Bloom - Peter Parker

Brown: On a Knife's Edge

November has not been kind to Queens.

As you emerge from your local Subway station, you instinctively tug your navy scarf up around your chin, shivering even beneath the many layers and pairs of gloves you'd left with that morning. It's raining, and it's windy, and the sun's already set, so you're wading through the streets beneath dark, stormy skies, and it makes you wonder why you chose to be outside on a day like this.

The moment you stumble into your apartment, you change out of your soggy clothes and clamber into a pair of joggers and one of Peter's hoodies. Your bag full of coursework stays discarded by the door, the memories of college draining away as you collapse down onto your bed, rubbing your hands together in a meagre attempt at growing warm.

A short huff leaves your mouth. You're exhausted.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket so you quickly pull it out, peering down at a text from your boyfriend. The sight of his contact photo is enough to bring a little warmth to your smile; it's one you took, and it's a photo you snatched whilst he was sprawled across your bed following a busy Star Wars marathon, his grey curls loose and spread over his forehead, his face relaxed and calm. He hates it, claims it's incredibly unflattering to see him slack-jawed and snoring, but to you, it's an incredibly special photo.

Gonna take a break to get warm. I misssssssssssssyouuuuuuu pls call me? Xx

You make a soft sound of excitement as you quickly press the telephone icon beside his name and sit up against your headboard as you wait for him to pick up. You miss him too, despite having seen him this morning when he shoved an extra jumper your way as you left his building. You always miss Peter.

"Baby!" He greets, accent coming through strongly as he cheers. "You called!"

You roll your eyes, fingers going to toy with one of the strings on your hoodie. "'Course I did," you reply, voice alight with fondness. "How's it going?"

He's out protecting the city, much to your dismay. Despite it raining colossally and being so freezing you feel like your fingers might drop off (and that's after being huddled up inside for ten minutes), Peter doesn't let that deter him; he's out there, almost every night, swinging around Queens, doing his business. And you're proud, of course you're proud, but you worry. He has the tendency to prioritise the city over his own physical condition, and you have an image of a Peter-cicle flying over the city.

"It's going well. I'm kinda perched under this suspended platform thingy, and I just found this button called insta-heat so I'm having a great time." He pauses to suck in a breath, the muted noise of rainfall drifting down the line. "But it's okay. Pretty quiet. It's so miserable out here that even the criminals are staying-"

Suddenly the line drops out and there's a suspiciously loud bang followed by the distinct sound of muffled fighting. You sit up straighter, staring at your phone in horror as grunts of pain replace your boyfriend's voice, still coated in the same depth and tone as his speech. Your blood runs cold, fear curling through your bloodstream as you stay absolutely still, frozen.

And then there are voices, quiet, louder once there's a scuffling and you assume the phone's been picked up.

"Who's this?" The voice grunts. It's female, low, and full of such a direct evilness that you cringe.

"No one." It's Peter, and he sounds more worried than you've ever heard in your life.

"Y/N," the woman repeats, chuckling slightly, "And about a thousand love hearts after that. Fuckin' predictable." She pauses before her voice becomes louder, clearly being directed to you. "Come to the building on 23rd and 14th. We'll be on the roof." She pauses, and you can barely hear her next words over the sound of your rocketing pulse, "Every minute you take, the closer your boyfriend gets to death."