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literaila · 2 years

Text

it’s really nothing

tasm!peter x fem!reader (office au)

summary: with peter parker as your coworker, work is something to look forward to.

warnings: idiots to lovers, pining, reader has a panic attack, peter gets sick, spider-man stuff, fluff, actual idiots, they both “hate” m&ms

a/n: this is the longest oneshot i’ve ever written. and also, i really like calling people criminals. let me know what you think!

peter parker has pretty eyes.

this is what you're thinking about while he stands in front of you, smiling politely, waiting for you to say something.

to shake his hand and establish a growing work relationship.

they're brown. soft and warm and a bit too bright for so early in the morning--he probably hasn't been up all night and probably doesn't suffer from a severe coffee dependency.

not that you do, either. it's just...

"y/n," you say, smiling even though it feels more like a wince. like trying not to scare away the newbie. you shake his hand.

the newbie who you were supposed to be director of today.

the newbie who you definitely did not forget about.

and who is absolutely not almost devilishly handsome.

his eyes are crinkled at the edges and you can't tell if it's because he's amused or concerned.

or if he is just pleasantly waiting for you to say something.

"sorry," you clear your throat. look away from him, to the person in the cubicle beside you--who is not judging you in the slightest. "busy morning."

"it's okay. i like... awkward silences."

he's got dimples. a little quirk on his cheek as he waits for you to tell him where to go. what to do. how not to get fired on the first day.

"i'm a little distracted," you concede, almost regretful. almost like he definitely thinks you're crazy.

he turns to look at whatever you were staring at. "yeah," he turns back, smiling. "that's a nice wall."

"okay," you take a deep breath in, feel the shame smother you with your shirt. "let's try this again."

peter, who looks like a tiny little beam of light in this room full of half-asleep people, nods. he holds his hand out again. "hi, i'm peter. i'm supposed to ask you where my desk is."

you almost laugh. "y/n," you say again, to clarify. "i'm supposed to show you where your desk is."

"hopefully it's facing that wall."

and so ensues the battle of trying not to stare at him for thirty seconds every time he makes eye contact with you.

fraternization is forbidden from the office.

you lead him to his desk, show him all of the drawers, completely with a jar full of pens--courtesy of the company--and a little welcome gift.

a little bag of m&ms that you may or may not have rushed to get from the vending machine down the hall.

"what's this?"

you swallow. again. maybe for the fiftieth time. "just a 'welcome to the office' sort of thing."

peter raises a brow. "from who?"

"me. i'm, uh, supposed to be your 'office buddy' while you settle in."

more specifically, you're supposed to be the person he goes to. the person with all the answers. the person who does not get distracted when looking into the eyes of their coworkers.

third time's a charm.

peter nods. "oh, well, i don't like m&ms."

there is a tiny fraction of you that would like to beg him not to make this even harder than it already is.

"you don't like m&ms," you repeat.

he shakes his head. his hair is messy. and soft. you'd like to reach out to touch it.

and burn your hand off immediately after.

"i didn't realize we were hiring criminals," you shrug. take the candy from his hands.

peter's jaw drops, minimally. "um, sorry?"

"not like m&ms is a federal crime."

his eyes widen. he looks a bit relieved. and then his face switches, smooth and chill, and almost evil eyes. "guess i must've missed that one."

"if you don't take my candy i'll have to eat it myself."

he raises a brow. "i'm assuming you like m&ms."

"nope. hate 'em."

he laughs. "then why would you give them to me?"

"it was the last thing in the vending machine. and i assumed you weren't also on probation. "

"neither of us is very good with assumptions," he leans back, looking a little bit more comfortable than he did a minute ago.

like maybe he doesn't think that you're absolutely insane.

you smile at him, try and keep the energy up even though you would really like to lay down on his desk and take a nap.

"so," you say, clasping your hands together. "my desk is right there."

across from his, of course, because you're already the office leader in procrastination.

"if you have any questions i won't be too far away."

"questions?"

"yeah. like, about what email to use for an article. or where to find files in the overly complicated filing system. or why it smells like pickles every couple of days."

his brow furrows. "pickles?"

"don't ask."

he picks up a pen. clicks it. puts it back down.

you watch because how are you supposed to do anything else?

especially when he's got a voice like that and a face like that and eyes that could probably remove your heart from your chest and take a bite out of it.

he clears his throat. "does everybody get an office buddy?"

"only the pretty ones."

immediately you turn around, run directly into the wall.

you fall directly onto the floor.

you don't dare to look at his face.

you laugh, awkwardly, scratching your neck. "sorry. i, um. i'm not very good at this."

at talking to people who are insanely attractive, or showing anyone around. or breathing, really.

"being an office buddy?" peter tilts his head, but he's smiling at you.

you're pretty sure the crinkle is amused.

"talking to people. especially when i'm sleep-deprived. or, trying to make a good impression."

peter laughs, seemingly appreciative of your self-depreciation. "you're doing fine," he assures. "you know, after the whole wall thing. and then the m&m thing."

you cross your arms. "it was an example of your everyday employee."

"oh okay, then." he nods. "it worked."

"and that was a welcome gift."

"you called me a criminal."

"i also called myself a criminal. and if you turn out to be anything like me, then you'll last at least a year."

he bites his lip, looking a little bit confused.

you laugh.

"c'mon, i'll show you where we keep the snacks."

his eyes light up even more. you have to take a deep breath in before you start walking.

peter tries not to bother you.

he took this job with the money in mind.

because selling pictures and running around all night and falling asleep in a bed made out of more cardboard than cushion, well, it was time for a change.

time to become an actual adult--in aunt mays words--and get an adult job.

when peter took this job--mostly because it was the first acceptance he'd gotten and the rejection letters were killing his ego, piece by piece--he figured that it would almost bore him to death.

but pay the bills.

but make it possible to keep up with his extracurriculars and avoid getting his water turned off when he was covered in a slime-like substance that he would really rather not think about.

he figured that it would be horrible; because having a job was, inevitably, horrible.

but he was good at suffering. he was good at balancing the scales and doing what needed to be done.

and may had threatened him with not letting him do his laundry at her house anymore, so, he didn't really have any other choice.

when he took the job, peter hadn't thought that he would be spending almost every night rushing to submit his forms and edit a million different articles.

he really hadn't thought that most of his hours spent in the office would be spent staring at you.

at watching your lips move as you talked to someone on the phone; or straining to hear you whispering to yourself--because not even with his senses could he make everything out completely.

or at staring at your hands as you typed. your eyes as you laughed. or when he said something--how he managed to, peter wasn't sure because his brain all but stopped whenever you were within five feet of him--to make you smile.

because your smile, god. it was the worst of all.

it was soft and beautiful and so mesmerizing that peter was worried you had already killed him every time he saw it.

there was just something about you.

something funny. something intriguing. a tiny little thing he wasn't sure how to describe.

and so, it really wasn't his fault that he didn't get any work done.

it's not as if he'd chosen to sit right across from you and be forced to watch you work all day.

he made a conscious effort not to.

to only stare when you were staring back.

to type random things onto his document and swear that he was actually going to get something done.

today.

but, of course, today he was having a problem.

the problem being that he didn't want to bother you but he also hadn't talked to you all morning.

three weeks after he'd officially met you.

you were his office buddy. his friendly coworker who he was just a little bit infatuated with.

and he didn't want to bother you.

he tried not to.

to keep his staring down to a minimum and avoid planning what he was going to say to you the night before.

he smiled at you during lunch, asked how everything was going.

and that was that.

until now, because peter was having a problem.

"hey," peter whispered, trying to keep his voice down.

you looked up from your computer, a quick smile making its way to your face.

peter pretended not to notice the three cups of coffee on your desk.

or that your shirt was inside out.

"hi, peter."

"hi. i'm--i'm having a little bit of trouble with a document..."

you raised a brow, making one of your eyes quirk up. just so peter could memorize the color a little bit more. "trouble?"

"i don't know how to change the font."

it wasn't a complete lie. it also was a poor, poor excuse to talk to you.

to not bother you.

"the font?" you ask as if he was lying.

which he would never do. especially not to get your attention.

"i've never used this program before."

"microsoft word?"

he nods. he watches the edge of your mouth quirk up.

he watches your fingers tap against the desk.

"okay," you say, so easily. "i'll show you."

you stand up, close enough to peter for him to smell your perfume and practically taste your amusement.

"thanks," he says, quickly, taking a couple of steps back.

and then a couple of steps more.

he allows you to lead him back to your desk. to sit in his chair and spin around, just so that he's looking at your face again.

"i like what you've done with the place," you say, gesturing to his almost empty desk.

"thanks. i try."

you laugh. "very cozy."

and then you spin around again, and peter leans a bit closer to you, watching your eyes as they flick over the computer screen.

"see the little 't'?" you patronize him, using the cursor to point.

he avoids laughing and giving himself away. he feels like a child.

which, in hindsight, he pretty much is.

peter nods. he's sure you can feel it.

because he can almost feel it when you swallow.

"you click that," you do so, "and then choose whatever font you want. except for comic sans. because that is against office policy."

"what if i like comic sans?" he whispers, closer than he wants to be to your ear.

"then we can't be friends and i'll be switching departments."

he chuckles. "where would you go?"

and he leans up, just so you can turn around again. and maybe because he feels little bit lightheaded.

it's really nothing.

"probably legal. they have a ping-pong table down there."

"and a dungeon with all of their lost souls."

you shrug. "reasonable price to pay."

you're smiling at him, so small that he might not notice if he hadn't been watching you do it for three weeks.

"i'd personally go with janitorial. get the whole place to yourself."

"they also have to clean up your desk, so."

he crosses his arms. "what is that supposed to mean?"

"you think i haven't seen the old wrappers and cans of soda? did you clean up just for me?" you touch your chest, mock appreciation.

"nope. it is 10 am, and the janitors love me."

"i highly doubt that."

you stand up, wiping your hands on your pants. "okay. you got it now?"

"yup. thanks for your help."

peter can see you trying not to laugh. he watches very closely.

"sure thing, peter. let me know if you have trouble finding the space bar."

and if peter's got a little bit of a crush, so what?

he likes his new job.

you poke him on the shoulder. "peter."

he doesn't budge. his eyes barely even move. his chest just barely inflates.

so you resort to almost pushing him out of his chair. "hey," you say, just a little bit louder. "peter."

and then, as soon as you've begun to push him again, his hand darts out to grab onto yours.

you let out a little yelp.

it scares you more than it scares him. you try to flinch back but his grip is hard, his eyes are stern and confused as he looks at you.

as he looks down at the hand that's on you; creating bruises on your wrists.

and then he lets go, as if your hand was burning hot, and jumps away from you.

"i'm sorry--"

"are you okay?"

peter blinks. looks like he's forgotten where he is or what he's doing here. he blinks again. "what?"

"you were asleep. i woke you up."

"oh."

you nod. take a breath in and readjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. "you okay?"

"i'm fine."

you stare at him. his eyes are a little bit wild. a little bit all over the place.

he's staring at his keyboard like he's lost the ability to think clearly.

"peter," you say, softly. "it's five."

"five?"

"yes. time to go."

"oh."

you frown. "how long were you asleep?"

"not long. like, an hour."

some part of you wonders how you didn't notice that. considering how much you're looking at him on any average day.

"i didn't realize. i would've woken you up sooner."

you rub your hand, taking a step back as he gets up from his desk. as he grabs a bunch of spare things and doesn't really look you in the eyes.

"it's fine. i wasn't getting a lot done anyway."

his voice is quiet. soft. a bit rough--like he's been using it too much. sore.

"having a hard time sleeping?" you ask, trying not to step over the boundaries of your office buddy relationship.

peter snorts. "you could say that."

you nod. stand there uncomfortably.

not sure if you should just leave or wait for him. which one will cause you more pain.

peter looks up. he sighs. "your hand," he gestures to the red mark you've got on your wrists--which really don't hurt that bad but are a bit startling. "i'm sorry."

"oh," you look with him. shrugging. "it's fine. it's what i get for waking you up."

"no, i just--" he pauses. shakes his head like he's being stupid. "sorry. i don't know what's wrong with me."

"i'm sure there's a multitude of answers, peter parker."

you say it with a smile on your face, trying to avoid the seriousness of this situation. in which, you should probably be concerned for him.

in which you would really like to hug him because he looks sort of sad. sort of crumbled as he picks up his bag. sort of small.

he chuckles. "good guess."

"ready?" you ask him, straightening up.

"i'll walk you to your car."

you hold a finger up, brow raised. "i think i'll walk you to your car. 'cause you're looking a little... green."

peter blinks.

"and also because i'm a gentleman."

"of course," peter snorts a little bit, beginning to walk. "thanks for waking me up," he says, "i would've just slept there all night."

"and then what would the janitors think of you?"

he waves a hand. "they'd just clean around me."

"or call the police."

"yes. or that."

you smile at him.

appreciate the way he smiles back. even if it's just for show.

when peter runs into you just as he's leaving the bathroom, it's a completely normal reaction to be a little bit shocked.

to crave the warmth of your body, even if it's slamming into him and causing him to trip.

causing you to trip, which, peter does not take advantage of.

he does, of course, steady you with his hands, looking down at you as you blink.

"woah," you say. "i didn't think i was going that fast."

"practicing for a marathon?"

you glare at him, just a little. "just going to lunch."

your eyes are delightfully smooth. your mouth is quirked up in peter's favorite way.

he laughs. "i would run too."

"sorry. didn't mean to crash into you."

"it's fine."

he stares at you for a moment. waiting for you to say something.

you don't because you're not a strange coworker trying to preserve any minute with him you can get.

"where are you going?" he asks, rocking on his heels.

"forced to go to the sandwich shop on the corner. i forgot my lunch."

"charlie's?"

peter watches you lick your lips. he watches you breathe in and out and pretends that he's not being weird.

he's not.

"yeah. have you been there?"

he nods. smiles a little bit. "it's good."

you smile back.

he breathes in; trying to match his heart to yours.

you look a little bit disheveled; a little bit eager as you stare at him.

and he's got no clue how he looks because he's got no control over his body.

you breathe out. "well..."

"oh," peter steps aside, running a hand through his hair. "enjoy your lunch."

"thanks, you too."

and then you walk away from him.

peter tries not to feel a bit begrudged by his lack of conversation skills--particularly when it comes to you--and he tries not to think about how warm and soft your skin is, or how cute you look when your hair is a little bit messed up.

but then you turn around, clearing your throat. "you, um, wanna come?"

it barely takes peter a second to say "let me grab my bag."

"where'd you work before this?" you ask peter, sipping on some coffee.

nursing the fact that you're going out to lunch with him and that he offered to pay.

not that it means anything. it doesn't.

it'd be nice to have a friend around the office, though.

and it's nice to know that he doesn't completely hate you. yet.

peter swallows some of his sandwich, face contorting strangely. "i did some pictures for a couple of newspapers... but um, just a lot of odd jobs," he shakes his head. nonchalant.

"you like photography?"

"just a hobby."

you raise a brow. "that's not what i asked."

"yeah," peter answers, slowly. "i like it."

"you must be pretty good at it, you know, since you got paid for it."

he shrugs again. "i'm alright."

you let out a confused breath, trying to take his short answers as a good sign.

as any sort of sign.

"how long have you been working here?" peter asks you, quickly changing the subject.

you pretend not to notice.

"oh, a year and some odd months."

peter leans a little bit closer to you. "and you've lasted this long?" he whispers.

you laugh. "it's not that bad. good holiday pay. free vending machine snacks. and clive, the elevator guy, brings me coffee sometimes. can't let him down."

"clive?"

you frown. "you haven't met clive?"

peter shakes his head.

"that is a problem. i'll introduce you to him. it'll change your life."

peter laughs.

"no, i'm serious. after i met clive i was a completely different person."

"i guess we'll see."

"no, peter. i wouldn't joke about clive."

peter raises a brow. "you joke about getting fired all the time."

you wave a hand. "pfft. have you ever even met the boss?"

you say the words like they're formidable.

kind of like how peter is looking at you right now.

his eyes are absolutely insane.

"um..." peter thinks for a moment. "no, i don't think i have."

"me either."

"really? you've been there a year."

you point at him. "exactly. who's going to fire me?"

peter smiles. "fair point."

you nod at him, content.

happy, for some strange, incomprehensible reason. you can feel his eyes on you.

you look up at the clock.

"you better finish your sandwich," you tell him, meeting his eyes. "we've got fifteen minutes."

and so it begins.

"hey," peter says, sticking his head in front of your face, and interrupting your typing.

you scoff and push him away, moving so you can see the screen again.

resume typing.

"y/n," peter sings.

"i'm working."

"why?"

you turn towards him, sighing. "what do you need?"

he gestures towards your coffee cup, smiling. "want some more coffee?"

"no. i've had two cups already."

peter raises a brow. "that's low for you."

"rude."

he grabs your cup. "don't worry. i know how you like it."

"stalking me, peter parker?"

"you're in there all of the time," he deadpans. "it would be hard not to know."

"rude," you repeat.

peter turns around, whistling as he carries both of your coffee cups.

you shake your head, somewhat amused, somewhat confused.

you blink until the image of his face and stupid smile is gone.

continue writing.

and then peter sticks his head around the corner again.

"by the way, you're missing a comma in line three."

and you hate him, just a little bit.

you barely even smile as you add the comma in.

peter has been looking for you for the last ten minutes.

it's become sort of a thing to walk out together; to make fun of the building as you go, swearing that you're never ever going to come back.

peter, well, he likes the opportunity to stare openly at you while you laugh.

and when you weren't at your desk, peter took the time to explore a little bit.

and maybe go through some of your drawers looking for snacks--not that he'll admit to it when you ask.

he finds you in the basement, going through a filing cabinet.

"what're you doing?" he asks, attempting to scare you as he turns on a light.

you've got a flashlight in your mouth and a glare in your eyes.

"that's too bright," you say, around the flashlight.

"woah. what's going on?"

peter gestures to the mess on the floor. to the papers you're practically buried in.

"i couldn't find a file, and nancy in information technology said that it 'wasn't in the database' so i'd have to come and look for it down here. and none of these are alphabetized."

"ah. and did nancy use that snarky tone of voice?"

you glare even harder at him. "yes. she was very unpleasant."

peter groans as he sits down right next to you, messing with a file you've left on the floor. "sure you're not projecting?"

"peter, you should go home."

he laughs. "c'mon, you can't stay here all night. why don't you look for it tomorrow?"

"i need it tonight."

he puts a hand over yours, urging you to look at him. "you're gonna be looking forever. who knows the last time these were organized?"

you sigh, head drooping. "i know. i was trying to do it myself but..."

"there's thousands of these," peter finishes for you.

"yeah."

he laughs. "yeah."

you rub your eyes, and peter watches you as you try not to yawn.

"when was the last time you ate?" he asks.

"had lunch at my desk."

"you know that's not enough," he chides. "that was six hours ago."

"my deadline is today. i didn't realize i needed the file until today."

you sound just a little bit angry. and absolutely tired.

peter can see the circles under your eyes, and the furrow between your brows that hasn't gone away since he walked in.

"okay," peter sighs, taking the stack of files from your lap.

"peter," you sigh. "i really need--"

"i'm gonna help you."

you look up at him, frowning. "what?"

"it should only take an hour or two with both of us. and then we'll go get something to eat. and then you'll go home and sleep."

"it's--peter. that's sweet, but you don't have to. it's already late and--"

"c'mon," he says, handing you a couple. "who am i going to annoy if you're at home sleeping tomorrow?"

there's just a quirk of your lips. and then it stills, and you're staring at him very seriously. "are you sure? i know you don't get a lot of sleep anyway."

he smiles, nudging you with his shoulder. "we'll work fast. and then have fries."

and the smile it earns him is worth the exhaustion the next morning.

"hey," you frown, tilting your head to get a better look at his jaw.

peter looks over, eyebrows raised. "hmm?"

you point to the side of his face, brows furrowed. "you've got a bruise."

peter touches the spot you're pointing to--as if you've just reminded him of this--and winces. "oh. yeah."

"does it hurt?"

he shrugs. "a little."

"what'd you do?"

he smiles. "how do you know that i did anything? some of us wake up looking this good."

"peter."

he rolls his eyes. looks away from you and sighs. "i was helping may hang some pictures. dropped one."

"on your face?"

"no, actually," he says, smiling at you. "i dropped it on my foot. the bruise just happened to show up on my face."

if it wasn't for his smile you might push him off of the bench.

"you're stupid," you respond. "and reckless. and stupid. did may yell at you?"

he snorts. "told me that just because i 'act like a child' doesn't mean i'm not 'a responsible adult' and that i shouldn't be so 'stupid.'"

you nod, pleased. "good. now i don't have to."

peter is not staring.

he does not stare at you, he swears.

he watches the wall instead.

the wall with its lips and eyes and nose and cute little crinkle in its brows.

he watches the walls and he doesn't get any work done.

and when you look back at him--because you always do--he'll make a face at you. gesture towards the clock with a frown.

it might get him a laugh. or a pout.

and peter finds both of those things equally gratifying.

so it anyone asks, peter does not stare at you. he has no reason to. no need to look at something that he already knows very well.

and still, he can't quite look away.

"where are you?" you say, immediately, without any greeting.

because it's ten in the morning and you're actually staring at a wall. a wall that might've been interesting about five months ago before brown brown eyes took its place.

now it seems boring, blatant, and annoying.

"hello?" peter says, sounding as if he's attempting an old man.

"hi, peter. where are you?"

"at home."

"really?" you say, rolling your eyes into the receiver so that he can feel it. "i thought you were sitting right across from me. what i really meant was, where the hell are you?"

there's a pause. a quick shuffling. and then: "i'm sick."

you frown. "sick?"

"you know the thing where your body begins to ache, and then you--"

"i don't need to hear about your bodily feelings."

peter laughs. "well, that's where i am."

you almost whine. you almost swear to god that you're going to drag him in here so that you don't want to nap all day.

or go over to his apartment and have him cough in your face.

"what am i supposed to do?" you ask, spinning around in your chair, allowing the cord to wrap around your chest.

it's not like anyone is looking at you.

"i don't know," peter answers, voice muffled. "your job?"

"that's boring."

"so is reality tv. where did all the good stuff go?"

"you're at home watching tv and i have to work."

you hear peter sigh. "i'm at home sick and you're perfectly healthy at your desk. you get to talk to clive today."

he sounds a bit desperate; a bit peeved.

"clive misses you."

"he tell you that?"

"no. he actually told me that he wants his money."

you spin back around. pretend to type something into your keyboard.

"not this again."

"you lost the bet."

"i did not, you both knew that i--no, you know what?" peter pauses, breathing against the microphone. you almost have to tilt the phone away from your ear. "i'm too sick to argue."

your brows furrow. "that's not good."

he laughs. "i'm going to take a nap. get an article done. ask clive about cacti. steal all of the m&ms from the vending machine."

"it's not like anyone eats them."

"goodbye, y/n."

"but, peter..." you whine.

and that's how you end up at his door, shivering on his welcome mat.

peter frowns as he opens the door. "what're you doing here?"

you, immediately, walk right past him, feet pounding on his floor.

"i brought soup," you say, instead of answering. "and good company. and crackers."

"i don't like soup."

peter follows you into his kitchen--because somehow you know where everything is and are completely comfortable in his house already--leaning against the counter.

he tries not to wince as his leg strains to keep up.

you stare at him a moment, frowning. "you don't look sick. do you have a fever?" you reach out to touch his forehead but peter leans back.

"i don't like soup," he repeats.

"ah," you wave a hand. "yeah you do."

"no."

you sigh. "peter. soup is good for you. and so is getting out of bed."

peter stares at you for a moment.

any other day he might've appreciated the faux oblivious smile on your face. or the humming you're doing as you look for a bowl.

"y/n," he says, flat.

"hmm?"

"how did you get my apartment number?"

you turn back to look at him, eyes wide. "you know," you say, calm. "google."

he stares at you.

"i looked it up."

he raises a brow. takes the weight off of his left leg.

"you have a file, peter. which is very useful when your favorite coworker wants to bring you soup because you're sick."

"clive is my favorite, so--"

"you're sick," you emphasize. "which means you should go lay down. i'll bring you the soup when it's warm."

peter bends down so he can look you directly in the eye.

so he can stare at you a little bit closer and laugh when your eyes begin to disappear.

so he can watch your skin curve and fall and all of the indentations that he can't see from more than a foot away.

you stare back at him, eyes wide.

"you're not sick," he mocks, "which means you should be at work."

you cross your arms. "it's my lunch break."

your stubbornness would usually excite peter, but it's getting hard to stand.

"did you eat?"

"coffee in the car. and i stole some candy from the candy jar."

peter frowns. "that's not lunch."

he teases a small strand of hair out of your eye, pokes you in the forehead gently.

you pretend to fall backward.

"i'll have some soup," you say, pleasantly, stepping past him. "there's enough for two."

"you could've come after work," peter says, mostly just so that you'll look at him again.

so he can catch an inch of your smile and hide it in his pocket forever.

it's a crime that his camera is in the other room.

"i was worried," you admit, a little bit softer than usual. "i didn't think you could get sick."

"i am human," and even peter doesn't really believe it.

"yeah, but you're, like, naturally gifted. immune system of steel."

"i wash my hands."

you laugh, the small sound is a beacon in the room.

an earthquake shaking peter's core, again and again.

"you don't have to be worried about me," he says.

but what he really means is thank you for coming, and i wish you'd stay all day.

he means absolutely nothing at all.

"it's not just that," you turn around, gentle light in your eyes, face morphing into something peter can't describe. "i missed you," you tell him. "it's boring."

he tilts his head. tries not to let the words fall too far to the ground. "you done it before," he protests, just so you'll smile again.

"well, i didn't have any friends at work before."

peter takes the words. he grabs them from the air with his hands and throws them into a corner somewhere very far away.

he waits a moment, for you to laugh at him, to smile, to tell him what the hell to do about any of this.

and, because you know him, you do.

"go lay down," you tell him, pointing towards his door. "it'll be just another second."

and peter tries not to limp as he walks away.

he tries not to look back at you; fails.

it really means nothing.

it means nothing as you push away from your desk, legs feeling surprisingly limp, hands shaking as you use them to stand up.

as you run them over your face, making sure that you're still here.

you look towards peter's desk and see nothing. he's sick today, you remember.

he's been sick for three days.

that this is all normal, and perfectly fine, and just your average workday, really.

except for the overwhelming feeling pulling at your chest, making it just minimally harder to breathe.

harder to think. to see. to wonder where you are and why you're supposed to be here.

work, you rationalize. you think it through again and again.

and it still doesn't help.

you take a step, moving away from the cubicle, from the phone that you've left stranded on your desk and the tears that--as you'll find out later--have ruined a document.

you take another step, swearing to yourself that if you're going to throw up--which isn't even a possibility really--it won't be here.

it won't be in front of these people, and it will not be over something so small. so trivial.

still, that sort of fluctuating anger crawls further up your throat.

if you tried to speak, you would find only air in the place of words. you would find a dry and broken throat.

you would find that you've lost the ability.

you walk down the hall, nervous tears dribbling down your cheeks.

you wipe them away with an errant hand that you can't feel.

the next goal is the bathroom. the next goal is to calm the hell down and try and pull yourself together.

it's only nine in the morning.

it is too early for any of this.

too early for the sun to be up and too early for these feels to have collapsed your chest in whole.

you were fine when you woke up, you swear.

you had breakfast, got to work, had coffee, got to work.

there's no disorganization in a routine that you've been developing for years. in the same job that you've been used to since you got there.

panic attacks aren't acceptable when everything is fine.

you're fine, you tell yourself, a meek repetition in your brain, but whoever is controlling this doesn't seem to care.

you're fine.

the bathroom is two hallways away. on normal days, you have to plan out when you need to pee.

you clench your fists so tight that they lose blood circulation.

you wipe another tear away, angry at the movement it takes to do so.

ashamed to be walking down this hallway and avoiding the eyes of coworkers you would usually smile at.

but they don't deserve this sight.

you walk a little bit faster, unsure how far you've gotten.

it could be inches. it could be miles.

and it's at this point--when you've made it so far from your desk that you can no longer feel the indention of your chair on your legs--that you realize that this isn't going to get any better.

that compartmentalization has failed you, once again.

your eyes burn as you look down at the floor, trying to note all of the coffee stains you can see as you walk along.

you fill your lungs with air, basking in the bit of relief, the cool feeling in your chest before the anger comes back swinging.

it mocks you with a laugh. with a funny little remark about how deep breathing won't get you through this.

and it's fine.

you walk faster, swearing to yourself that you just need a moment alone.

and then you hear a quick little "hey," before you run directly into someone. quickly looking up while your eyes fill with tears again. mistake mistake mistake.

running into your coworker--especially this one--is definitely a mistake.

especially with his eyes and his face and every single thing that he just seems to know.

"hey," he says, softer, trying to keep you steady with one open hand, the other holding a coffee mug.

you're pretty sure that he just spilled some of it on the floor but you don't dare let yourself look.

this is fine, you think, as his fingertips burn your skin.

"peter,” you whisper, voice cracking. "what're you doing here?"

you try not to wince.

immediately, he's frowning. "what's wrong?"

you laugh. you chuckle. you practically cackle at the words.

what's wrong, do you think? nothing.

absolutely nothing.

you stand up even straighter. "nothing. i'm fine. how are you? feeling better?"

you're very confident that he can't hear the hesitation in your voice. after all, you're completely fine.

you smile at him.

you know that there's something else you should be saying, something funny, something to make him smile.

this might be normal if you could just figure out what that something was.

"c'mon," he whispers, little concerned brow. little evil eyes. "you're crying."

you clear your throat. "am i?" pretend to wipe away any remains. "i get really bad allergies this time of year."

"you don't have allergies."

you laugh again, little bit smaller. there is no evidence of a lie on your face.

the feeling is still there, laughing with you.

"i think i would know, peter," you say, taking a step back from him. "just heading to the bathroom so--"

"y/n," he's even softer, like whatever you're saying is causing him physical pain. "you don't have to lie."

"i'm not lying," you swear.

you swear again and again that you're not going to start crying in front of him.

because if there's one thing that could make this any worse--besides an actual heart attack--it would be peter parker watching you cry.

"did something happen?"

"no. i have to go to the bathroom."

"did someone do something?" he's leaning down a little bit, trying to get a clearer view of your eyes.

there's really no better view than this, you think, staring into his brown eyes. waiting.

"nothing happened, peter."

"then why are you crying?"

"i already told you--"

he tilts his head. he's breathing almost normally. he's standing close to you. his eyes are so gentle, warm. "i just want to make sure that you're alright. you don't look alright."

"i'm fine," you say, out loud, through clenched teeth.

and another tear falls down your face, mocks you as it hits the ground.

and then another, because where else are they supposed to go?"

"okay," peter says, leaning down just a little bit so he can grab your hand. taking a step closer, and using a hand to get you to look at him.

to rub your skin with the tip of his thumb.

to drive you even more insane than you already feel.

any other time, this might be a dream.

he takes a moment to look at you. and you look back, a bit perturbed. a bit annoyed. a bit anything but fine.

and then he nods. "okay," he repeats. looks up from you to around the office--you don't want to know how many eyes are on the two of you.

peter uses his grip on your hand to pull you, clearly not hearing your protests, as he drags you into a room.

into a maintenance closet that you didn't even realize existed.

"there," he says. "no more people."

the room is big enough for you to take a step away from him. breathe out. "thanks."

but it doesn't help.

the tears continue because the floodgates are open and the universe would like to continue to make a fool of you, thanks.

"it's okay," peter says, and he takes the step forward. his hands wipe away your tears, but they aren't fast enough. "it's okay. you don't have to tell me."

and then, in a quick gentle motion, he wraps you in his arms.

he holds you so close. so tight.

fingertips trailing on the skin of your neck. chest smelling exactly like his house.

breaths and heartbeats in your ear.

"why are you here?" you whisper, against his chest. just to break the silence and no longer feel overwhelmed by his very proximity.

"i missed you," peter answers, quickly. "i feel better."

"that's good."

he nods against your head. breathes in even deeper.

you're not sure if it's for you or him.

"peter," you whisper, and your voice shakes.

you topple over the side of the building.

but he catches you.

"i've got you," he whispers. "whatever happened, i'm here."

"thank you."

"shh," he says, and "don't be ridiculous." and "you look pretty even when you're crying." and "i would offer you some m&ms right now, but i think that would be counterproductive."

and you breathe against him, allowing yourself to laugh.

allowing the feeling to envelop you whole.

you almost don't mind, because however much panic is stuffed down your throat, peter is holding you.

peter is hugging you and whispering in your ear.

"it's okay," he repeats, a different variation of your own words. "i've got you," he promises.

and it's okay, you think.

it's completely fine.

this is nothing.

except, you know, falling in love with peter parker.

"what is this?" peter mouths to you from ten feet away.

he's got no idea why you're staring at him, but he doesn't really mind.

"what?" you mouth back, lip quirked a little bit too much.

peter raises his brows. points at the letter in his hands.

you squint at it.

he waits.

and then you shrug your shoulders. "i don't know," you mouth to him.

he stares blankly at you. thinks about throwing it across the room.

you laugh and look down at your desk, resuming whatever you were getting done before he interrupted.

but peter doesn't mind that very much anymore.

he emails you with no subject line.

an invitation.

you take five minutes to respond. in which, peter spends throwing trash into his trash can from six feet away.

he gets every single one in.

for the work party thing?

you look up at him, raised brow.

yes.

peter thinks about how it would be easier to just text.

yeah. they do one every year

did you go?

yes

was it lame?

yes. and no. there was a dart board

you're a liar

you smile up at him. pretend that you're the most productive employee here.

peter chooses to ignore your face so that he doesn't get distracted.

are you gonna go? he asks.

not sure. are you?

for the dartboard

wise decision

go with me. i promise no lameness.

he can hear you laugh but he doesn't look up.

just keeps your voice as a soundtrack in his mind. copy and pastes the sound. hits save.

you're a liar peter

but he finally smiles at you.

peter parker is, above all else, completely wrong about the party.

not that it took much convincing on his part; one single word, one single chance to hang out with him for just a little while longer, well, that was enough.

it was enough of an answer, enough of a promise, and the threat of honeysuckle eyes staring at you until you fell apart, piece by piece.

so the party is lame.

almost the same as last year.

there's a punch bowl on the table, spiked with something you choose not to think about. there's a speaker in the corner of the newly arranged office, blasting music that you don't know the words to.

there's your coworkers, mingling, standing awkwardly together because when is there time to actually talk to each other--nonetheless develop any friendships. or, acquaintanceships.

discluding you and peter, of course.

because, as you've recently become aware, he's your best friend.

he's your best friend when he's curled up on his couch and eating all your popcorn and laughing when you choke in the middle of the movie, but handing you some water anyway, eyes betraying whatever sarcastic comment he was about to make.

he's your best friend when you're eating lunch together, contemplating the benefits of pulling the fire alarm at one in the afternoon.

he's your best friend when he sends you memes over email, swearing that they're going to make you laugh.

he's your best friend when he's throwing things at you from across the office, earning the two of you some nasty looks from the same coworkers in the room now.

he's your best friend when you want to kiss him.

when you want to lean in just a little bit closer and confess everything to him; allow yourself to be uninhibited by his smiles and eyes and laughter and voice.

he's your best friend, and sometimes, you wish he wasn't.

because it just makes it a little bit harder.

not so easy to stop noticing all the amazing, wonderful, significant things about him when you're spending each weekday with him and listening to his voice over the phone every weekend.

not so easy to stop loving him when he's just...

he's your best friend.

even now, standing too close to you, whispering in your ear.

"do you think they're all robots?" he asks you, gesturing towards the group of people.

"i think we would know by now."

he looks severely judgmental. "look at them," he points, "they're all just standing there. perfect posture. great smiles. well manufactured."

"i'm sure some people think that about you too, peter."

he looks at you, offended.

"oh wait," you say, shaking your head. "you've got the posture of an eighty-year-old, so, probably not."

"i do not."

"ninety."

"we are the same age."

you raise a brow. "there is no proof of that."

"besides our birth certificates."

you wave a hand. "i'm still young," you say, "you're getting up there."

"weren't you the one complaining about 'wasting your life away sitting at a mindless--'"

"that proves nothing."

peter laughs. takes another sip of his punch and winces.

you look around. anything to avoid his face. and his stupid attractiveness.

why you're here, you're not quite sure.

"wait," you say, grabbing peter's shoulder. "i think there's a real person here."

"really? where?"

"nancy."

you gesture towards the woman standing alone, staring at peter like she's going to demolish him in a second. looking at peter like he's an actual greek statue--not too far-fetched--and she'd like to destroy him.

it might make you laugh if you weren't severely irritated.

"nancy from i.t.?" peter asks, looking around.

"yes."

"the same nancy who gave you attitude and then made the two of us go through files all night?"

"yes."

"wow," his eyes land on her, and you watch as she looks away from him, cheeks flushing. "i think she was staring at you."

you laugh.

"no, really. her hatred is being fueled."

"she wasn't staring at me, peter."

he raises a brow, looking down at you. "uh, i'm pretty sure she was. maybe you didn't see it but she had evil in her eyes--"

"she was looking at you."

"what?" he looks back to her, back to you. shakes his head. "no she wasn't."

there's just something about his eyes.

"yes, she was."

"what did i do to her?"

you laugh. "she was admiring the view."

peter's brow furrows, and you take the time to admire his eyelashes, the light hitting the side of his face.

"what does that mean?" peter asks because he's completely oblivious.

and adorable.

"pretty much everyone in this room has a crush on you, peter parker. you're a handsome guy."

"you think i'm handsome?"

you use the time to take a sip of your drink. to look around the room and admire the disco ball on the ceiling. how they got that up there, you're not sure.

peter swallows. "everyone in here?"

"yup."

"even clive?"

you laugh. "clive is well beyond a crush. i think it's considered more of an obsession."

peter smiles. he nods, pleased. "good. i feel the same."

"i'll be sure to let him know," you look down at the floor. try and get the coffee stains out with your foot.

it hurts a little bit to look at peter right now.

to stare at his face and understand that it means nothing.

smiles and laughter--they're yours but not for you.

and it's fine.

you're perfectly alright with that.

you clear your throat. "you should go talk to her."

peter looks up. "who?"

"nancy."

his lips purse. "why would i do that?"

"she likes you."

"she was mean to you," peter frowns, eyes right on you.

looking at you the same way he did that first day. like you're crazy.

like he can hear the words you're saying but they still don't make sense. like he can touch your skin but can't feel it.

you shake your head. "it was nothing. she might be nice."

"why are you trying to set me up with nancy?"

you sigh. "peter."

"are you trying to pawn me off to someone else? because i'd really rather go with clive..."

"i don't--" you sigh again. bite your lip. look down and imagine the ground isn't there. "i don't know. just..."

peter nudges you with his shoulder. "hey. this is lame."

you snort. "i told you so."

there is music blaring in both of your ears. it's gotten increasingly louder in the last thirty seconds.

if you looked over you might see people dancing. you might actually see your coworkers getting along.

but you don't look over. you don't dare take your eyes off peter.

"wanna go somewhere else?" peter asks, with a bit of a smirk.

and then you follow your best friend out the doors, not bothering to look back.

peter has always considered himself to be fairly strong.

after a difficult childhood, a difficult teenager, a difficult life--he thinks that he's grown well. that as long as his feet have remained firmly on the ground, then he must be doing something right.

he must be on his tiptoes now.

"hey," you say, arm locked in his, so close to him that he can smell you. "there's a diner open. wanna get shakes?"

he can feel you.

"shakes?" peter winces.

"peter parker, if you're about to tell me that you don't like shakes--"

he laughs. pulls you towards the shop. holds the door open for you.

he tries to fall back on his heels. tries to remind himself that strength doesn't mean anything. that he could hold you up for as long as you needed. that he would hold you up forever.

he plants his feet in the ground and digs his toes into the soil.

he smiles at you.

"i love shakes," he says.

and what he really means is.

i love you.

"it is two in the morning," you complain as peter rubs his hand together, looking like a child.

excited and lit up and far too awake for this early in the morning.

"i thought you were young," peter says. pulling you along.

his hands are cold.

and still, you don't really mind.

he's holding your hand.

"i am young. and old enough to not want to freeze to death on some swings right now."

"y/n," he chides as if you're being ridiculous. "when was the last time you played on a swing set?"

"probably when i was five."

peter points at you. "exactly. you don't remember what it's like. the joy of feeling like you're going to fall off--"

"and die."

"i won't let you die."

"peter," you say, dryly.

but you're smiling at him.

and as long as he keeps holding your hand, you think, you might follow him anywhere.

when peter notices that you're shivering, he offers you his jacket.

but you don't take it.

"i've seen you in the office," you say to him, the words teasing. "and i know that you're the one always turning the heat up."

"it's cold in there!" peter protests, following you as you lead him to the edge of the world.

as he tells himself that it's nothing.

nothing at all.

expect wanting to keep you awake, to keep you smiling, to keep you from falling on your face, and to keep you in his arms.

you don't take his jacket, so he must resort to the next best thing.

slinging an arm around your shoulder so he can nuzzle his nose into your neck.

"peter!" you squeal, squirming away from him.

but his hands are wrapped around your waist, holding you close.

and he's definitely not taking the time to breathe you in and imagine kissing your skin right where it's most warm.

"are you cold now?" he asks, trailing his nose up your neck, feeling you shiver beneath him.

"no."

"are you sure?" his lips are at your ear.

his grip is weak, barely even there. but he can feel how heavy you're breathing. he can see your breath in the air.

"i'm perfectly content, thank you."

you only stutter a little bit. only sound a little bit shaky.

"you can still have my jacket," peter tells you, lips close to your jaw, nose by your cheek. your skin is soft, smooth.

"i don't want your jacket."

"it's warm."

"so am i," you claim, but you're leaning into him. just a little bit.

peter pretends that it means nothing.

and when he walks you home, you snuggle under the jacket with him.

the pounding in his chest is nothing more but a simple reminder.

he's strong enough to live with it.

to hold you this close and have it mean nothing.

there's this thing.

it's been there for a couple of weeks.

pressure on your chest, an unrelenting reminder that you need to do something.

and you ignore it, for the most part.

tell yourself that it's nothing significant.

but looking at peter now--peter with his flushed cheeks and wide eyes and small smile and eyes and--you can feel it.

trickling down your throat, a gentle river, swarming at the bottom of your stomach.

you take a breath in.

"that was a lot more fun than last year," you tell him because it's only the truth.

his smile widens. "i was right."

you point a finger at him. "the party was lame," you clarify. "but the company was good."

"just good?"

he's got dimples.

dimples that you might drink out of, given the chance.

you shake that thought out of your mind.

"getting cocky, parker?"

his eyes are on yours, swarming your face. "i can tell when you're lying."

the smile on your face feels almost numb.

and you don't say anything back to him.

the pressure enhances, builds and falls, and pounds on the doors to your heart, swearing that it only needs a place to stay.

you've always been too kind.

been too forgiving.

loved a little bit too much.

"okay," peter whispers, taking a step back from you, hands leaving yours. "you should go inside."

"why?" you ask, even though you know the answer.

"it's cold out here."

"i'm not cold."

he smiles. brushes the side of your face with his finger. "liar liar," he says, softly.

his fingertips make your whole body fall apart.

you might be ashamed if you weren't so completely invigorated with him.

"are you going to be okay getting home?" you ask, just to break some of the silence.

tear your heart apart vein by vein.

"i'll be fine."

"it's late," you protest. "you could get hurt."

"i appreciate your confidence," he's smiling at you, but it's not enough.

"peter," you sigh.

his hand falls to your chin, tracing a line up your jaw. "hey," he whispers. "i'll be fine."

"hey," he says to you, again and again.

the pressure increases until you can barely feel anything at all.

and here's the thing about peter.

you can't stop looking at him--from that very first day.

and you haven't been able to stop loving him for months since then.

"i've got to go," he whispers, but you both know that he doesn't really mean it.

"peter," you say.

he stares at you. his eyes flick from every inch of your face, every small spot, every secret that you have written on the skin there.

he's close enough that you can feel his breath.

that you never want him to move away.

and you should really turn and open the door.

you should really go inside and forget about all of this.

you should pretend that this means nothing for just a moment more.

but.

"peter," you whisper, one last time.

"yes?" he answers back, right there. so close to you.

and his eyes stare back at yours. they have answers. they have so many questions.

"you need to kiss me."

and then, he does.

"what?" you whisper to him, walking down the hallway, taking your jacket off, bag in hand.

peter is pretending that he's not trying to slip his fingers in between yours.

he's pretending that this is exactly how it's supposed to be.

"we should've taken the day off," he says.

"we just had two days off."

"not long enough," he swears, whispering so that only you can hear. "i want a lifetime."

"let's start with this week."

he laughs. he's far too close to you.

fraternization is forbidden.

"this is weird," he says. "i want to kiss you."

"you can kiss me at five."

"but i want to kiss you now."

"join the club."

he smiles at you, and finally lets your fingers slip from his. he watches your eyes, so sure on his that it almost makes his knees buckle.

"i'm going to hold you to that," he says.

"good."

and then you walk to your desk, putting your jacket over your chair.

peter is staring at you, but what else is new?

you look up, just so you can smile at him.

with the lips that he's tasted. the hands that he's felt. the girl that he's spent the last two days with, and also can't get enough of.

he wants to run over to you. he wants to kiss you just one last time.

and, if the look on your face means anything, he's pretty sure you feel the same.

he pouts.

you laugh. point at the clock.

he stares some more.

and really, it's not like he got a lot of work done before anyway.

my masterlist here.

tags: @moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @random_writer1021 @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah

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