#now he just breathes heavy. has nose bleeds and sniff at their ankles

[polaroid15]

Guy in the Chair

Summary: Having a superhero for a best friend isn’t easy. But with the help of Mr. Stark, Ned things he might just be able to swing it.

Or, 5 times Ned was there for Peter and 1 time they were there for each other.

Read on Ao3 here.

-----

Ned hates funerals.

But mostly he hates seeing Peter in so much pain.

He sits beside his friend now, silent and relieved to be hearing him breathe evenly. The service for Ben had ended less than an hour ago. Overwhelmed, Peter had let Ned guide him away from the grave. They’re close enough to see May kneeling beside the freshly upturned dirt, her head in her hands, but far enough away that Peter no longer hyperventilates.

The cement bench they sit on is freezing. Snow comes up to their ankles. Both are shivering but too numb to move.

“Peter?”

Nothing.

Expecting it, Ned looks to his friend. Peter is curled in on himself, eyes open with frozen tear tracks running all the way down to his chin. He doesn’t give off any external cues that he’s heard Ned’s prompt, his sight unseeing.

“Peter?” he tries again, and when it still doesn’t elicit a response, he reaches out cold fingers to rest on Peter’s arm. Lightly, carefully, like he’s touching something fragile. “Hey man. You with me?”

Eyebrows creasing, Ned watches as a glimmer of coherence returns to Peter’s eyes. And with it, pain. Sharp and raw. Peter sucks in a long breath that rattles in his chest- like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in hours. It blows out in a puff of air that obscures the grave ahead of them.

“Peter.”

With some confusion, Peter swivels his head. He reaches a trembling hand to his face and uses his fingertips to feel the ice on his skin. “N-Ned?” he stammers. “I- when did we... I don’t remember coming over here.”

“It’s okay man. We came after the service.”

“May?”

“Over there. She’s okay.”

Breathing deep again, Peter’s eyes shine with new moisture. He buries his head deep into his elbow and leaves it there, his knuckles white where they clutch at his coat. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “God, I’m going crazy.”

Ned’s stomach hollows out. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I am,” Peter sniffs. “It’s cold.”

“It’s not that cold.”

Peter lifts his head and offers Ned a weak smile, though it falls fast. He hopes it isn’t permanent. “I just- I can’t believe he’s really gone.”

Ned bites his lip. He hadn’t known Peter when his parents had died, but he knows well enough from their sleepovers that he wakes up in cold sweats. He also knows that Peter has a tendency to blame himself for things that aren’t his fault, that he walks as if the world is on his shoulders.

And Peter had been there. In the alley. He had tried to keep Ben alive as he bled out.

And it didn't work. God, why couldn’t it have worked?

“Me either.”

Peter chokes on his next breath. Holds it. “What- what are we going to do without him?”

“Peter-”

“May can’t…I can’t-” Peter breaks off, gasping. “He can’t be gone.”

Words are impossible. Ned reaches deep within himself and whispers, “I’m sorry Peter. I’m so sorry.”

Peter’s lip wobbles. His eyes fill until there’s nowhere for the tears to go but out. At the same time they reach for each other, and Ned holds onto Peter as if it’s his sole purpose in this life. “It’s my fault Ned,” Peter sobs into his shoulder. “I couldn’t save him. It was me. He’s d-dead because of me.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“We had a fight,” Peter continues, delirious in his grief. “We had a fight and he died and I should’ve been able to save him.”

“It’s not your fault, man. What happened to Ben was terrible, but it wasn’t your fault, okay? He wouldn’t have wanted you to blame yourself. You know that.”

Peter tries to speak but is crying too hard for Ned to make out the words. So instead he pats Peter’s back and hugs him as hard as he can. He holds on. He whispers ‘he loved you’ and ‘it’s not your fault’ in between Peter’s sobs. He’s not sure how long it goes on for. He feels like a skipping record, his condolences an endless loop.

Eventually, Peter’s head lolls against Ned’s cheek. He stops crying. Stops everything. “I’m sorry,” he says. Then, more sure, “you’re a good friend, Ned. Thanks- thanks for being here with me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Always,” Ned says. It’s a promise, a vow. “No matter what.”

And with every nerve in his body, he means it.

------

Peter is Spider-Man.

In a way, Ned still feels the aftershocks of the surprise. It hits him over and over again whenever he sees Peter with a limp or a bruise, or a cut that he can tell from it’s scar Peter had stitched himself.

But it’s nothing in comparison to Homecoming.

What’s supposed to be a fun night turns into a full out adrenaline high with life or death stakes. Instead of dancing, he fires Peter’s web shooters and works tirelessly in the computer lab. Being the guy in the chair.

And then there’s silence. An awful, consuming silence.

Ned expects Peter to come back to the party, and when he doesn’t, he tries calling. All thirteen calls go straight to voicemail.

He tries again now.

“Hey, it’s Peter. I promise I’m not ignoring you. Uh, leave a message. Thanks.”

Failing to ignore his worry, Ned drags his aching feet home. His mom is working a late shift at the hospital so he unlocks the door to his apartment and flicks on the lights, rubbing at his face in exhaustion.

He barely makes it two steps before he hears it.

A thud, like something heavy hitting hardwood.

Ned grabs the item closest to him, an umbrella propped up in the corner by the door and walks with caution towards his bedroom where the noise came from. Not for the first time that night, his heart beats viciously in his chest. Did Liz’s dad figure out he was helping Peter? Did the guy from the bus lot follow him home?

“Hello?” he calls, wincing when his voice shakes. He holds the umbrella a little tighter, the thin metal sticks digging into his palm. “Who- who’s there?”

When there’s no answer he pauses outside his door and cranes for clues. Hearing nothing, he braces himself before kicking open the door. The first thing he sees is his open window, and then-

“Oh my God! Peter!”

His friend is slumped under the glass, pale and covered in sweat and blood. Though his eyes are half lidded, he smiles at Ned when he sees him. “Why’re you holding an umbrella?” he slurs.

Ned dips his head to look at the makeshift weapon before tossing it to the side. His hands are shaking horribly. “I thought- I thought someone broke in!”

“Well technically,” Peter coughs, wincing, “I did break in.”

“It’s different,” Ned says, his legs like jelly as he stumbles forward. He kneels beside Peter and holds his hands out gingerly, sure whatever part of Peter he touches will shatter. “What the hell happened to you?”

Peter frowns. There’s too much blood. “I crashed Mr. Stark’s plane,” he says.

“What?”

“Liz’s dad was trying to steal it. I stopped him though.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I get hurt all the time.”

“Not like this,” Ned argues, and Peter’s eyes darken.

“I’m okay,” he whispers.

Grinding his nails into his knees, Ned shakes his head. Peter hasn’t moved since he found him, his arms curled tightly around his chest. “Why’d you come here?”

Gaping, Peter pales further. “Oh. I didn’t... I’m sorry-”

“No,” Ned says quickly. “Not like that. I mean, isn’t Mr. Stark supposed to help you with stuff like this?”

Peter closes his eyes, his face shadowed. “Mr. Stark doesn’t want to see me anymore. He ended things, remember?”

“But if he knew you were hurt-”

“Ned.”

“You’re bleeding really bad. I don’t know how to help you.”

Peter smiles again, but it’s sad. Broken, like the day of Ben’s funeral. It makes Ned feel sick. “Can I use your shower?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Definitely. I’m covered in sand and ash and concrete-” Peter shudders, eyes becoming distant for a moment. “Please?”

“Right. Of course, man. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks.”

Peter tries to stand but needs Ned’s help in the end. They limp to the bathroom together and Ned helps Peter pull the top half of his suit off because Peter can’t lift his arms above his head. Peter is quiet during the process, but Ned doesn’t miss the way he sways and bites his lip.

When the suit is finally stripped away, Ned is sure he’ll have nightmares of for the rest of his life. Impossibly dark bruising covers nearly every inch of his friend’s skin, puncture marks still leaking blood and surrounded by countless smaller cuts and scrapes. He notices that Peter doesn’t look in the mirror. He doesn’t even look down, his hands shaking as he stares in determination at the opposite wall.

It’s only now that Ned truly understands the weight of what Peter is taking on. That having superpowers comes with a cost.

I just wanted to be like you, Peter had told Mr. Stark.

And I want you to be safe, thinks Ned, aching.

“Peter,” he whispers. He feels strangely detached from his body, as if he’s viewing the massacre through someone else’s eyes. “This- this is really bad. Like, hospital bad.”

Peter doesn’t argue, which Ned knows is a bad sign. Instead, his eyes glisten as if he’s about to cry. “I heal fast.”

“But-”

“I’m going to shower now.”

“Peter.”

“Ned please. I know you mean well, but- but I can’t think about it right now, okay? I just need to shower and then I’ll be okay.”

Ned stills. Swallows. Then, with great reluctance, he nods. “Okay.”

Looking weak with relief, Peter gives him a watery smile. When he speaks, his voice cracks. “Thanks man. I- I really owe you one.”

“It’s nothing. Guy in the chair, remember?”

“Thanks Ned.”

After their handshake, Ned leaves. It takes a minute of standing by the bathroom door and breathing intently through his nose to get his heart to calm. When it does, his pocket vibrates. He pulls out his phone, expecting it to be his mom.

Instead, it’s an unknown number.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Ned answers, making sure to move away from the bathroom. “Hello?”

There’s staticy silence. Then, heavy breathing. “Is this Peter’s friend?”

“Who’s this?”

“I’ll take that as a yes. This is Happy Hogan. You called me earlier.”

An unexpected surge of anger makes his ears hot. Hand tightening around the phone, Ned doesn’t try to keep the annoyance from his voice. “What do you want?”

Happy sighs. “Peter. Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Now. He’s at my apartment.”

More silence. Ned paces.

“How is he?” Happy asks finally.

“Why do you care?” Ned snaps. His heart is beating fast again. He can hear it in the base of his eardrums. “I tried to warn you earlier and you hung up on me.”

“Kid, listen-”

“He’s not okay,” Ned interrupts. “He’s hurt really bad. And he wouldn’t be if you had just listened.”

Ned expects deflection, but Happy’s words surprise him with their concern. “Wait. Peter’s hurt?”

It leaches his anger. “Yeah.”

“Can I talk to him?”

Ned opens his mouth to respond but pauses at the sound of a muffled conversation on the other end of the line. There’s a short struggle and then a new voice fills his ears. One that he’s more than familiar with.

“Ted, right?” Tony Stark asks. “Put Peter on the phone. Pronto. ASAP.”

“I- I-”

“He’s with you, isn’t he?” the man urges.

“I- yes.”

“Well then?”

Ned, despite how freaking cool it is to be talking to Iron Man, can’t help but feel a streak of protectiveness for his friend. “He didn’t call you for a reason.”

Tony is quiet, which Ned doesn’t expect. He plows on. “He thinks you don’t care. And maybe you don’t. But you can’t just choose when you want to help him. He’s here and he’s hurt, and I’m just about the least qualified person to be helping him. There’s blood on my floor and my mom is going to freak out-”

“Take a breath kid,” Tony interjects, his voice pinched. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Just let me talk to him.”

“He’s in the shower.”

“We’ll come pick him up, then. What’s your address?”

Ned closes his eyes, feeling two seconds away from a breakdown. He should be excited, but instead he just feels hollow. How did this become my life?

He rattles off his address and hangs up before Tony can respond. Then he sits on his floor beside Peter’s blood and cries silently into his hands.

-------

Ned tries to talk to Peter about Homecoming, but his friend just defects. Ned tries not to let it bother him.

But it does.

Physically, Peter recovers quickly. The ugly cuts and bruises disappear after the weekend, but the weariness that accompanies them never really leaves. The dark circles under Peter’s eyes get worse everyday and it’s harder to get a genuine smile out of his friend.

It all comes to a head on Wednesday.

They’re in the hall grabbing textbooks from their lockers between classes. Peter has been especially quiet today and Ned has done his best not to say anything about it. He’s reaching for his physics binder when it happens.

A loud crash, the sound of metal hitting the floor. Heart jumping, Ned spins to see a table flipped on its side beside a group of snickering kids. He exhales, shaking his head. “Man, that scared me.” He turns to Peter to laugh it off and freezes, insides turning to ice.

“Peter?”

His friend has lost all the color in his face, his eyes wide, unblinking, and staring out at nothing. When he doesn’t respond Ned takes a step forward to nudge his arm and Peter flinches back as if burned, hitting one of their classmates who scowls and pushes him off.

Peter barely manages to catch himself, his chest heaving like he’s just finished running a marathon. More careful this time, Ned grabs Peter’s elbow and steers him away from the hall and towards the bathroom. When they get there Peter detaches himself from Ned’s grip and stumbles until he hits the wall, sliding down to curl into a ball on the dirty tile. Now that it’s quieter, Ned can hear just how strained his breathing is.

“Peter?” he asks softly, squatting down to his level. “You’re scaring me man. What’s going on?”

Peter looks up at him helplessly, clutching at his chest as he pales further. “S-sorry. Just- ah. Gimme a minute.”

Ned opens his mouth to argue but closes it decidedly. The door to the bathroom swings open behind them and Ned shoos the freshman who appears away with his hands.

Peter’s upbeat ringtone cuts through the tension. Obviously not coordinated enough to answer, Ned helps Peter pull it out of his pocket and stills at the contact.

“It’s Mr. Stark,” Ned says in awe. “What- what do I do?”

“Don’ answer it-”

But his thumb is already on the green. He gives Peter a panicked look of apology before yanking the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Ted? Why do you have Peter’s phone?”

“It’s Ned. And he- he can’t really talk right now.”

Tony curses. “Is he with you? His watch sent me a spike in his vitals. Don’t tell me he’s actively bleeding out.”

Peter must hear what he’s saying because he groans, his breathing becoming increasingly laboured. He sticks his head between his knees and digs his knuckles into the tile until tiny cracks appear under the pressure.

“He’s not bleeding out,” Ned assures. “He’s- well, I don’t really know what’s happening. He said he can’t breathe.”

“Damn it. Damn it. Okay. He’s having a panic attack. Put me on speaker.”

“But-”

“Now, Ned!”

Gulping, Ned obliges. He holds out the phone between himself and Peter like some sort of offering and feels some distant part of him relax as Tony takes control.

“Pete?” Tony asks, his voice sharp and clear. “Focus on my voice kiddo. Alright? Imagine that I’m there with you.”

“Mr. St-Stark-’

“Shh, kiddo. It’s okay. I’m going to help you breathe. I need you to tell me five things you can see. Can you do that?”

Eyes gaining some clarity, Ned watches them wander. “Uh, Ned. The phone. The- the sinks. A mirror. And- and, uh. Paper towel.”

“Bathroom. Classy. Alright, now four things you can touch.”

“Ground. Wall. C-clothes. Backpack.”

“Good, kiddo. You’re doing so well. Keep breathing. Three things you can hear?”

“You. Ned. Kids outside.”

With every answer, the tension in Tony’s own voice seems to ease. For some reason, it softens some of the resentment Ned’s been holding against the man ever since the ferry incident. He continues with urgency. “Two things you can smell?”

“Soap. Sweat.”

“Good. And one thing you can taste?”

Peter exhales, long and slow. He closes his eyes. “Spearmint.”

“That’s great,” Tony encourages. “Feeling any better?”

At this, Peter’s face scrunches up as if he’s about to start crying. Instead, he relaxes more fully against the wall and reaches up to wipe his eyes. “Yeah, Mr. Stark. That’s better. I’m really sorry-”

“Nope,” Tony interrupts. “Gonna stop you right there kid. We’ll talk in person. I can be there in twenty.”

“What?” Peter stalls, eyebrows drawing together. “I have class.”

“Not anymore. See you soon. Ned, can I talk to you real quick?”

Another shot of adrenaline spiking through him, Ned fumbles with the phone until it’s off speaker and pushes it up against his face, though he knows full well Peter will still be able to hear. “Yeah Mr. Stark?”

A short pause. “Has this happened before?”

“Not at school.”

“And not at school?”

Peter looks down at his shoes. Ned frowns. “I don’t know.”

Tony sighs. “Thanks for watching out for him. Do you know what triggered it?”

“Um. A table got flipped over. It was really loud.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it. Damn it. Can you stay with him until I get there? Give him water and make sure he doesn’t fall asleep. You got that?”

“Yeah. Yes. Of course.”

He doesn’t get a response, the line going dead. He pulls it away in disbelief and sets it on the floor. Peter smirks weakly at him from where he’s slumped against the wall. “It’s okay,” he mumbles. “He hangs up on everyone.”

------

For a while, it gets better.

“Ned! Oh my God- MJ said yes! I’m freaking out man!”

Stomach dropping with excitement, Ned spins a full 360 in his room, hands reaching up to his hair. “No freaking way! I told you!”

Peter’s excited rambling continues through his phone. It makes Ned’s heart soar. “What do I do? Where do I take her? The movies? The park?”

“Swinging through New York,” Ned offers with a smile, and Peter laughs.

“No, seriously. It needs to be perfect.”

“Laser tag?”

“Don’t forget that I’m broke, man.”

“How about the Pride Parade? That’s happening this weekend. Seems like her kind of thing.”

Peter pauses, warmth filling the other end of the line. “That’s perfect! God, you’re a genius. Thanks man!”

“You owe me,” he teases.

“I so do. We still on for the death star 2.0 tonight?”

“Wise is Yoda the most?”

Peter laughs again. It’s nice. “Right. See you soon.”

“See you.”

When Ned hangs up, tears bite at his eyes.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s heard Peter so happy.

--------

Of course, it doesn’t last long.

Ned gets the text during band practice.

It’s from Peter and the empty seat next to him feels more pronounced. He almost ignores it, feeling, despite reason, a deep bitterness for his loneliness. But the message is short.

Help.

Ned nearly tilts out of his chair, his mouth adopting a strange metallic quality and his stomach dropping down to his toes. Before he can even get his shaking hands to cooperate another message lights his screen.

Bleachers.

Ned stands before he can process how strange it must look. His teacher, Miss Gregerson, raises her pencil thin eyebrows. “Ned? What is it?”

“Bathroom,” he blurts, and parts the music stands blocking his exit before she can say another word. He hears laughter follow him but can’t find it within himself to care, his heart beating loud in his ears as he jogs through the empty hallways. Peter needs you. Something is wrong.

He had thought having a best friend for a superhero would be cool. But the longer the time stretches, the more Ned realizes how much sleep he’s been losing over his friend’s safety.

Please don’t be dying.

Ned bursts through the back doors and trips his way down the hill to the track. The yard is empty, filtered with pink and orange light from the sinking sun. It’s warm and the air is still, but the deep sense of foreboding doesn’t leave him.

“Peter?” he calls, even though the bleachers are distant and his throat is closing with fear. He walks faster and it’s only when his feet hit the red dirt of the track that he sees Peter’s hunched form. He’s sitting on the lowest step of the bleacher, his face pinched and the edges of his suit showing from his open backpack. He’s pale and covered in sweat, and when he sees Ned, he sags, his eyes fluttering with what can only be a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

“Peter,” Ned repeats, skidding to his friend’s side. His hands hover, unsure again what to do or how to help. Assess the problem, his mind supplies. Find out what’s hurt.

It doesn’t take long. He follows Peter’s tense posture to his hand, which is clamped down hard over his side. His skin is painted red underneath, the material of his dark shirt shining in the fading light. There’s a cut on his temple that bleeds too, and Ned notices how hard Peter is trying to concentrate on his form, his eyes seeming incapable of adjusting.

“Hey man,” he croaks.

“Oh my God,” Ned breathes. His whole body is shaking now. Weak. Because he’s not equipped for this. “What happened?”

Peter struggles to process his question, blinking heavy and biting hard on his bottom lip. Then he swallows, sways, and musters a weak smile. “Stabbed. Long knife.”

When Peter falls to the side, Ned has to lunge to catch him, supporting his entire weight against his body. The new position allows him to see the blood that’s been pooling on the metal where Peter’s been sitting. A distant part of his brain wonders if the stain it’ll leave will be permanent.

“You need to go to a hospital,” Ned says. Peter’s head is pressed hard into his rib cage. They’re both shaking, their breaths uneven and loud.

“No,” Peter says. “You can help.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

It’s desperate. More desperate than Ned’s ever heard his friend. Even after Homecoming. “Peter-” he starts, but there’s no words to convey the weight in his chest.

“We can fix this,” Peter says. “We can fix it.”

“You’re bleeding too much.”

“I just need some help.” Peter lifts himself away with Ned with trembling arms. He’s even more pale, his skin close to translucent. He struggles with the side pocket on his backpack before revealing a small sewing kit. He transfers it into Ned’s palm where it leaves a thick smudge of red. He stares at it for a long time and won’t realize until much later that he’s in shock.

“What?” he stutters, transfixed by how much blood is on the sewing kit.

“My hands... my hands are shaking too much to thread the needle.”

Ned stares. He’s numb.

“Ned?” Peter prompts. He reaches out a hand and bracelets Ned’s wrist in his blood. “Can you- can you thread the needle for me?” he pauses, and almost sheepishly, he smiles. “I need my guy in the chair.”

It’s like a damn breaking. Ned snaps back into awareness, sad, angry, and unable to fully comprehend why. Guy in the chair.

“I’ll help you,” he says, “but not in the way you want.”

Before Peter can protest, Ned pulls out his phone. He dials in the number and tries to ignore the way Peter’s chest falls, or how a tear cuts a line through the grime on his face.

“Mr. Stark?” he asks when the line connects. “I need your help.”

In the background, Ned can already hear the mechanical thrum of what can only be a suit being activated. Mr. Stark doesn’t question it. He doesn’t waste time. “I’ll be there in three minutes,” he says, and then the line disconnects.

Peter blinks slow. His lip trembles. “I wish you didn’t do that,” he says.

And then he collapses.

Ned cries out as he catches him. His shirt will be ruined. Peter’s head lolls sickeningly against his neck, his arms going limp at his sides. Acting on instinct alone, Ned reaches to put pressure over the still bleeding wound in Peter’s side. It’s warm and he gags. His eyes burn with tears.

“P-Peter?” he cries, but Peter remains still against him. He wonders if this is how Peter had felt when Ben had died, and for the first time understands the guilt Peter had pinned on himself. “Wake up, man. Mr. Stark is coming. He’s going to- he’s going to help.”

But Peter doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t even twitch until Mr. Stark hits the dirt hard beside them, his suit retracting from his face to reveal a look of complete terror. It catches Ned off guard, but not as much as the way Mr. Stark gently maneuvers Peter out of Ned’s arms and into his own lap.

“Hey Underoos,” Mr. Stark says. His voice is soft but urgent. He taps on Peter’s face and brushes back his hair. “This isn’t a good look, kiddo.”

Ned is frozen. Stuck. He feels the tacky wetness of blood on his hands and is unable to look at them.

“Pete,” Mr. Stark continues, louder this time. “Wake up. That’s an order.”

Ned holds his breath as Peter’s eyes open to slits. They’re hazy, confused, but his lips manage to quirk up into a smile that betrays the pain in his eyes. “Tony,” he whispers.

Mr. Stark sags and Ned can practically see the relief leak out of him. He plays with Peter’s hair, his free hand pressed down hard against the worst of the bleeding. “You never do things halfway, do you kid?” he asks with a smile that even Ned can tell is for Peter’s benefit alone. “If it weren’t for Ned, you’d be six feet under right about now.”

Peter’s eyes drift to find Ned. His smile widens when they connect. “He’s my guy in the chair,” he slurs.

Tony hugs Peter tighter and Ned is struck just how paternal the hero is acting. Like Peter is the most important thing in the world. A lot has changed since Homecoming, he realizes. “Let’s get you some help, buddy. You up for a flight?”

But Peter doesn’t seem to hear. His eyes are still glued to Ned. He doesn’t speak, but Ned understands anyway.

Tony stands, bringing Peter up with him, and Peter goes limp once more. Ned doesn’t miss the way Tony’s breath hitches or the urgency in his movements. He stops before he takes off, regarding Ned with a look of gratitude. “Happy is on his way to pick you up. Wait here for him, okay?”

Ned can only nod, and when they both disappear into the air, he sinks to the ground. It takes hours for the blood on his hands to wash off, and when he finally makes it to Peter’s room in medbay, he finds Tony Stark with his head pillowed on Peter’s thigh. They’re both sleeping, their arms linked.

And for the first time, it all makes sense.

------

It’s been two weeks since the blip’s reversal.

They’re back at school. Ned shuffles awkwardly at his locker, uncomfortable, like his skin is on too tight. Graduation pictures of his classmates hang on the wall.

Five years.

A deep, unrelenting sadness pulls at his heart. He should be happy to be back, but he’s not. Not really. His little sister, who what seems like yesterday was half his height, now reaches his chin. The calendar in his room is useless.

So much time.

Across the hall, he sees Peter. It calms the sharp edges of his anxiety and as if mirroring his own relief, he sees his friend’s shoulders lose their tension. Ned begins walking towards him and Peter drifts too. It’s slow, cautious, like everything will vaporize in a moment if they move too fast.

But at last, they meet. And in the middle of the hall, surrounded by faces Ned no longer recognizes, they hug. Peter’s grip is strong. Almost bruising. It reminds Ned of Ben’s funeral and the heaviness in his chest doubles.

Peter sniffs. He trembles like he’s cold.

“Are you okay?” Ned whispers in his ear.

Peter is quiet. Ned can hear his measured breathing, an exercise taught to him by Mr. Stark shortly after the incident in the school bathroom.

Mr. Stark, who had died to save them all.

“Not yet,” Peter says after some time. They still haven’t pulled apart. “I just- I really miss him, Ned.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Peter’s fingers curl into his hoodie. People are staring at them, and for the first time in his life, Ned can’t bring himself to care.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Peter says, and Ned feels his eyes sting.

Five long years.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you either.”

Finally, Peter pulls away. He wipes his sleeve across his cheekbones and takes in a rattling breath. “Wanna help me with my web shooters after school? May’s making lasagna. Pepper and Morgan are coming over, too.”

Ned smiles. Because after all the injuries he’s seen Peter sustain over the years, he’s seen them all heal too.

He’ll heal.

They both will.

“That sounds great, man.”

After a particularly sloppy handshakes, they walk to class with their shoulders bumping.

And though it may just be a trick of the light, Ned swears he sees Mr. Stark standing in the crowd of students, a wide smile on his face as he looks at them.

And just like Ben, Ned knows that Peter has Tony forever.

#spider man #peter parker #tony stark #ned leeds #irondad fic #peter & ned #hurt/comfort #hurt peter parker #peter parker whump #protective ned leeds #protective tony stark

[yourpaceangel]

like a prayer for which no words exist

[Read here on AO3]

There are places [1] Crowley likes to go when it all gets to be a little much, like a snake seeking a hole for refuge from a storm. That Aziraphale is the storm is surprising, or maybe not surprising at all. These places are holy - lowercase h - in that they are undisturbed, protected, and treasured. A reprieve. An indrawn breath before drowning. They are places Crowley goes that Aziraphale does not visit. That’s not to say that the angel doesn’t know where they are, simply that he does not go where Crowley does not ask for him.

[1] A rooftop garden in New York City. A cozy nook inside St. Paul’s. A patch of red dirt outside Tuscon, Arizona. An old iron bench just outside Kensington Gardens. The bosom of Eden.The edge of the World. Others, dozens maybe, that Crowley knows by feel and not name.

He’s in New York two days after the Apocolypse-That-Wasn’t, high up in a humid class cage full of shivering plants that know both fear and reverence. The Orchids have become fussy in his absence refusing to stand straight out of pure defiance. The English Ivy, the oldest, grows thick and lovely in creeping vines along the ceiling and walls. It almost seems to sigh at Crowley as he brandishes a pair of shears menacingly at the disobedient Orchids.

“Not you as well,” Crowley sneers, shaking the shears at the wall, “I won’t hear it.”

In the corner a Snake Plant shakes almost fondly. Crowley hisses, terrible yellow eyes drawn into slits, and it stops moving, its tall leaves stretching skyward as if in surrender. Crowley clicks his tongue and goes back to fussing with the Orchids.

“Don’t know why I even bother. I should just bin the lot of you.”

He does not. Crowley has known these plants for a long time. He takes a seat on the floor amongst empty pots and potting soil, dirt on his hands and smudged along a sharp cheekbone because he allows it to be. There’s something satisfying about the mess. He wonders, vaguely and quite without meaning to, if that is how She feels about Her Creation. Crowley snarls and kicks out at the leg of a table. It wobbles, the pots atop it shuddering with the force, before going still.

An impossible Honeysuckle bush in the opposite corner blooms for him, sickly sweet in her smell. The orchids finally stand upright, maybe sensing the shift in their Master’s mood or maybe just tired of being contrary. Crowley is no longer looking at them, however. His eyes have drifted up, through the English Ivy curling sweetly along the ceiling, where gray skies hang fat and heavy in the sky. The rain starts first as a light pat and, as Crowley watches, works its way to a torrent. Between this and the overwhelming smell of sweet Earth, Crowley can almost fall asleep.

It’s tempting, and Crowley does love temptations. A hundred year nap after The-End-That-Almost-Was feels well deserved, but Aziraphale gets dreadfully worried if Crowley is gone for too long. He’s startled by a creeping vine tangling around his ankle. He shakes his leg. “Off with you, you annoying little bugger.”

The vine squeezes once before letting go and all at once Crowley misses Aziraphale so dearly it makes his stomach ache. In a wild fit of temper he reaches for an empty pot to throw and smashes it against the wall.

smash

Then another-

smash

And another-

smash smash smash

Until he is left empty and the wall of Ivy is bruised.

Crowley moves then, shaking, standing to shove the table aside with less care than it deserves, cutting his feet open upon broken terra cotta. He rests a hand, gently now, on the Ivy and pulls away green fingers like he’d made it bleed. He puts his hand to the wall again, burying his hand amongst the leaves and pushes . “Dreadfully sorry old chap.” Crowley says and feels the Ivy pulsate around his fingers. [2]

[2] Long ago Aziraphale had given Crowley a little cutting of Ivy from the side of his bookshoppe. “Perhaps you can take up gardening,” the angel said wryly. The Ivy had pulsed in Crowley’s hand then as well, like it was trying to hold him.

Crowley untangles his fingers from the Ivy and it shivers once before stilling. He moves the table back into place and waves a hand dismissively at the floor, clearing the pots. The storm outside rages on and he paces, leaving bloody footprints along the concrete. The garden suddenly feels stifling and Crowley leaves without a word, letting the door clap closed behind him.

His place in Mayfair is bitterly cold when he lands. The rain in America had soaked him down to his bones, and the accompanying rain here is nothing short of depressing. Crowley drops his jacket in a puddle at the door, rolling his shoulders. In his shadow, along the wall, his wings tremble from the cold.  He drapes himself over the couch and turns his space heater on with a snap. The little machine wheezes and coughs a moment before turning on. It’ll be awhile before the room is warm enough to drive the chill from him but for now this is the best he can manage.

Not even a minute later there comes a polite but insistent knocking from the front door. Crowley groans, slinging an arm over his eyes. He knows the longer he makes Aziraphale wait [3] the worse it will be, but he can’t make himself answer the door. Crowley waves his hand, instead, and hears the front door click open.

[3] Who could it be but Aziraphale? No other being would bother knocking.

There’s a shuffling from the entry hall as Crowley imagines Aziraphale hanging up his coat and then doing the same with Crowley’s. He can almost see the wrinkled nose and furrowed brow that the angel would make seeing it there on the floor.

“What do you want, angel?” Crowley asks before Aziraphale is even properly in the room.

“Hullo my dear,” Aziraphale sounds cheery but also awfully worried, “I hadn’t seen you since - well, since-” Since they’d swapped bodies back; since Crowley had turned tail and ran from St. James’s Park like the Devil himself had been on his heels. “And I thought I might pop over for a bit, yeah? I brought a bottle of Chateau Haut-Brion from the cellar.”

Crowley sniffs a little and finally drags his arm from his eyes. Aziraphale looked windswept and a little damp, standing in the doorway with a bottle of needlessly expensive wine. Aziraphale smiles [4] and holds up the bottle.

[4] It was a vulnerable and easily broken smile, something Crowley felt wholly undeserving of.

Crowley makes himself sit up. “Uh, yeah, okay.” He sounds a bit stupid.

“I’ll get some glasses,” Aziraphale says and furrows his brow, “You’re awfully soaked my dear, maybe you should change clothes.”

The little space heater must be working overtime, Crowley feels a touch too warm and tugs at his collar. “I don’t need you to mother me,” he says without heat.

“Someone has to,” Aziraphale counters, not unkindly, and goes to find the wine glasses.

They stay up too late and drink too much wine. Aziraphale says it’s a celebration, that they’d prevented the World from ending. And certainly they had. The World, but not Crowley’s world. No. That had ended when Aziraphale had put his hand in Crowley’s and squeezed. When he had held on for a touch too long afterward and Crowley felt seen . It had felt too much like a promise. Crowley had never been good with those. And yet, it was hard to feel shattered with Aziraphale at his side now even if he did feel entirely undeserving of the attention.

Aziraphale’s necktie is askew and his hair fluffed from running his fingers through it too many times. He’s got his head tilted back in a laugh, more free than Crowley has seen him in centuries. His smile, when he turns it on Crowley, is beatific and absolutely sloshed.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, loud and merry, “whatever are you staring at?”

You , Crowley thinks, You, blessed you . What he says is, “Your hair looks ridiculous. A proper bird’s nest.”

“My hair?” Aziraphale runs a hand through it again, tugging lightly at the front. “You think my hair looks ridiculous?”

“Utterly.”

“You- your hair is ridiculous!”

“That so, angel?”

“That’s so!”

“Hm.” Crowley brings his wine glass up to hide his smile.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Aziraphale cries petulantly, shooting forward to press a finger against Crowley’s lips as if to silence him.

crash

Crowley jerks back, his wine glass on the floor in pieces, wine seeping down into the granite leaving stains like blood.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale exclaims, “Oh my dear I’m so sorry.”

Crowley can barely hear him over the loud thump of his own heart. “That’s-” He clears his throat, “That’s quite alright.”

“I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?”

“Nothing a minor miracle can’t take care of.” Crowley’s going for nonchalant but he can’t look Aziraphale in his eyes.

“No I mean-“ Aziraphale’s weight shifts, the couch creaking below him, “Well I suppose I mean this, you and I?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about.”

“Crowley you won’t even look at me.”

Crowley does, just to be contrary. Aziraphale looks incredibly pained and sad. It’s reminiscent of another time, when Aziraphale had sat in the front of his Bentley and said “ you go too fast for me, Crowley.” “Honestly angel,” Crowley says and this time the lie burns , “I haven’t the foggiest what you’re going on about.”

Aziraphale’s mouth works, gaping like a fish out of water before closing. He frowns, lips pursed in a thin line, his face stony. “You’re right, of course, my dear boy,” He stands and makes a minor show of dusting off his slacks. Aziraphale is at once alarmingly sober. “I’ve got- I have business to attend to, back at the shop, so unfortunately I must take my leave.”

“Are you sure?”

“More so than you.” Aziraphale waves his hand and the mess on the floor clears itself. “Goodnight my dear.”

“Night,” Crowley echoes hollowly.

When Aziraphale leaves Crowley drops back onto his couch, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Crowley spends the next three days in the Sonoran Desert. It’s a place that feels both like birth and death, something that used to breathe life and now works so hard to sustain it. He remembers Eden [5] and can think of nothing else.

[5] At night he sits and stares upward at the stars, more than he can see even on the clearest night in London, his wings spread wide and high. The desert does not sleep around him, creeping scorpions and roaming serpents give him a wide berth but he can feel them. He feels more, here, than any other place he knows.

He could stay here forever, unbothered by humanity or the creatures around him. Just himself and the cacti and the stars. He used to spend centuries alone- invisible -but now it only takes a few days for the familiar ache to settle.

He’d come here to be away from Aziraphale, but he misses him just as deeply as if he’d stayed in London. Crowley slumps over the arm of a small saguaro, lets the pins press into his hands like tiny daggers just to feel something other than this constant ache.

The plant is unbothered by him, resolutely silent when he wails his despair.  A group of pronghorn dart away, startled by the sudden noise. A sidewinder slips between his feet and flicks a tongue upward in irritation.

Crowley rips the needles out of his palms with his teeth, digging into flesh and drawing blood. Deep dark red, the same color as wine splashed across his granite. He wants to go home. He wants to see Aziraphale. For the first time in a long time those both seem like different goals.

Aziraphale finds him two days later in St. James’s Park, splayed under a tree and hiding from the swollen dark rain clouds hanging pregnant in the sky. “Budge up,” Aziraphale says, taking a seat on the ground next to him. The air smells charged, like it’s waiting for lightning. Crowley grunts and slithers over closer to the trunk so Aziraphale can come further under the leaves.

They say nothing for a while. Crowley is used to companionable silences but this doesn’t feel like one. [6] Finally Crowley says, “I’m sorry.”

[6] This feels like they’re both choking on words they don’t know how to say and it’s left them speechless.

Aziraphale looks down at him, eyes wide with surprise, “My dear boy, whatever are you sorry for?”

‘Whatever I’ve done to make you seem so sad’ Crowley thinks. Crowley shrugs a shoulder sending a beetle scampering. “For last week I s’pose, I must’ve done something awful to make you leave in such a rush.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale looks away, his cheeks flushing a delicious pink, “I ought apologize myself for that, leaving in such a huff was very ill mannered of me. I was quite drunk.”

“S’fine.”

Aziraphale clears his throat, “Well, I suppose that’s settled.” His eyes find Crowley’s eyes again, even through the dark glass of his Valentinos and he smiles. “Lunch?”

They end up in Soho at a tapas place called Barrafinna. Aziraphale adores the tapas, Crowley is more in favor of the sherry. Crowley feels more at ease during lunch, like he had dining with Aziraphale in the days before the Apocolypse-That-Could-Have-Been and soon enough he’s letting Aziraphale tempt him into tiny bites from his plate. Twice Aziraphale feeds him with his fingers and Crowley’s ears nearly set to flame from burning. It’s all he can do not to bolt out the door.

Aziraphale dabs at his mouth with a napkin, making a pleased noise as he does. “Utterly scrumptious. Are uh, are you going to finish that my dear?”

Crowley shakes his head and pushes his dessert plate across the table.

“Ah, thank you.”

Crowley hums, chin resting in the palm of his hand. ‘I missed you’ he thinks, and then shakes himself for being silly because he’d only been gone a few days.

Aziraphale chews with his eyes closed, face scrunched up in something close to bliss. Underneath the table, Crowley squeezes his own knee with his free hand because suddenly he’d very much like to reach across the table and touch .

“Good?” Crowley asks, just for something so say, only so he doesn’t say anything stupid.

“Marvelous,” Aziraphale says and dabs at his mouth, “my dear you do always know the best places.”

“I could take you to more, now that the world is saved and all.”

“I would like that very much.” Aziraphale’s eyes are bright and his face is warm with something, but Crowley doesn’t dare try to read into it. Can’t allow himself to hope .

Crowley coughs and curls his hand over his mouth. “Well then, home now angel?”

Aziraphale goes uncomfortably quiet. “I thought,” he says carefully, “today might be a rather nice day for a drive.”

“Angel, it’s raining.”

“Not too bad, no,” Aziraphale says, “you can drive slow.”

“Well-”

“Come on Crowley, anywhere you want to go.”

Crowley closes his eyes and bites down on his tongue. He wants - he wants - “Alright,” he says, undone, “I’ll settle up.”

Aziraphale is already in the car by the time Crowley has settled the bill and made his way outside. He has a kind of vague knowledge that he may have left an outrageous tip, despite never having ever tipped before, but he can’t quite think straight at the moment. He feels a bit dreamy, if he’s honest.

The Bentley drives for him, mostly. Crowley’s a bit preoccupied with the way Aziraphale has his hands folded in his lap, the soft curve of his mouth, the gentle swell of his chest to pay attention to the road. Aziraphale is looking out the window at the falling rain and passing buildings. Crowley’s hand twitches on the wheel. What would Aziraphale say if he tried to take his hand? Crowley forces his focus back on the road and tightens his grip on the wheel.

The steady thrum of the Bentley’s windscreen wipers and the soft croon of Freddie Mercury’s voice fill the otherwise companionable silence in the cab. Aziraphale taps his fingers along with the tune [7], humming along like he almost knows the words. He might. Aziraphale has heard these songs almost as many times as Crowley has.

[7] It is a tune that may or may not have been inspired by a certain night with a certain musician, Crowley cannot confirm nor deny this. ( I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings / Be your Valentino just for you)

Crowley likes driving. He has for a hundred years. The focus of it, the ease. It’s like flying without the fear of falling and he does it now mindlessly, easing between lanes and creating spaces where there was none before. He slows down only when he sees Aziraphale’s knuckles turn white, when his mouth gets pinched in the way that means he’s about to be cross with him.

“Alright there angel?”

“I don’t see why you have to go so fast , my dear,” Aziraphale’s hand clenches in his lap when Crowley takes a turn at a speed unsuitable for both the weather and road conditions, “why are you in such a hurry?”

Is it really a hurry when it takes six millennia to get here? The Bentley slows further, without Crowley’s say so, until they’re moving at a sedate pace with the cars next to them. “Don’t know any other way to go, angel,” Crowley says almost absently.

Aziraphale turns his head and looks , really looks, like he’s trying to see inside of Crowley. Crowley squirms, snake-like, under his stare until it becomes too much and Crowley makes himself focus on the road.

“Where are we going, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks.

“Anywhere. Wherever I stop. Anywhere is good enough as long as you’re beside me.”

Aziraphale inhales sharply. He seems tremendously far away, sitting on the other side of the cab. Crowley grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. He shouldn’t have- He should have been more careful about saying-

“Yes,” Aziraphale says and he sounds breathless , “Yes, alright.”

Crowley’s ears feel a bit pink. He drums his fingers along the steering wheel absently just for something to do.

It’s night by the time Crowley decides to stop the Bentley, somewhere south of Edinburgh. They’d stopped for dinner in Manchester and Aziraphale didn’t complain when they’d gotten back in the car and kept driving. He turns into a field, the Bentley whispering over the grass and not leaving tire tracks. He parks and the car goes blessedly silent.

It’s dark out here with nothing but the moon and stars for light, but Crowley can see just fine. Aziraphale is breathing easy and slow beside him. Crowley is staring and Aziraphale is staring right back and he can’t bring himself to break first.

Aziraphale clears his throat, “Well…”

“Well?” Crowley prompts, the corner of his lips tilting up. He leans forward against the wheel, all long limbed and loose.

Aziraphale’s hands twist in his lap, “Yes, well…” he trails off again and sighs. Before Crowley can cut in he picks back up again. “It’s very beautiful here, and the moon is so lovely and full tonight. It’s not often we get to see the stars.”

“I know,” Crowley hums. “This is one of mine, you know? I picked it for the stars and the smell of sweet grass. The wildflowers bloom madly in late spring.”

“You will have to bring me to see them, my dear,” Aziraphale smiles, “perhaps a picnic.”

Oh, I love you, Crowley thinks, heart hammering in his chest. I do love you. He hopes he looks more put together than he feels. Demons can’t love but Crowley is sick of being told what he can and cannot do. “Yes,” Crowley says past the lump in his throat, “I’ll make deviled eggs and you can make those damned cress sandwiches you’re so fond of.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, “and we’ll have wine, maybe a cake as well.” He pauses for a moment. “Crowley,” He says slowly, “what did you mean this place is one of yours? You don’t mean- Crowley, my dear boy, is this one of your hiding spots?”

“I don’t use this one often but yes.”

“And you brought me here.”

“Yes.”

“With you.”

“Yes angel, do keep up.”

Aziraphale’s face softens, like it did a week again in St. James’s Park. The way he says “oh Crowley ”, his eyes misty with tears, has Crowley half out of his skin. He can’t run away this time. Where would he go? Crowley buries his shaking hands in his lap and tries to bear it.

Aziraphale reaches across the cab - inches and millennia between them - and cradles Crowley’s jaw in his hand. Crowley sucks in a wet breath and blows it out, trembling.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again. His other hand finds Crowley’s and grips firm, steady. “You make me ever so happy.”

“Angel I-“

“Dearest,” Aziraphale leans in, close and closer, “how I love you.” Whispered, reverent, like a prayer.

Crowley closes his eyes tight against the welling of tears. “ Aziraphale .” He feels Aziraphale’s fingers drift up to his sunglasses, freezing there in question. “Yeah.” Aziraphale takes his sunglasses off and drags a thumb tenderly under his eye. Crowley opens his eyes. His chest aches, open and raw, at the warmth in Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh love,” Aziraphale murmurs, wiping an errant tear from Crowley’s cheek, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

“No,” Crowley breathes, “ no , Aziraphale I-“ he squeezes Aziraphale’s hand hard, “Angel I’ll ruin you.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale presses their foreheads together. They’re sharing breath and Crowley’s barely breathing. “You couldn’t if you tried.

“I love you,” Crowley gasps and it hurts , “I love you, I love you, I love you-“ Aziraphale closes the space between them, capturing the words with his mouth.

Kissing Aziraphale is- It’s everything Crowley has been wanting since the Garden, when Aziraphale had shielded him with his wing from the first rain. It’s centuries of temptations and clandestine meetings, of lunches and wine and boxes of chocolate. Aziraphale is warm and steady and Crowley goes soft under him, opening himself to the one being in Creation he’s ever had concrete faith in.

When Aziraphale pulls away Crowley can’t help but chase after that mouth, his hand coming up to clutch at the lapel of Aziraphale’s jacket.

“I’m here love,” Aziraphale says, thumbing along his jaw, “you have me. For as long as you like.”

“Long as I like?” Crowley says thickly, his cheeks burning, “How’s eternity sound?”

“I’d like that,” Aziraphale says, eyes crinkling as he smiles.

Crowley breathes through the molten feeling in his chest. Aziraphale’s love feels like basking in the sun after spending eternity underground, blinding in its intensity. He laces their fingers together in his lap. Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s temple and again to the thin skin under his eye.

They spend the night at a small hotel in Edinburgh, Crowley sprawled half across Aziraphale’s chest most of the night with Aziraphale’s hand in his hair. The drive back to London the next day is spent mostly in silence, their hands clasped securely in the narrow space between them. Aziraphale brings Crowley’s hand up to kiss his knuckles, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb.

A month later they’re in New York City, Crowley opening the door to a rooftop greenhouse. Inside are impossible plants, flowers that quake in their pots when Crowley lets the door slam shut. There’s a handsome English Ivy that seems to wave hello from the ceiling. Aziraphale touches the creeping vines and smiles at Crowley.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says, “Really beautiful.”

“Oh hush,” Crowley says, “you give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.”

“Nothing wrong with a little bit of positive reinforcement. You seem to enjoy it, as I recall.”

“Shut up,” Crowley whines, the tips of his ears going pink.

Aziraphale steps in to hold Crowley’s face in his hands. His fingers trace at Crowley’s ears. “Precious boy,” He says, leaning in to kiss his sharp cheekbone.

Across the room a Rose bush blooms, beautiful pink and red petals opening and releasing a sweet smell. A pot of green Carnations turn toward them. Above, that old English Ivy gently ripples.  

Crowley drops his head to Aziraphale’s collar, sighing softly. Aziraphale slides his hands up into Crowley’s hair, twirling dark red locks between his fingers. “I like this,” Aziraphale says, “I’m glad you decided to show me.”

“I like you.” Crowley says, punctuating it with a kiss to Aziraphale’s neck. He looks up to glare at his plants, “Don’t get any ideas, I’ll still bin the lot of you.”

Aziraphale laughs. “You won’t.”

He doesn’t.

End

(For those that wanted to be tagged: @jawnlawk , @the-djinn-inside)

#fic #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #mine