Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not that Johnny Storm is obsessed—

(You’re obsessed, says Sue on her way to the kitchen when she sees what he’s doing.)

It’s not that he’s obsessed, he’s just in possession of an extremely heightened sense of curiosity cultivated by years of being a member of time-traveling, universe-hopping, space-faring imaginauts. Reed Richards should be proud—

“Johnny, your soda’s about to fall off the coffee table,” Reed says, then reaches out an arm to steady it, the rest of him halfway across the living room. “You should be careful.”

Johnny heaves an aggravated sigh. How was he supposed to concentrate like this?

“I’m gonna regret asking this,” Ben says from his chair facing the TV, “but what the hell are you doing, Matchstick?”

Johnny gives up, dramatically flipping away the small square piece of paper he’s been strategically positioning over the pages of a magazine. “If you must know, I’m solving a mystery,” he says haughtily.

“Oh, a mystery, is it?” Reed asks, interest piqued. “I’ve been known to be fairly good at those—“

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Yes, Reed you’re a super genius and really smart, we know.”

“You didn’t ask me for help.”

“I can figure this one out by myself,” Johnny huffs. He’s not completely clueless. So maybe he’s the dumbest person in the room, but Reed Richards has a way of skewing the curve far too high.

Reed folds his arms together over his lap. “I’m sure you can,” he says calmly. He adds, tapping the side of his head, “You have all the tools.”

Johnny sits up straighter. “Oh, definitely,” he says.

Sue comes back in with a can of soda, notes Johnny’s piece of paper on the floor and smirks knowingly before joining him on the couch.

Please don’t say anything. Please—

Sue picks up the paper and places it on top of a male model on a yacht, covering the upper half of his face, leaving chiseled nose and pouty mouth for Johnny to admire.  “What about this one?”

“Nose is too flat,” he says without thinking.

“Suzie, do you know what this is about?” Ben asks, and now they’ve got his full attention, whatever game is on TV completely forgotten.

“Johnny’s looking for Spider-Man,” Sue says before Johnny can stop her, flipping a page in search of another model.

Ben stares at them. “In...Esquire?”

Sue looks at him, deadpan. “Johnny thinks he must be a model.”

Ben cocks his head, rocky eyebrows sliding together. And then, just as Johnny knew he would, he starts laughing—a low rumble that ends in a hearty guffaw complete with knee-slapping.

“He has all those muscles!” Johnny protests. “He looks amazing in spandex! Have you seen him?”

Ben doubles over in even more laughter, and this time Sue joins him, snickering lightly behind her soda bottle. Johnny hates them both.

“What is the piece of paper for, may I ask?” Reed inquire politely.

Johnny doesn’t want to say it. He really doesn’t want to say it.

“He’s been covering their faces up like this,” Sue says, demonstrating by covering the upper half of her face with her hand.

“Ah,” says Reed knowingly. “Spider-Man‘s mask got a little singed in a fire the other day. As I recall, he had to roll it up so he could breathe through it without inhaling soot.”

Sue points at him. “Bingo.”

Johnny hates all of them.

Johnny knows models. He’s one sometimes himself. He’s dated models—many different models. But none of them, he’s convinced, is shaped like Spider-Man, whose abs and glutes are on display often enough for Johnny to know every dip and swell.  None of them have that particular strong, possibly crooked nose, and really, weirdly kissable mouth.

He wrinkles his nose at that. Not that he wants to kiss Spider-Man. The guy’s hot, but he’s incredibly annoying. He never seems to know when to stop talking, and every time Johnny has tried to get him to hang out together outside of beating villains up, he’s been shot down.

“I have a job, Torchy.”

“I need to get back to work, Flamebrain.”

The dude had a million excuses. What kind of hero has a job ? Captain America’s job is Captain America. The X-Men’s job is to teach other X-Men to be X-Men. Sure, Daredevil’s a lawyer, but how much work is it to look after a couple of blocks in New York City? He has time to spare. He isn’t... everywhere like Spider-Man is. 

No one has been the subject of as many headlines as Spider-Man. No one has graced as many front pages. If Spider-Man’s such a camera whore, Johnny reasons, wouldn’t he have a job that would let him be one?

“He’s not a model,” Sue tells him when he finds Johnny at the kitchen table putting his coffee mug on top of models’ faces in a new magazine.

“Please, no ordinary person’s that camera-conscious and good at posing for it. He loves it. He probably makes a living off doing it.”

“Well, even if he were, you’re not finding him off a stupid magazine with those ridiculous methods.”

Johnny crosses his arms. “What do you suggest?”

“How about...being the friend you say you are until he trusts you enough to tell you on his own?”

Johnny laughs then frowns.

Sue raises an eyebrow.

She’s right. Of course, she’s right.

“You’re no fun and I hate you,” Johnny says, just to get it out of his system.

“I love you, too, baby brother.”

The next time they get together, it’s when Spidey helps him against the Wizard, and Johnny offers to buy him hotdogs, expecting to be turned down once again.

To his surprise, Spider-Man agrees. Johnny buys him three and they find a convenient rooftop. Spider-Man promptly rolls up his mask and starts scarfing them down.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” Spider-Man tells him through a mouthful of half-chewed hotdog. It’s disgusting, but Johnny can’t stop staring. “You’re a godsend, firefly.”

Johnny feels a weird electric tingle run through his scalp, as if someone just brushed their fingers across it. “You’re welcome,” he says, and hears his voice as if from very far away.

Spidey crumples up the empty paper wrapping and lobs it at Johnny, who obligingly sets it on fire, and reaches for another.

“Am I the best friend, or what?” Johnny asks.

“For feeding me? Definitely,” Spider-Man agrees. He grins, and it’s annoying how much Johnny likes the sight of it. He wants to see it all the time. The only acceptable reason for it to disappear from his face is if Johnny kisses it right off.

Oh, Johnny realizes, one step away from the abyss. Oh. That’s what’s happening here.

Johnny wants to kiss him. Spider-Man has relish in his teeth and Johnny wants to kiss him. 

“You’re the best, man,” Spidey says happily, sinking his teeth into the bun.

Johnny’s heart swells.

For all that Johnny loves Spider-Man—and he does, after all, they’re best friends—he hates his pet photographer.

There was a fire in Brooklyn that’s since burned itself out (with some help from Johnny), and the foreign flames he’s just absorbed are running through him like an itch. He heard the click of a shutter and his blood rises. He whips around on the pavement, teetering unsteadily for just a moment, and prepares to give some idiot pap hell.

Peter Parker’s there, lowering his camera, braced against the barrier erected to keep gawkers and civilians away as he takes photos of what’s left of the building and the emergency personnel hard at work.

Johnny stomps over. “Hey. You got nothing better to do or what?”

Peter looks taken aback. “Storm. What’s your problem?”

Johnny points at his camera. “People were hurt in this fire, and you’re—”

“Taking pictures because it’s my job? Like it’s theirs?” Peter asks, waving at a nearby television crew filming a live report.

Johnny deflates just a little.  Maybe he’s just preconditioned to hate Parker’s face because he’s the one constantly providing the Bugle with fuel against Spider-Man—even if Spider-Man weirdly doesn’t seem to mind. “Oh.”

Peter looks him up and down. “You okay?” he asks unexpectedly, sounding concerned. “You seem...twitchy.”

Johnny’s surprised he can tell he’s uneasy, but now he can feel the fire clawing at his insides, wanting out. “I gotta do something. Be right back,” he says, and flames on.

“Okay.”

Johnny wonders why he said that, and wonders again why Peter just agreed to wait, but he’s already higher than the tallest building and climbing still.

He’s well over the city of New York when he sets it free, the flames ripping through his body as he goes nova, lighting up the evening sky like a small sun. For a moment, there’s just pain, the certainty that this time— this time—is when he finally burns out, when his body explodes into nothing but atoms, when the fire consumes all of him, just like it consumes everything else.

But then he’s just Johnny Storm again, blindly making his way down to earth in a barely controlled descent.

He touches down on the same spot he left just seconds ago and falls to his knees.

He hears footsteps running towards him, and someone’s hands are on his shoulders, keeping him from face-planting onto the concrete.

Peter Parker’s face is right in front of him.

“Idiot,” he hears Parker mutter, and he has a comeback for that, really. He just never gets it out of his mouth because, in the next second, Johnny passes out.

He wakes up propped up against a smokestack on a rooftop upwind of the smoldering building, and Johnny has one second to wonder how he got there before the answer presents itself.

“You know, for a minute there, you were the big hero,” Parker says from somewhere to his left. “And then you fainted. The TV people would have had way too much fun with that.”

Johnny straightens and looks around him. “So, what, you whisked me away here? How’d you manage that?”

“It wasn’t that hard.  Only had to drag you a few yards and dump you in an elevator.  Then it was just a single flight of stairs.”

Johnny looks at him suspiciously. “Hell of a lot of work.” He looks at Parker’s camera. “Or am I going to see my unconscious face plastered all over the Bugle tomorrow?”

Peter bristles. “I wouldn’t do that. I’m not an asshole .”

“You do it to Spider-Man all the time.”

“That’s different and also none of your business.”

Johnny makes a face and gets up to watch the building again.  The firefighters are still down there, and an investigator has just shown up.

“What’s it like?” Peter asks, joining him at the edge, and making Johnny’s warning for him to step back stick in his throat. “Being the Human Torch, I mean.”

Johnny blinks at him. “What do you mean?”

Peter studies him. “Does it hurt to be on fire?”

Johnny stares. “No,” he says slowly. “It doesn’t hurt. Because I’m not on fire. Not exactly. What’s with the questions? You thinking to do a human interest piece?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Not sure if you’d be a good enough topic for that.”

“I’m interesting!”

“If you say so,” Peter says, and leans over the edge.

Johnny grabs him by the back of his shirt. “What are you doing?!”

“Taking a picture.  This is a nice angle,” Peter says, planting his feet far apart for balance.

“You’re insane!” Johnny says as he snaps away at the smoking building in front of them and the streets below. He’s still clutching Peter’s shirt because as much as he dislikes the guy, he has no desire to see him splattered all over the pavement.

“I live in New York. I gotta make rent somehow,” Peter says, twisting out of his grip and turning around to face him. His expression is faintly amused. “But it’s nice to know you’re worried about me.”

Johnny scowls at him.  “I’m not! You can do whatever, but for some reason, Spidey likes you and he’ll be pissed if I let you fall screaming on your head.”

“What does Spider-Man have to do with anything?”

“He’d be upset!” Johnny exclaims, waving his arms. “I don’t want him upset!”

Peter gets a weird look in his eye.  “Why not?”

Johnny thinks about it, about Spidey’s grin on top of the Statue of Liberty, relish stuck in his teeth and all.  He thinks about all the times they’ve hung out together and doesn’t know if he can stand it if the only thing he can see of his face—the only part he knows—ever looks sad because of him.

A flash goes off and Johnny drags himself back to the moment, where Parker’s got a sheepish grin on behind his camera.

For a second, Johnny feels like he’s about to have a heart attack.

“Sorry,” Parker says, lowering the camera, apologetic grin still evident. “You just had this really thoughtful look on your face that I thought should be preserved in case it never shows up again.”

Johnny’s mouth falls open.

“I can delete it if you want,” Peter says hastily, his grin vanishing. “Sorry. I should have thought—“

“Do that again,” Johnny says.

“Do what again?”

“Put your camera to your face, like you’re about to take a picture.”

“What? Why? No.”

Johnny does it for him, grabbing him by the wrists and pulling his arms upward.

The camera is large enough to cover more than half of his face, leaving only his mouth, currently turned down in a puzzled frown, in view.

Johnny pulls one of his hands back. “Hey, can you just—Can you just smile for me?”

“Storm, you are weirding me out.”

Johnny sighs and pushes up one of Peter’s cheeks himself, forcing his mouth into a strange, deranged sort of half-smile that’s familiar all the same.

“You have completely lost your mind,” Peter says, shaking Johnny off and jumping back, out of reach.

Johnny feels a laugh welling up inside of him and tries to tamp it down.

A camera whore, just not in the way he thought.  Spider-Man’s a camera whore, and Peter Parker beats out every self-obsessed Instagram celebrity in all of New York City with the best selfie game in town.

Johnny can’t help it. The laughter explodes out of him, and poor Peter looks even more confused.

“Help, I’m stuck on a rooftop with a crazy person,” he says weakly when Johnny flings an arm around his shoulders.

Johnny hiccups, getting himself under control and wiping tears from his eyes. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Peter asks, baffled, but with a hint of fondness Johnny’s surprised he’s never noticed before.

“How about...being the friend you say you are until he trusts you enough to tell you on his own?”

Johnny shakes his head.  “Nothing. Well, maybe I’ll tell you someday. Hey, can I buy you a hotdog? I wanna buy you a hotdog.”

“Why?” Peter asks, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of Johnny’s arm as he’s dragged to the stairwell door.  He doesn’t pull away.

“You just saved me from making the evening news by being filmed passed out on the street, right? For the moment, you’re my best friend. Best friends get hotdogs.”

Peter squints at him.

“I’ll go back to not liking you tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Peter says dryly, but a smile is hovering on his lips. “That’s reassuring.  Okay. I know a cart.”

Johnny lets him lead. Maybe someday Peter will tell him. Maybe someday, he’ll get that kiss. Maybe someday he’ll deserve both of those things.

But for now, Johnny’s happy enough with the idea of a mystery well-solved.

Chapter Text

Johnny should be more worried. Peter had just been injured in a fight. He still had cuts and bruises all over his body, a broken leg, three cracked ribs and a fractured wrist, but Johnny had a smirk on his face and it was annoying.

Peter felt distinctly betrayed.  He’d always thought they were friends. Had always thought Johnny, even through all the teasing and the fighting, actually cared.

Reed walked back into the Baxter Building infirmary just then, his air one of a man filled with purpose, and snapped an X-ray onto a light box. “Hmm. So, the good news, Spider-Man, is that your fast metabolism and healing factor are repairing your body at least three times faster than it would normally take.  If you get enough sleep and proper nutrition—”

Peter winced.

“You should be healed in four days or so.”

“So...are we going to strap him down to a bed and force-feed him vegetables or something?” Johnny drawled from where he sat on the next bed, swinging his legs back and forth. “Because that’s what it would take.”

“The bad news,” Reed continued, pretending not to see the finger Peter was brandishing in Johnny’s direction with his uninjured hand, “is that the, hmm, issue with your voice is not physical but rather magical in nature.”

Johnny’s shoulders began to shake.

“You’re just going to have to wait for the spell to wear off,” Reed said sympathetically. “It seems a lot of participants in the last fight are reporting the same problem.  Well, obviously, they’re not reporting it themselves. But Danny Rand and Hawkeye—the older one—were hit by it, too. 

Johnny’s shaking turned into full-blown laughter and Peter did his best to communicate the fact that he was glaring at him through the mask. “You mean to say that Spider-Man, who never shuts up, has been magically enchanted to lose his voice? This is literally the best day of my life.”

Reed frowned at him. “Given his other injuries, it’s no laughing matter.  In fact, we’ve decided it’s best to have him stay with us for the duration since it’s going to be difficult enough for him to get around, even if he could speak.”

“NO!” Peter tried to yell, his throat burning. But even though everything was working on a physical level—he could feel his vocal cords vibrating—no sound came out.

“Wait a minute, who’s ‘we?’” Johnny asked at the same time. “Was this a team decision? Because I wasn’t consulted. I want to be consulted!”

Reed ignored him.  “The guest room should be about ready.” 

Peter shook his head violently, trying to get up and show them he was fine, really, but his ribs creaked in protest and he ended up pitching himself out of the exam table ungracefully.  His only consolation was that his squeal of indignation was also swallowed up by the spell.

But Johnny was there in an instant, hands reaching out to steady him and keep him from falling to the floor.  The laughter in his face had vanished, replaced by a sick worry that was too almost too painful to bear.  Maybe, just maybe, Johnny did care.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Johnny blinked, and Peter could see every single one of his eyelashes—he was so close. “I can see your jaw moving through your mask, but you know I can’t hear anything, right?”

Peter heaved a sigh, but even that was soundless.

“I suppose you can stay,” Johnny said, very slowly and carefully helping Peter to his feet—well, foot because he still had that broken leg.  “If only so I can laugh at you for the next three days.”

Peter tried not to think about how four days stuck in the Baxter Building sounded so very much like hell.

Taking care of an injured Spider-Man was, Johnny decided, hell.  With Sue away on holiday in Pennsylvania with Franklin for a week, Ben leaving to spend time with Alicia, and Reed staying holed up in his lab, there was only Johnny.

Johnny was trying his best.

It was weird seeing Spider-Man lying in bed without his suit, though. He was wearing Johnny’s old clothes from last season, but the mask still firmly in place over his head almost made him look funny.  Johnny would have laughed, except every small motion Spider-Man made would make him visibly shudder in pain.  He wondered if the other man was screaming under the mask. Or swearing.  The cloth shifted every now and then, and by that afternoon, Johnny had realized that a silent Spider-Man was actually eerie.

“Do you need anything?” Johnny asked, helping him lean back against the freshly fluffed pillows.  “Can you reach the remote?”

Spider-Man clicked the TV on in answer and turned his face in Johnny’s direction.

“What?”

He stared up at Johnny in what seemed to be contemplative silence and then patted the space next to him.

Johnny felt like a vise was pressing in on his temples.  “Do you...Do you want me to sit next to you?”

A single nod.

Johnny hesitated before gingerly lowering himself onto the mattress.  “What are we watching?”

Spider-Man pressed the remote control into his palm and Johnny looked at his face, at the white unreadable eyes.  Not for the first time, he wanted to rip the mask right off.  He wanted to tell him that he already knew, anyway.  That Peter Parker’s secret was safe with Johnny Storm. 

“Hey,” Johnny said, setting the remote control aside for the moment.  “Can we—Can we roll up your mask? It’s got to be uncomfortable under that thing. We don’t have to roll it up all the way,” he clarified hastily, seeing Peter already starting to shake his head.  “Just a little bit, so I can at least see half your expression.  It’ll make communicating easier.”

There was a moment of frozen silence, and then another nod and Peter struggling to roll it up evenly one-handed until Johnny reached out to help him.

There was a bruise on his jaw Johnny and Reed hadn’t seen before, and a cut on his upper lip.

Johnny breathed heavily out his nose, controlling the impulse to run out and throw a few more fireballs around. He rolled the edge of the mask one more time and let it lay flat across his nose.

Peter’s mouth moved and Johnny had no skills in lip-reading, but he could guess what he said.

He forced a smile, sunny and bright, the same one he gave the paparazzi that hung around the Baxter Building every day. “You’re welcome,” he said, and picked up the remote again.  “Now, let’s see... Great British Bake-Off?” 

Peter cocked his head, curious.

“You’ve never seen— Okay, okay. Trust me, you’ll love this. Unless you hate happiness. Knowing you, you probably do. But your mistake giving me the remote,” he shrugged, pressing some buttons. 

Peter lost consciousness not long after the fifth cake, Johnny could tell by how his head lolled dangerously close to Johnny’s shoulder.

He should get up and go, let Peter rest and make lunch. But he didn’t want to move and ten minutes more couldn’t hurt. 

Ten minutes turned to twenty, and twenty minutes to half an hour, until Johnny, too, lulled by Peter’s breathing, fell asleep.

Peter woke up just before sunset, the shadows in the room long and the light dim. A hand rested lightly around his middle—warm and soothing against his aching ribs, and he looked down.

All he could see was blond hair on his chest and the steady rise and fall of Johnny’s shoulders as he breathed.

“Johnny,” he tried, and was unsurprised when no sound came out. Still enchanted, then.

He sighed and settled deeper into the mattress. He was just trying to figure out the best way to wake Johnny and ask for food when his stomach rumbled very audibly. 

“Huh? What?” Johnny shot upright, eyes wide.

Peter’s stomach rumbled again and Johnny, all the way awake, looked at him in both horror and amusement.

“You’re hungry! I fell asleep! I was supposed to make sandwiches and I fell asleep on—”

“On me,” Peter mouthed. 

“I’ll go make them right now,” Johnny said, scrambling off the bed, his face red.

Peter watched him leave, grateful that his stomach rumbling had most likely concealed the extremely loud and extremely fast thump-thumping of his heart.

He touched his side where Johnny’s hand had been.  It was still warm, and the pain, he realized, had dulled.

Maybe all his broken bones would be healed by the end of four days, all the aches and bruises gone, and the hex on him would be lifted.  None of it would matter anyway, because by then he would probably be dead.  Dead from pining like an idiot.  Dead from slowly going out of his mind.  Dead from constant exposure to Johnny Storm.

Reed hadn’t been kidding about Peter’s healing factor.  By the end of the third day, his fractured wrist had healed, and his leg was on the mend.  Reed still kept a cast on the latter, but Peter’s wrist graduated to a reinforced brace.  The bruises all over his body were also beginning to fade. Reed explained that with the worst of his injuries almost out of the way, his healing factor was finally focusing on fixing the smaller ones. 

It was because Peter was getting enough sleep for once, not forcing himself to go on patrols (not that he hadn’t tried and Johnny hadn’t considered beating him unconscious with a baseball bat), and was eating something other than hotdogs and donuts and day-old Chinese takeout. 

Just one more day, and after that Peter could go home. Only because, healed up enough, even Reed and Johnny’s combined powers probably couldn’t stop him from doing whatever he wanted. And he would want to leave, Johnny was sure of it. After all, why would he want to stay? 

Johnny walked alongside him as he hopped on his crutches on the way back to the living room.  “Just one more day,” Johnny said lightly. “Then you’re free.” 

Peter glanced at him but said nothing. Of course. 

Just one more day and you still haven’t told me. After everything, Johnny apparently still hadn’t earned the privilege of knowing his name and his face, and forget about getting that kiss.  He’d helped him clean and replace his bandages, had helped him dress, had stuck close to him except when they were sleeping or when one of them was in the bathroom, and still Johnny didn’t deserve to be in on the secret.

“It’s just as well,” he continued, faking that smile again. “We’re almost out of episodes of the baking show.”

Peter stopped walking and made a grabby gesture with one hand.  Johnny knew what it meant and handed him his phone. 

Peter bent his head, leaning on one crutch, and started typing furiously.

No Season 2? the screen read when Peter showed it to him.

Johnny laughed.  “Yeah. Yeah, there’s more of it. I wasn’t actually sure you liked it.”

Peter smiled and started typing again. I like it. And then, for some bizarre reason, rolled down his mask. Johnny could tell that he was saying something under it, the mask moving as if he were.

Johnny frowned, puzzled, and Peter started typing again.

I’m hungry.

“You know what’d be great about you being gone?” Johnny asked, rolling his eyes as they resumed walking. “We would be free of the whims of the black hole you call a stomach. I swear, you could eat Reed out of house and home.”

There was no snappy comeback to that, and Johnny couldn’t help the unpleasant twist of his gut.  Unlike his physical wounds, Peter’s magical affliction showed no signs of lifting.  Johnny had only been joking about being happy that something had successfully shut Spider-Man up.  He had no idea he would miss his stupid voice and annoying wisecracking and endless river of petty complaints. 

“Hey,” Johnny said, pausing at the threshold to the living room. “When you get your voice back, will you tell me your name?”

Peter froze.

Johnny shouldn’t have asked. He was supposed to know better than that.  That was an unspoken rule.  It’s just been three whole days of nearly constantly being together, and he was a little tired.  “Forget it,” he said quickly.  “I’m just messing with you. I don’t need to know your name. Not even your initials.”

Peter handed the phone back, signaling the end of the conversation, and Johnny felt like kicking himself.

“I’ll call for a pizza,” he decided suddenly. “To celebrate getting you out of our hair soon.” 

Peter swung around wordlessly and clomped to the sofa, and Johnny turned away to make the call.

“My name is Peter Parker and I like you.” That had been surprisingly easy to say. Just as easy as the half a dozen times he’d already said “I like you.”

Of course, Johnny hadn’t heard him once, which was convenient. 

Peter stared down at his slice of pizza and scowled. 

“Is something wrong? Did I get the wrong kind? Did you want pineapple?” 

Peter glared at him. 

Something of that must have shown through despite the mask because Johnny laughed. 

“Can I get you anything else?” 

Peter experimentally shifted his bad leg on the ottoman and pointed at it.

Johnny made a big show of sighing and fetching a pillow to place under it.  “Don’t get used to this, Spidey.  After tomorrow, I’m not going to be at your beck and call anymore.”

Peter frowned down at his slice again.  I know. 

Johnny dropped down next to him. Their arms brushed, and Johnny scooted away, putting space between them.  Peter had gotten used to him doing it every time something like that happened, but it still stung all the same. 

“I like you,” Peter said, trying it out just one more time. 

Johnny dropped his pizza.

Oh. That was his voice, bouncing off the walls, loud because he hadn’t been modulating for days. 

Crap.

Peter tossed his slice of pizza back in the box, Spider-sense letting it land in exactly the same place it had been before he’d taken it, and launched himself out of the couch.

“No, no, no, wait!” he heard Johnny cry.  “Your leg—You’re not supposed to walk on it yet! Spidey!”

He kept on going. Maybe if he moved fast enough, he wouldn’t hear Johnny reject him.

“Peter!”

Peter froze, said leg already poised and hanging outside the living room window.  Slowly, he twisted around.  “You...You know?” 

Johnny looked apologetic.  “Yeah...I’ve known for a while now.”

“You know, but you never said anything.”

He shrugged.  “I didn’t think I was supposed to.  And I thought...it was your secret to share.” 

“Well, now you know,” Peter said with a nervous laugh, drawing his leg back inside. “Now you know everything.”

Johnny’s eyes softened.  “Yeah.  But you don’t.”

Peter watched him approach.

“I like you, too.”

Thump!

That was the sound of Peter staggering back under the weight of that revelation and landing on his cast.

Johnny covered one ear through the howling that followed.  “I like you, too,” he said, letting Peter hop around, swearing like a sailor.  “Even if you are an idiot.”

Reed gave a long look at the pair of them stretched out on the couch where they had fallen asleep.  Peter’s mask was mostly off, pulled halfway up his forehead, and Johnny’s hair was a mess.  Their legs were tangled together.

”Morning, Reed,” Johnny mumbled, still half-asleep.

”Weren’t you supposed to go home yesterday?” Reed asked, choosing not to comment on Peter’s all-too recognizable face. “I removed your cast and everything.”

”He said it still hurt,” Johnny said innocently. “I’ve been helping him stay off it.” Mostly by keeping him lying down and busy, but Reed didn’t need to know that much.

”So I see.” Reed sighed. “Are you staying for lunch, Peter?”

Peter clawed at the mask—a pointless gesture, too late.

Johnny sighed and buried his face in Peter’s broad chest.  “You’re so stupid and I can’t believe I like you.”

”I’ll stay for lunch,” Peter said, giving up and dropping his mask to the floor. His hair stuck up in all directions.

Johnny looked down at him archly as soon as Reed had drifted away.  “You know what we should do more often?”

”What?” asked Peter warily.

”Break your leg.”

”You know, if you just want to wait on me hand and foot, I’d let you. We don’t have to break my leg.”

“In fact,” Johnny continued, “you could break your leg walking down the hall to the kitchen. You’d have to stay off it for a week.”

“A day, and then I really have to work or I’m going to be homeless in a month.”

Johnny wrinkled his nose. “Healing factors suck. Healing factors can kiss my—”

Healing factors could kiss his ass, but then Peter just kissed him instead.