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Sometimes Peter feels like a character. Maybe it’s just because he wants that detachment. To believe that every story in his life is just an arc. It relieves him. Of some of that responsibility that’s been choking on ever since Ben died.
He used to stare at his reflection, just looking. Staring at every facet of himself.
He hated it.
Not his face, he personally thinks he looks nice. Prestenable.
Chiche.
The problem is more that it's every word marked on his skin that shines through.
He’s smart. He knows it. After all it’d be stupid to not believe after being told it again and again and again.
God. That also makes him feel like a character.
All the “You’re so smart Peter.” and “You have so much potential.”
Fuck man, can you just stop? He knows he knows he knows . You really don’t think he doesn’t?
That he was meant for greatness from the moment they knew he could be extraordinary.
Or at least that’s what he was told.
A prodigy. A genius. A pawn.
And he knew he would become a scientist. Master his field. Become something great. Live a life worth of fairy tales and science class projects. Live a life of disappointment and sleepless nights.
Days of working with tears on the brink of his eye.
Days of regret.
So, maybe that’s why he did it. To prove that he was real. Human.
Maybe he just wanted to see what would happen if he broke. Broke rules no one even knew, but he knows. And he’s someone. So, why not?
Why the fucking hell not?
Why not break?
See what happens when the machine does without a cog. What it does with a wrench.
With someone mediocre.
So maybe that’s why Peter Parker, mind of a generation, a well polished cog, forgotten soul, heads into the Gotham gazette and applies for the photography position.
With his hair a mess and bruises on his face.
Looking in the mirror he looks unpresentable, wild, and broken.
It’s the best he’s looked in years.
So maybe that’s why Spider-Man, renowned hero, starts breaking things a little more.
Exposing corruption and being a little more viscous in ways that cause him to be called a menace.
And he’s proud. God dammit. He’s doing it. He’s doing it. He’s real .
Can you believe it?
So in a world where he has nothing to lose and everything to gain he takes up a new mask.
Menace.
People already called him that, why not embrace it?
He sews his old suit back together with scraps of fabric. Without the luxury of a washing machine the suit is stained in blood.
Gotham is filled with rats and plague. Rot so deep when something clean appears and thrives, it’s untrustworthy. So, when the bats appear, inhuman and unnatural. They’re a conundrum, clean and yet dirty. Gotham blossoms on spite and blood. Because nothing’s left to lose and no one cares and so they stand as one. And why the fuck not?
His world burned down a long time ago. Let’s see what he can make of the ashes.
So maybe that’s why he became a villain.
He’s a joke, his name being an accurate description. A menace. Nothing more than a pest.
It’s so freeing.
Like the responsibility he’s been drowning in for years has been lifted.
He leaves anything that would need competence for the shadows and no one suspects that the new d-list villain could ever do a thing.
Gotham is blood and rot and a sense of grief so deep it seems to be ingrained in the very foundation. Everybody here is just tilted slightly to the left.
Despite breaking he still tries to help. As Peter Parker. Because dispite all he wishes he never was, this is still home, he still has power and he still has responsibility.
He volunteers at a shelter that he stayed in during his first few weeks and patches up the vigilantes when they show up. They’ve taken to appearing on his balcony when the lights are on. Nightwing is one of his favorites. It’s- nice. Reminds him of New York.
When he was something useful and not a sad 24 year old pretending to be real.
It’s wild how one second can change everything.
He takes a moment. Just one to lay in the sun and breathe.
In.
Out.
Done.
Sitting up he turns off the lights and changes into his outfit.
The gloves from his spidey suit.
A lab coat Mr. Stark gave him that he had managed to snatch.
A modified mask that took eyes from Wade’s mask and embroidered horns for DD. Red, like always. It let himself breathe easily and didn’t give him helmet head. Elgh, that was not his best decision.
The tattered spider suit sewed with fabrics and designs of his friends. A tribute. (A mockery.)
Most of the craziness is hidden under the lab coat, and personally he thinks he looks quite snazzy. Peter grabs a gas mask before he goes off.
He’s going to Wayne tower to steal some equipment.
_______
Oh, great .
The bats are here. Robin and Batman. Honestly he hates them. (Not really.) He just wants to be someone. Someone real. He hasn’t hurt a soul. (Wow. What a goddamn liar. You really believe that bullshit you spout?)
At least here he hasn’t.
All he’s done is steal, so why why why can’t he just try? Just for a second play some pretend.
“Put your hands up, menace .” Itsy Batsy says.
So sorry. But he just wants to be alive for once. Why do you even care so much?
“Because you are a thief . Put your hands up.”
He’s just tired. Sorry to disappoint, but it’s been so so long since he’s been a real person and he’s finally getting close. (Funny that after losing everything he’s ever loved, that's when he’d be his best.)
“What do you mean ‘real person?’” Big bat cuts in.
Hmmmmmmmmmm, that’s a great question. But unfortunately it requires a lot of context he just doesn’t want to give. But even if he did, would you understand? Are you more than the mask, more than the dark protector of the night, more than everything they wanted you to be?
And with that he bids them ado and falls out of the window.
Oh what it would be to not catch himself.
(A tragedy, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. It doesn’t sound like him in the slightest. For some reason the fact makes him feel a little cold.)
___
Hey, look ma he made it. Liking the view from your grave?
Sitting at the table with the big boys.
When he said that sentence last time he was held by binds so think they were cutting off his circulation. Sadly they didn’t loosen up in time. (He doesn’t really like thinking about titan.)
They really don’t treat him as anything more but a joke. Not in the way they did before though and it’s enough of a change he’ll take it. The avenger’s saw him as a kid in over his head and well whose fault was that? The rouge’s see him as an incompetent fool with a death wish.
There’s really not that much of a difference, but there’s still a difference so he’ll take it. Plus it’s intentional anyways.
By the ‘big boys’ he means the more anti-villain-ish rogues. Who y’know don’t take a sadistic glee in hurting people. He got in their good graces after fixing up the park in crime alley. He feels at home with them.
He shouldn’t.
Because Spider-Man doesn’t belong there.
But Spider-Man doesn’t really exist anymore, does he?
So there he sits, as they’re plotting to break into the bank. A pretty standard plan. They won’t last more than five minutes.
He lays there as his body rots, letting the diamonds relax into granite.
___
Peter is the distraction, like he always is. He’s paired with Harley Quinn. It’s fine.
They kidnap some police officers. The corrupt ones, who broke his hand when he first came here. The same ones who would shoot at the hero’s who did better jobs than he ever could.
They set up a fake bomb.
Well, Peter does. Harley Quinn is very curious why he knows how to do that.
“Where’d you learn that sweet checks?” She laughs, but he can tell there’s a knife hidden under the melody.
Well, before he was someone he was great.
“What’s that mean?” She asks a bit more wary now.
Hmmm, can he say a secret? He could’ve been so much more.
Her face twists, but before she can ask another thing the bats show up.
Showtime.
___
The plan goes better than expected, all things considered.
They make it out with a fair sum of money and Peter only got a minor stab wound. It was from a batarang. Harley seemed awfully worried when he mentioned it. He had managed to brush her off but she didn’t seem convinced. It was.. odd.
It’d be funny if people cared more about him as a villain than a hero.
Strangely he’s not laughing, in fact he just feels a little hollow.
The breeze nips at his neck a little more than he remembers.
___
Peter starts his new photography job. It’s-
Well, it’s amazing. It feels like he’s found something he didn’t even know he’d lost.
He does what he’s always done. He takes photos, but this time instead of heroes and villains who he only ever let down (Weren’t they the ones who let them down?), they’re of shadows, of birds, of man and monster. People twisting and conforming until their bones crack out of their skull.
Currently he’s photographing Nightwing and Ivy.
He loves those two.
Well, not them, just the way their bodies move, they way the light reflects off their bodies, the flips and- just the brutality and beauty.
Reminds him of a time draped in red and blue.
He snaps photos of them in motion, the moment right before the hit, the beginning, the end, all of it. The emotion. He weaves a story as he goes, the anger and desperation.
People see Nightwing as the nice one, and he wonders if they’ve ever really looked at him. Seen the moments when he looks like Spider-Man before you blink, caked in blood, the fabric more red than blue. Sometimes he wonders if they remember he was the bats first protege, the one he trusts to act as Batman when he’s away.
Remember the days when Robin was being held back by the bat, remember that he still is.
Because Peter looked at every story, every lie, every second of footage.
Nightwing is kind, but with the way people see him he was always more of a loggerhead shrike.
Unfortunately Peter got caught up in the moment, and Nightwing spotted him. Which means so sorry, look at the time, he’s late and got to skedaddle. See ya round!
Finger guns. (Peter you idiot, the fuck do you think you’re doing?)
Nightwing looks a little shell shocked to be honest, so does Ivy. (Don’t worry he is still marveling at his eternal stupidity, and he’s been dealing with himself for years.)
At the very least his boss is pleased with the photos, he gets paid about $400 and he’s floating. She’s a lot nicer than Jameson was, and he misses the look she sends him.
___
He’s running, running, running.
The buildings about to explode.
Weight on his back.
Red peonies in his bones.
And pain breaks the dome.
___
Nightmares never were fun. But he’d rather not think about the dream and lingering shakiness. (Your hands are trembling .)
So he makes some cookies.
It’s not something he really does anymore, but it’s late and the bunny in his heart won’t stop thumping.
So he starts: eggs, milk, flour, sugar, butter, baking powder, and a sprinkle of something good.
It’s soothing.
He really should do this more.
Mixing it all together, the ingredients falling one after the other. The grains of flower mixing with the thick goopy yellow of the yolk. It’s amazing how they seem to melt into each other. The individual ingredients all become one, everything unique about them gone.
May always used to say it was a workout to do all the mixing.
His arm barely even feels sore.
Sometimes he feels that when he became a hero the only thing he couldn’t save was his humanity.
He exhales in a tired sigh.
It’s already 7 o’clock.
___
He’s laying on his couch waiting impatiently for the cookies to bake, when a wounded Red Robin shows up on his balcony for some medical treatment.
He raises his eyebrows at the bloody vigilante on his balcony. Red Robin offers a sheepish smile and tries to leave, Peter ushers him inside.
Red Robin sits awkwardly on his couch while he gets his med kit. He offers him some pain medicine to which he gratefully takes. Patching up the bird's wounds, he makes light conversation.
How’s your day been?
What’s your favorite villain to fight?
The weather, am I right?
How are you so okay with being everything everyone ever wanted, how do you do it, please-
Opps, not that one.
Overall, Red Robin seems to be okay, if a bit on edge. It’s nice, he was worri-
Bing!
The cookies are done. He excuses himself and takes them out of the oven. The sweet smell of sugar cookies dances through the air. Placing them on the counter he turns back to Red Robin. Who looks at the cookies with a poorly hidden longing.
“Wow, those smell good.” RR says and his stomach growls.
Well, they need to cool, but you’re welcome to have some. He’s already packing a box up for Red Robin and his friends. Grabbing a paper plate he puts two cookies down and grabs two glasses of milk.
He holds a glass of milk out and puts the cookies down on the table.
Red Robin eyes the cookies guiltily and hesitatingly grabs the milk.
“Okay, but I do need to go soon.” He says and quickly starts munching on the cookies.
Got no intention of keeping you here bird boy. Already packed up a box for you and your friends.
You do know that you’re welcome anytime, right?
Red Robin doesn’t reply and they sit in a calm quiet in his crappy apartment, the dawn falling gracefully upon their faces. The sound of munching filling the air.
“Ok, thank you.” He says, quietly, but Peter can tell the gratitude in the words.
Red Robin looks tired.
He usually does, but now it seems to weigh on him.
Hanging on his shoulders like a lunette.
The guillotine is bound to drop eventually.
He doesn’t want to see who’s blood is shed when it drops.
So Peter grabs the box and lets it fall into his hands.
Welcome back anytime.
A small smile.
Eventually he got up and walked to the window, “Thank you for the cookies. I- I’ll try and stop by. Thanks again.”
A lie.
A hint of lime.
Peter’s face breaks out into a bright smile. He’ll look forward to it.
And the curtains flutter where Red Robin once was.
The room feels colder.
___
He goes on less and less jobs as Menace.
He never really wanted to be a part of this life.
He wonders if anyone even notices.
Wonders if the lingering stares of the rogues are ones of worry or ones of disappointment.
___
Peter walks to his job, he’s going with a reporter. Sherry? Cherry? He didn’t remember her name really. (She doesn’t really take him seriously. No one does. He remembered the whispered remarks.) They’re meeting with Dick Grayson. An officer on the Bludhaven Police Department.
He’s polite, but something about him is off.
Something that tells him he’s got everyone fooled.
Dick is the adopted son of billionaire Bruce Wayne. But he’s rough in a way that speaks of scars deeper than the skin.
If Peter looks a little closer he can see the hints of foundation on his skin.
Hiding thick, gruesome, lines.
But he’ll play their game.
He stands in the corner, taking pictures.
The longer he looks the more he sees the beauty that flows from Dick.
The way he moves closer to fabric, than anything mortal.
He captures the seriousness, the stoic, yet reassuring image everyone sees. But, he can’t help but take a few of him in his element. Not the lie.
Satin, silk, dancing.
Weightless, on the floor.
Sitting grounded, held back by the sky.
Dick sees him too, he can feel the calculating eyes on his figure.
They each sit there locked in their own little pas de deux, one only they knew.
And if when the curtain falls he slips a piece of paper with his number on it, well, the audience was begging for an encore.
___
After his bold little display of confidence some sense gets knocked back into his thick skull.
What the hell was that?
You gave a dangerous man, a police officer no less, who obviously is suspicious of you, your number. Because he was handsome and he intrigued you??
Mind of a generation everyone.
He probably thinks you’re a creep, you’ll be lucky if he just ignores it-
Oh.
Oh no.
He texted him.
What does he do? He’s never flirted with anyone before. Jesus, oh god. This is bad.
Unknown: Hey, this is Dick, but you can call me whatever you want.
Okay, you can do this. Very simple. Just text back like a normal person.
Peter: Well hello Mr. Mushroom-Man, I’m Peter.
Wow, that’s actually terrible. Congratulations. He probably thinks you’re the worst person to ever exist ever. You're so irritating.
Peter: sorry
Peter: that was awkward
Dick: nah, it’s fine.
Dick: Your flirting skills are exceptional good sir.
Exceptional.
Exceptional .
He freezes before immediately shutting his phone down.
The dull black screen stares back blank and cold matching with the autumn leaves.
It’s stupid.
It’s not even close to what he meant.
It’s a joke.
So, then why does he feel like crying? Isn’t he real enough now?
Please. It’s all he’s ever wanted to be.
___
He quits being Menace.
No one even notices.
___
He gathers more courage.
Forgets the incident (liar.)
They talk more.
And more.
And more.
And he kind of loves it.
___
“Hey Pete!” Stan says, he runs the tiny supermarket near his apartment.
Hello, how’s life going?
“It’s Gotham, you?”
Same old same old, it’s New York Gotham after all.
“You off to fix that beat up playground again? I swear you’re playing a fools game, y’know that thing’s going to get destroyed again. I don’t why you keep at it.” Stan half mutters, with a eye roll to top it all off. (You don’t actually think he’s annoying, right?)
Well Sisycus kept on rolling his stone up the hill.
“What, you saying that’s your punishment from the gods? Fixing a beat up playground in Crime alley.” Stan is joking, playfully teasing him in the way he always does. For some reason he feels like Stan can see every crack and fracture in his soul. His eyes a pitch black mirror.
Peter shrugs his shoulders with a lazy smile, Stan’ll never know how close he is.
He continues to the little park on fifth and seventh with a cheap set of tools.
He wishes he didn’t feel as hollow as he did.
___
Date.
Dick asked him on a date.
He’s still in shock.
The three little words stare at him on the screen.
Somehow he manages to say yes before sinking to the floor.
He wouldn’t have been able to tell you why he started sobbing even if he wanted to.
___
He wishes he had Ned, MJ, or heck even Johhny to help him. May would be over the moon. They’d all help him get ready, Johhny would lend him something nice, Tony would keep fussing over him. It’d be great.
But they’re not here.
So, Peter is at a Goodwill trying to find date worthy clothes. He has it down to some ties and a white dress shirt. He can just wear his jeans with it. He wanted a suit jacket or a coat but it’s fine. It’s barely even cold. (To most people.)
The dress shirt was a good deal, only two dollars. But, even bleach couldn’t cover up the blood. (Then why are your hands so clean ?)
Now for a tie.
He had some options.
A plain red, a striped blue one, black, and a eye searing green and orange patterned tie.
It’s not really a hard choice, but he feels paralyzed. The blue looks the best, it’s by far his favorite.
He goes with the red one.
If he tries he can practically see May’s proud smile, hear Tony’s teasing voice, and if he really tries he can see the whole scene in his head.
He never really did want to try.
The peonies are in full bloom outside.
___
Dick invited him to a park on the nicer side of town. He listens as the fall leaves crunch under his footsteps. The chilly air feeling freeing instead of suffocating.
He feels over the moon. Ground control to Peter, you’re floating in the stars.
It’s a beautiful thing.
As his shoes thunk down the sidewalk he thinks he might just be chasing this high for the rest of his life.
He finds that he doesn’t really mind.
He leans back on a bench, letting the world wash over him.
Holds his breath as he dives under the wave.
In.
Out.
The birds chirp, the sky is dripping durian, and people walk on grounds of Titam arum.
___
Fifteen minutes later Dick shows up. He seems a little surprised at Peter sitting on the bench, but approaches nonetheless.
“Hey, Pete.” There’s a hint of cheek in his voice, a challenge.
And Peter wants to return it with interest.
Why hello, Mr, Mushroom-Man. Has the day treated you well?
Peter’s voice is filled with a dangerous kind of fight, one that's not deadly by nature but fills him with exhilaration. He should watch his step, who knows what moves could be pulled on the dancefloor.
But, he’s too busy getting lost in the music.
___
The sky is a beautiful mix of gray and blue. He doesn’t know why people hate it so much. It calms him, the stormy skies. Maybe, because he knows the sun is right behind it.
He and Dick walk down the street, they had sat on the bench for a bit, trading quips and banter. But, Peter’s stomach growled and they went out to get lunch.
It was oddly pleasant. Gotham was nothing if not chaotic, but in the moment the world seemed to still. Walking next to a guy he had given his number to for a laugh, he felt like a character all over again.
Expect this time, he found that he maybe even enjoyed it.
It was strange, but there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
For the first time in a while he feels warm.
___
He doesn’t really get normal nightmares, honestly he’s forgotten most of the things that’ve happened to him. The marks don’t last and neither do the memories. The fog covers it all up.
Instead his nightmares are all twisted, things that never happened, but god they haunt him.
He has one where he catches a little girl, one he failed to save, and he has a knife. He cuts her mouth horizontally, through blood and tendon. She fights him the whole way and he feels sick. It’s a dream so the cutting doesn’t last long, but he can still invison the part when he starts by tearing her fleshy cheeks.
He doesn’t remember if she screamed but he remembers the blood.
It should be fine, it wasn’t even real. He didn’t do that. (He good as did.)
He should be fine. He’s not a monster.
He didn’t do that. Didn’t. Didn’t. Didn't. (Say it enough times, and it might be true.)
___
After the date he feels like he’s flying. Like he just went free falling in New York. Maybe he should show Dick what that feels like sometime.
One day.
It’s already late, they had spent way too much time together and got caught up in the rhythm. He was too tired to go out and try to find the bats, and collapsed onto the couch.
He dreamt of clear blue skys.
It might’ve been the best he’s felt since he came to Gotham.
___
Red Robin never did come back.
Peter wonders if he saw the darkness that always slips through the cracks.
The heat in his apartment has always been finicky.
___
They’re on a morning stroll when he decides it’s about time. He doesn’t want to string Dick along into something false.
Hey, Dick?
“Yeah, Pete?” He replies easygoing as always.
I have something to tell you.
Dick pauses letting the gravitas sink into the moment, he looks a little concerned, but waits there patiently.
I’m- I was Menace. And I quit, but I figured I should tell you, before that I was in a alternate dimension where I was a vigilante. I can’t go back, and I don’t really want tp, but I figured you should know.
He sits there tense waiting for the inevitable response. Dick’s eyebrows are lost in his black bangs and he stands there gaping before opening his mouth and saying, “I’m Nightwing.”
Which.
Actually makes a lot of sense.
And absolutely no sense.
It seems neither one of them know what to do. So, they just continue walking.
Nothing really changes, except for a few tiny things.
Later when Nightwing shows up injured at his apartment he makes sure to always have his favorite snacks and makes sure he rests.
When Peter shows up to photograph Nightwing he brings him to safety.
Peter starts to patch up the bats after their fights.
Dick helps him on the anniversary of Ben’s death.
Peter doesn’t really hate Batman anymore.
Dick kinda really hates Venom.
Just tiny things, he kinda loves those tiny things.
___
The world moves on.
Most days Dick’s off making sure it continues to.
For some reason it leaves him a little chilly.
___
He’s doing great, he’s got a job, a boyfriend, some friends.
And-
It’s pointless.
He’ll never be real.
Will he?
He was always more monster than man.
The dance nothing more than a distraction. Pretending the cracking bones could be applause.
Maybe that’s why he goes up to the roof. After all corpses can’t be anything more than rotting flesh. Nobody really expects much of them.
He turns on his phone.
Peter: You’re one of the best people I know. I hope you understand how much you light up this world. Lit up mine.
A moment of hesitation.
Peter: I love you.
The black screen feels colder than before.
___
Clunk.
Thunk.
Dunk.
Goes the footsteps to your grave.
We’re only halfway up the stairs.
___
He stands on the edge.
And he once again wonders what I’d be to just let himself fall.
“A tragedy.”
And it’s Dick. He can’t really bring himself to turn around, it’d feel a little too cruel, a little too human .
Would it really?
Would it really be such a tragedy, if he were to inch a little closer to the edge. Just to see if he still bleeds red deep inside?
“Yes! Yes, it would. It really would. Please Peter, please turn around.” And now Dick sounds panicked, oh, that’s sad. He really does care, doesn't he?
“I do, I care so so much. Please, just step away. Please . Peter it’s me.”
Please, don’t make him.
Please, just let him fall.
Let him be remembered as a tragic memory, wouldn’t that be so much better? Better than just the menace he’ll always be. Just a nuisance. A bug.
Please, it’d be so much easier. Doesn’t he deserve a break? Deserve to be selfish.
Why do you have to be so goddamn nice ?
Please.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry you have to deal with this Peter. But, let’s just go inside, we can figure this out.” He’s becoming more desperate, it almost makes Peter take a step back.
Almost.
He’s right there. On the edge. Staring at the lights.
“I love you!”
He freezes, turning his head slightly to Dick, the first time he’s moved near Dick the entire time.
Dick’s heartbeat is fluttering rapidly, and time seems to still.
What?
He can’t move, he can barely breathe. He must’ve misheard.
Dick unfreezes, “I love you. Please, we can do this, we can figure this out. Just take a step down, please, for me?”
He’s so sincere, and, and Peter doesn’t know what to do.
So he does what he always does, he quits.
He stumbles clumsily back from the rooftop, and can hear Dick’s sigh of relief.
The sigh seems to break the numbness clouding his mind. His breath hitches.
He can feel the tears roll down his eyes, and what is he even doing here? He-he’s not supposed to be here.
He takes a step back, horror filling him. What has he done? Oh my god, if Dick hadn’t come-
Oh.
More liquid fills his eyes and the world blurs. He drops to his knees, feeling weak.
Dick catches him and rubs soothing circles on his back. “Shh, sh, it’s okay, it’s okay. I promise, we’ll make it through this.”
For a second the only sound is the freezing winds of Gotham.
Pinky promise?
“Pinky promise.”
They sit there for a while.
___
Peter wakes up the next morning to the sound of frying bacon. He doesn’t move for a while, content to just waste away. But he eventually grabs the blanket with him, not wanting to leave the warm blanket for the cold.
Some part of Peter hopes it’s Dick, but after last night he wouldn’t be surprised if he was just hallucinating.
As he walks outside the doorway to the small kitchen, he sees Dick at the stove. He pauses, shocked that he stuck around. That he’s making breakfast. He feels a little flicker in his soul.
Dick turns around, eyes going round when he catches a glimpse of Peter in the doorway.
“Peter! Well, I was going to bring the breakfast to you, but I guess you can have it early. I was going to fry some toast-“
He did this all for Peter?
“I mean, yeah. When I said I loved you, I meant it.”
Oh.
Warmth surges through Peter, and he rushes towards Dick hugging him. He’s so grateful for last night. Thank you so so much, he can’t even imagine if he had-
“I can’t either, but it’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday, I swear.” Dick hugs him a little closer, and loosens up slightly testing the waters to see if he can go back to the almost done bacon.
Peter gives a tight little squeeze before sitting at the cheap dining table.
He sinks into the cushions and wraps the blanket around himself.
Dick comes back a moment later with breakfast and they turn on the news. Neither one says a word while the weather guy prattles on and on about the news.
“We’ll make it through this Pete, I promise. I know I keep repeating myself, but I mean it. We’ll be okay.” Dick says it softly, with so much kindness in his voice Peter can’t help but believe him.
“Okay.”
As they sit there eating, and watching the daylight pour in, he can’t help but feel that this is what it means to be real.
He looks back at Dick’s face, hair a complete mess and scrambled egg on the side of his face, and for once the busted heating doesn’t bother him.
And he sees Dick chuckle at a joke on the tv, and well, he’s never felt warmer.
They fall back together, dancing the coda of their little pas de deux.
It’s great.