”

Her face flushes. “I didn’t know you’d been called, I—I figured I would just let him wait it out, you know? He didn’t want to be touched, so it was hard to figure out what was up and—so it’s real? About the internship?”

“Of course. Why would he lie?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Well… you know how kids can be.”

“Do I?”

She doesn’t seem to know what to say to that.

Tony sighs. “Look, Nurse—uh, Timms—Nurse Timms, can I please just sign the kid out and take him home? He’s clearly in pain here.”

She starts rifling through her desk for a form. “I mean, I can admit you to take him home, but I really suggest you talk with the principal first—Peter was given a detention before he was brought to my ward, see, and I was—” she shakes her head. “I thought he might be faking.”

Tony stares without blinking for a whole five seconds and then, “Detention? For what?”

“I heard he bad-mouthed a teacher or something. But to be fair, Professor Scott isn’t exactly what I’d call patient.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Tony takes the form she hands him to sign, “my kid doesn’t fake. He has a condition, see. Gets uh… overloaded. Sounds, smells, it can be too much for him. Probably why he snapped.”

“That… that makes sense.”

“Yes,” he says succinctly, and hands the paper back. “You’d know that if you bothered to ask. Anyway, I’ll be going. Thanks for the help, Nurse Times.”

“Uh, it’s—it’s Timms—”

The door shuts behind him.

—

MJ was forced to go back to class. She’d argued and protested but Nurse Timms was insistent. So, MJ had relented. She’d pressed the lightest of kisses on his forehead and it surprisingly hadn’t felt that bad, and then she’d gone.

Tony Stark had shown up about twenty minutes later and it’s just when Peter’s starting to think it was all just a vivid hallucination that the smell of coffee and motor oil fills his senses again. It’s overwhelming but not debilitating.

“Kiddo,” Tony whispers, “is it okay to touch you?”

Peter cracks an eye. Everything is bright but Tony’s suit is mercifully black, so he focuses on that. “I don’t know. I don’t wanna move.”

“Well I gotta get you outta here somehow.”

“But my detention—”

“I already got you out of it,” Tony says breezily. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Tony,” Peter says, cheeks flushing. “You can’t just bribe my principal into—”

“I didn’t bribe anyone. I just explained the situation and besides, Morita’s an old friend.”

Peter closes his eyes again as he frowns. “You’re friends with my principal?”

“I’m a benefactor for your school, too,” Tony says. “But don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.”

Something shifts in the air. Tony is sitting now. “Happy’s waiting outside,” he says, “but whenever you’re ready.”

Peter thinks about it for a few seconds and decides it’s gonna have to happen at some point, anyway. Might as well rip the band-aid off now. Slowly he takes a deep breath and manages to sit up with Tony’s help. The older man tries to avoid touching him as much as possible, but surprisingly enough the weight of his hand against Peter’s spine isn’t crushing or aggravating. It doesn’t hurt.

“Baby steps,” Tony says softly. “We’ll take you out the side door, okay?”

Even getting to the door is slow going but Tony doesn’t seem to mind. Right before they open it, Tony stops and pulls his sunglasses off. “Here, try these.”

Peter puts them on. He feels ridiculous because like, they work on Tony who was literally born in the seventies, but Peter really doesn’t dig the groovy shades. Regardless they’re better than nothing and even help a little.

The halls are empty again. Most of the students will be in the gym right about now, or the cafeteria for lunch. They don’t run into anybody on the way out and as soon as they’re in the back of the car, Peter sags against Tony’s side. He feels like he’s just run ten miles.

“Drive, Hogan,” Tony says, and then the partition glides up.

For a few seconds it’s almost completely quiet. Noise suppression tech, Peter realises, and he feels like he could cry from relief. For the first time in hours there’s just… nothing. No traffic, no dozens of students talking at once. The air conditioning unit is filtered, so he’s not being attacked with the smell of body odour and clashing perfume scents and Axe cologne. There’s just Tony and beautiful, amazing, showstopping silence.

Tony shifts a little. “Better?”

Peter nods, figuring it’s still probably not safe to speak.

“We’ll be there soon,” Tony says softly.

—

Peter doesn’t remember much after the car ride. He can vaguely recall protesting getting out of the Audi, and he remembers Tony assuring him that everything would be okay, and the next thing he knows he’s lying on his back in an utterly dark bedroom. The walls are insulated just like the car had been, so there’s just no sound, and the bed sheets probably have the highest thread count of all time.

Something shifts beside Peter and he realises Tony is there, feeling his forehead.

“What—?”

“Oh, hey,” Tony greets. “I think you might’ve blacked out there. All the noise hit you at once when we got out of the car and you just…”

“I fainted?”

Tony snorts softly. “Relax. It happens to the best of us. How do you feel, Webster?”

Peter hums. “Bad.”

“Let’s try a scale of one to ten.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Ten.” Tony lets out a little grunt at that and so Peter elaborates, “It was at like, a twenty this morning, so.”

“Ah, I see.” Tony’s grip shifts to Peter’s wrist to measure his pulse. “This okay?”

“It’s fine.”

And it really is. He doesn’t feel like burning his skin off or anything. Tony’s hands are just warm.

“Any idea what brought this on?”

Peter shifts a little. “I uh… haven’t been sleeping a lot lately.” He swallows. “Like, at all.”

“And how long’s that been going on for?”

“I don’t know. On and off for a few weeks, I guess.”

“Jesus,” Tony sighs and pulls his hand away. He rakes it through his hair. “Kiddo, what have we said about communication? Does May know?”

“....No?”

There’s a long pause where Tony just kind of sits there thinking, like he wants to say whatever comes next carefully. He massages his temples and then: “Alright, scooch over.”

“What?”

“Make room for me.”

Peter blinks and then, tentatively, scoots over a little to allow Tony room to lie down. The older man does, arching his back a little and grunting in pain because he’s like, ancient. They’re not touching, but very slowly Peter starts inching closer again. Eventually he works up the courage to try resting his head on Tony’s chest, which is terrifying not only because it’s Tony Stark, but also because he’d rather not have his brain implode.

Nothing happens. “Your fabric softener must be like, super expensive,” he whispers, because this is actually better than the sheets.

Tony snorts. “I’ll ask Pep about it.”

Peter makes a noncommittal noise and before he knows it, his eyes are closing. For once they actually feel heavy, and the steady rhythm of Tony’s heart beat is soothing, dependable.

Tony’s hands brush lightly over Peter’s hair and then thread through it. “Too much?”

“No,” Peter promises. “Good.”

And so Tony’s fingers run through his curls over and over, gently, lightly. His thumb sweeps over Peter’s cheek once, too, and then he starts muttering in Italian.

Peter cracks an eye. “Are you telling me your grocery shopping list?”

Tony laughs a little. “My mom used to do it for me,” he says. “Something about just hearing her speak the language made me feel… relaxed, I guess. Didn’t matter what she was saying.”

Peter smiles and wraps an arm around Tony’s torso. “Tell me something else.”

“You wanna hear about the time I almost blew up a Chem lab?”

“Uh, duh.”

So Tony launches into it, speaking in a low voice and absently twisting one of Peter’s curls around his finger. It feels nice and the headache is fading fast.

Peter sleeps.

#marvel #irondad #peter parker #tony stark #my writing #friendly neighborhood fic exchange #may parker #pepper potts #michelle jones #spideychelle #pepperony #nugget the dog #insomnia

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soitmightgetweird · 6 years

Text

Secret Santa

Steve Rogers x reader

Summary & A/N: This was part of @caplansteverogers Christmas Challenge -- my prompt was "they did secret Santa at work and I got you and I have no idea what to get you so I’m pretending that I’m not stalking you when I am and I learn all these cute things about you." So here it is!

Warnings: mild embarrassment?

Word Count: 2912

December 15, 2017

To: ALL

Good afternoon everyone!

Just a couple reminders: First, we are planning to close up by 2PM on the 22nd to give everyone time to prepare for the company party that night. Second, it's the last day to pick names for Secret Santa, so stop by the front desk before the end of the day to choose your person! The gift limit is $30.

Let's have some fun and finish the year strong!

-Pepper Potts, VP

You closed the email with a groan. Secret Santa gift exchanges were the worst. Okay so that was an exaggeration, but you always put unnecessary amounts of stress on yourself trying to think of the Perfect Gift. And even after the stress and wracking your brain, you still sometimes missed the mark.

Your noise of displeasure caused your desk-neighbor to stand up and peer at you over the divider between your work stations. She propped her arms up, pouting at you when you turned your chair to face her. "Are you already being a Scrooge?"

You rolled your eyes. "I suck at giving gifts, Wanda."

"You do not."

"Socks." The single-word reply came from the desk on your other side, and you groaned again.

"Nat, you said your cat kept destroying yours!" you defended.

The sound of a rolling chair preceded the appearance of your other neighbor as she peered around the partition to you. "I can buy my own socks, sweetie."

"And so I stand by my statement! I struggle enough with what to get the two of you, and now I have to buy something for some random person here that I probably know little to nothing about."

"Gift cards are always a good default," Nat said.

"But they're so impersonal!"

"Well it's either impersonal or lame."

A small paper ball flew at Nat before Wanda spoke again. "If time is running out and you really cannot think of anything, I'll help you out."

"I'm sure I'll need it," you mumbled, turning back to your computer to resume your work.

When the end of the day arrived, the three of you gathered your things and passed by the front desk to grab your Secret Santa names before leaving to start the weekend. You let your friends pick first, while you silently hoped you'd choose someone you at least knew a little. When it was finally your turn to reach into the bag, you held your breath as you grabbed a slip of paper and pulled it out to read the name.

Your face heated up as you saw the name staring back at you. Of course. Of course he was the person you chose. He was at job sites more than in the office, but he always managed to stop by and say hello when he passed through, and you always managed to stumble over your words in return. The only saving grace was that he never drew attention to it--so either he was a complete saint and wanted to save you the embarrassment or he was just completely clueless that he had that effect on you.

You were so lost in your thoughts that it took you a while to realize your friends were saying your name.

"Don't leave us hanging. Who'd you pick?" Nat asked with a smirk, as if she just knew this was going to be interesting.

Your voice sounded much quieter than you'd intended it to when you answered. "Steve Rogers."

Nat couldn't hold back the laugh that tumbled from her lips after your answer. "Oh, that's perfect!"

"Why do you enjoy my pain?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Wanda said as she draped an arm over your shoulders. "It is perfect. If he likes your gift, you can reveal it's from you. Maybe it'll start up a conversation."

You scoffed. "That's a pretty big 'if' though. I hardly know anything about him besides the fact that he's unnecessarily attractive and that my brain goes on vacation when I have to talk to him!"

"You could ask someone in his department? He's been friends with Wilson and Barnes for years," Nat offered.

"I'm not giving Sam more reasons to pick on me."

Wanda hummed. "Everyone's on Facebook--maybe try that?"

When your only response was a sigh, Wanda tightened her arm around you and Nat linked her left arm through your right one. "Operation: Tall, Blond, and Handsome is officially underway."

You whipped your head sideways to look at the smiling redhead next to you. "Natasha, we are not calling it that."

"Oh, we so are. Your mission for the weekend, should you choose to accept, is to brainstorm. Think of what you know about him, make a list, and we'll reconvene on Monday."

The weekend passed quickly and you still had exactly no idea what you could get Steve. You were hoping your friends would give you a break with the teasing, and you'd successfully avoided talking to them about it until you went to get a refill of coffee and they cornered you in the break room.

"So, what did your research tell you?" Nat asked, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl.

"Basically that I'm doomed. Wanna trade names?"

"No way, my person's super easy to shop for."

A soft chuckle sounded from Wanda as she watched the two of you. "Why are you doomed?"

"His Facebook is very professional."

Nat raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

You made a vague motion with your hands, almost spilling the coffee you'd just poured. After a small huff, you placed the mug on the counter and crossed your arms. "There's not really anything there outside of some nice pictures of him with his work team. The few statuses he posts talk about projects he's working on."

"What about Instagram?" Wanda offered.

"I don't think I can do this; I'm just gonna get him a gift card."

"Oh no," Nat said with a shake of her head. "You're not doing that. You've been drooling over that man for months so now you have a chance to shower him in affection and you are going to do so."

Your head shook in disagreement. "It's not gonna play out like that! I'm gonna think for hours and be convinced I've got a winner but later I'll find out it was the worst gift ever and he'll just end up thinking I'm the lamest person on Earth."

"Aw, no one in their right mind would think you're lame," a new, deeper voice sounded from behind you.

There was no time to stop the surprised squeak you made as you turned toward the new arrival. "Steve!"

He chuckled as he made his way over to where you and your friends were standing. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Once the initial shock of his sudden appearance wore off, you felt a slight panic as you wondered if he'd heard any other parts of your conversation. When all he offered was a kind smile before turning his attention to the coffee maker, you guessed you were in the clear.

And of course, your mind decided to take a break too, so you just stood there in silence instead of making conversation like a normal person.

When he turned back toward you, a small crease formed on his forehead, accompanied by a look of slight concern. "Are you alright?"

"Huh?" Hello, brain! Get with the program! "Oh! Sorry, I guess the caffeine hasn't kicked in yet?"

"Party too hard this weekend?" he asked with a wink.

"Oh yeah, my dog and I are real party animals," you replied, your cheeks warming a bit as you blushed. "I mean, well, literally for her but... y'know, whatever."

Steve's eyes lit up. "You have a dog?"

"I--yeah, I bought a puppy a few months ago."

"That's awesome! I've got a puppy too, maybe we could--"

"Sorry to interrupt," another new voice said from the entrance to the break room. You looked over to see Bucky, his attention on Steve and an apologetic look on his face. "The truck's loaded up."

You looked back at Steve in time to catch the slight shake of his head. "Duty calls. It was nice chatting for a minute. See you ladies around."

You didn't even realize your coworkers were still there. When you turned to face them, Wanda and Nat both had matching, wide smiles on their faces.

"Were you both just standing there awkwardly while I stumbled through a conversation?"

Natasha giggled as she went to leave the room. "Oh, you've got it bad; we were talking the whole time and you didn't even notice."

Your eyes widened as Wanda grabbed your cup from the counter and handed it to you. "You did not stumble; you were fine. That is progress."

The television played Home Alone quietly in the background as you sat curled up on your couch with a glass of wine and your puppy. You'd had a goofy little smile on your face ever since you saw Steve that morning, one that Nat and Wanda were quick to point out at various parts of the day.

Feeling a new surge of motivation, you grabbed your phone and opened the Instagram app, grinning again as you found his profile. Then you almost dropped your phone when you started scrolling through pictures.

Was it actually possible to drool over this guy more than you already did?

You thought he looked good at work in his dark jeans and nice shirts, but he looked even better in all the candid and casual pictures. He favored tighter-fitting t-shirts--which you were not complaining about in the slightest. You already knew he was built, but the shorter sleeves gave you an unobstructed view of biceps and holy shit, did he have nice arms.

Then there was his puppy--an adorable, fluffy mutt named Ace. So that was discovery number two, you really dug a guy who loved his dog.

There were pictures of paintings he'd created, medals for races he'd run, a picture of the chaos that was his sketchpad, and more...

You let out a huff as you tapped your phone off and tossed it onto the coffee table. This exercise was supposed to help you learn more about him so you could figure out an awesome gift. Instead you were just falling for him more.

"Thanks for the Instagram tip," you said to Wanda the next morning.

She looked up from her computer screen and smiled. "So did you think of something?"

"Um... well, no? Not really. I just creeped on him like a dork."

"Don't be silly. What did you learn?"

You thought for a moment, sorting through what you remembered of the pictures you saw. "It's unfair how adorable he is?"

When Wanda simply titled her head and smirked, you continued.

"He's artistic; he paints and draws and he's amazing at it. His puppy is super cute and he likes to take him to parks where he can run around. He goes to breweries. He runs in half marathons with Bucky and Sam. He--oh! I got it!"

"I'm so proud of you," Nat said, making her way to the two of you as she walked into the room.

"He posted a picture of his headphones’ cord that always gets really tangled. How about wireless earbuds?"

Nat wiped an imaginary tear from her eye and smiled. "Wanda, they grow up so fast!"

Friday was a whirlwind of a day. You went into work a little earlier than normal, a small box covered in metallic green wrapping paper hidden inside your purse. After making sure no one was around Steve's desk, you walked over and placed the box in his chair before leaving the room again.

As you walked back to your desk, you wondered if he'd like it. Would he try to guess who it's from? It sat in the forefront of your mind for about an hour until you distracted yourself with work and before you knew it, Wanda and Nat were pulling you away from your desk so you could all leave to prepare for the party.

"Stop worrying; you look hot," Nat said from her position on your left as the three of you walked into the conference center where the party was taking place.

Back home, you'd been standing in front of the mirror for twenty minutes making minor tweaks to your hair and makeup, and trying to convince yourself that the dress you chose looked alright. You rolled your eyes as you looked over at her. "I look like I'm trying too hard."

"You do not. Don't be ridiculous," Wanda chimed in from your other side.

While there was still a bit of doubt that lingered over your attire, you honestly couldn't have asked for better coworkers and friends. They were always there to reassure you when your uncertainty surfaced, and they were always genuine with their compliments. So you decided to try to push that thought deep down and hide it away so you could enjoy the party.

The room was gorgeous--twinkling white lights hung from the ceiling and gave the room a soft but beautiful glow. There were tables along one length of the room, covered in white tablecloths and red accent pieces. The center of the room was open as a dance floor and some of your other coworkers were already out there enjoying themselves.

As soon as you'd placed your clutch and phone on one of the vacant tables, Wanda said she was going to get drinks and wandered off toward the open bar. A few moments later, Bucky was standing next to the table, asking Nat to dance. She stalled at first, casting a hesitant look in your direction, until you practically shooed her away.

You were only alone for a couple more minutes before a drink was placed on the table in front of you.

Thankful you weren't alone anymore, you released a happy sigh and reached for the alcohol. "Thanks, babe. You haven't by chance seen--Steve!" you gasped as he sat down in the seat Nat had been in moments before.

"Babe, huh?" Steve said, an amused smirk on his face.

"I, oh um, I thought you were Wanda," you mumbled.

He chuckled quietly. "I might've intercepted her on her way back. You look beautiful, by the way."

"Well, thank you." You felt your cheeks grow warm as you tried to fight the urge to look away. "You look pretty good yourself, Rogers." After a quick glance back at your drink, you raised your head to look him over--he was handsome as ever in his black pants, white shirt, and black tie. And wait, was he actually blushing too?

He cleared his throat and straightened up in the seat. "So, did you get anything good from your Secret Santa?"

"I did. It's probably the softest blanket I've ever touched in my life," you said with a smile. You wondered if this was his way of hinting that he'd figured out that you were the one who left the gift on his desk. Guess there was only one way to know for sure. "Did you?"

"Yeah, some pretty nice wireless headphones. I was getting really tired of untangling my old ones and the cord gets really annoying when I'm jogging so they're perfect."

"Well that's good to hear."

"Any idea who gave you the blanket?"

"Not a clue. Someone who knows I like naps?" you replied with a quiet laugh. "Do you know who gave you the headphones?"

He looked away for a brief moment, as if in thought, before he answered. "Could've been Bucky. God knows he's heard me complain about the tangled cords countless times. Maybe it was Banner, because he has some that are similar and I was asking about them a couple weeks ago. Or this girl in accounting who always strikes up conversations when she sees me."

"Maybe..." You wanted to chastise yourself for actually sounding a little bummed as he guessed about the gift-giver.

"But I'm actually pretty sure it was the cute girl in the marketing department that sits at the corner desk between Wanda and Natasha."

Your head snapped up to look at Steve, and there was that amused grin on his face again. "What?"

"Sam said he saw you walking away from our desks this morning. And a few days ago, you might've liked a really random Instagram post from a couple months ago... a picture of my old headphones in a tangled mess after I pulled them out of my pocket."

Your hands flew up to cover your face, muffling your words when you spoke again. "Oh man, I'm a dork."

Steve laughed and reached toward you, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "It's not such a bad thing to find out the girl you like is stalking your social media accounts."

"Oh my God, Steve that is not helping," you said, but the laugh that bubbled out of you took some of your embarrassment with it.

"Thanks for the headphones, doll," he said softly and it was then you noticed he was still holding onto your hands. "There's a cute little café down the street that's open late, would you want to stop by for coffee after the party wraps up?"

Wow, your friends were right--picking his name was a perfect way to start up a conversation. They were never going to let you live that down.

"I'd love to."

Tags [are open]: @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19 @scarlettsoldier @feelmyroarrrr @shakzer00 @pixierox101 @chrevastan

#caplanschristmaschallenge #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers one shot

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