𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓, p. parker

iii. call you

"You're a menace."

She's a drug, he's sure of it. She has to be in order for Peter to be this attached, this invested.

"What are you doing?"

"Homework," she muttered absentmindedly and Peter imagined her slouched over the desk, pen in hand as she filled up worksheets, that look on her face when she's focussed about something. "What are you doing?"

Peter looked at the skyscrapers in front of him, the red spandex suit covering his body as his feet dangled from seventy stories up. Sometimes, he wished he could go back to the simplicity of it all, just be another boy talking to the girl he likes and not a superhero crawling into her bedroom at night because he thought he was about to die and wanted to see her face before he did.

"Homework," he lies, pulling his mask off as his eyes zero in on her building. Somewhere inside is Francesca Strange, slouched over her desk with Bella by her feet, eyes repeatedly scanning the same sentence in an attempt to understand it, her voice softer than it ever had been as he talked to Peter, laced with sleep deprivation against two mugs of coffee.

"Go to sleep," she tells him.

Peter grinned at her scolding tone. "Frankie, are you worried about my overall health?"

"No." Frankie scoffed and Peter could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "I hate you."

Peter only laughed because there was that tone again. There's something about the way Frankie talks that he's sure even she doesn't recognize. She's always genuine with her words, saying what she means rather than what to appease the people she's talking to. Truth is always lacing her voice, her eyes always genuine, but whenever she tells Peter she hates him, there's something else there.

A joke, a tone of familiarity, of comfort.

No matter how many times she calls him annoying or complains about his presence, she never actually never actually tells him to go or leave her alone. It's as if they always expect each other, whether they know it or not. It's a routine that can only be developed within years of being friends and being not.

Or maybe none of it is true and Peter is just telling lies to himself.

"Your brother is a little bit scary," he admits, remembering the frown on Stephen Strange's face as he shook Peter's hand.

"He's an A class arrogant asshole," she said. "But he takes care of me. He's always had."

"Maybe he isn't that much of an asshole then."

"No, he definitely is," she says with a hum and Peter can hear her pushing her chair back and walking to her bed. "His ego can cover the world."

He chuckled at the description. "Must be where you got it from."

"Haha hilarious." Frankie huffed. "You're a real comedian, aren't you?"

"Oh, you bet."

That was when he sensed it. Peter could sense it before he heard the sirens, closing his eyes as he listened to Frankie ramble on about him being stupid before putting his mask back on.

"I gotta go."

He didn't wait for a response as he ended the call, dropping his phone in his backpack before swinging off the building.

_._._

"WHY ARE YOU glaring at me?"

"I'm hoping you'll spontaneously combust."

Gwen chuckled from her place beside Frankie as Peter only smiled, holding up his skateboard in innocence as he plopped down next to her, making Frankie roll her eyes.

"Aunt May asked me to give this to you," he said as he handed her a piece of paper with his address.

Frankie's eyebrows furrowed as she studied the handwriting ─ that she's guessing belongs to him ─ being reminded of the sticky note on her study table. She looked back at Peter, eyes travelling to where his shirt dipped, showing a scar just above his collarbone. Frankie's hand involuntarily reached forward, lightly pushing his shirt down to reveal more of the scar that seems to travel all the way to his chest.

Peter softly grabbed her by the wrist, breath caught between his throat as Frankie's eyes seemed to be far away, her brain immediately connecting the dots.

But surely, there's no way. Surely, it's all just a coincidence? There's no way he's actually- but the scar and the handwriting. Frankie had spent the night cleaning his wounds, dressing his injury. She knows exactly where it is-just below his abdomen, above his collarbone.

But Peter Parker? Her Peter Parker? The one who's been beating her since they were eleven. They've grown up together, fallen down the swing together. It's impossible.

Peter let her hand drop. "I- I have to go."

As Frankie watched him jog away, skateboard in hand but her mind raced.