Peter Parker Oneshots

places we won't walk

wc: 4.4k

written: 20.6.20

avenger!reader au.

very fucking angsty. injury + major character death. 

✧·ﾟ: *✧·ﾟ: *✧·ﾟ: *

"You ever wish you weren't a hero?"

The words fall past your lips before you can stop yourself. There's a silence. Then a presence appears beside you, and you feel Peter wrap his hand in yours as he joins you by the window.

"What do you mean?" He asks, voice soft, questioning.

You tilt your head at the scene beneath the window. Central Park sprawls out in front of you, the lush green trees and speckled flowers brightening up the centre of New York City. The windows are shut, but you can imagine the sounds drifting up from the park: children laughing, lovers embracing, friends chatting. A sense of bitter jealousy sours your mouth as you force your gaze away from the park, the pain in your heart twisting angrily.

"We're up here, working," you start, picking your words carefully. "The world goes by below us. People- they fall in love, yeah? They hang out with their friends, they live their lives and they're happy. Meanwhile, we stay up here, working alone, sacrificing everything." You can't help the bitterness that sweeps into your voice. You glance tentatively to Peter, who's gripping your fingers a little harder now, his face pinched in an expression of anguish as his soft brown eyes flicker over the park.

After a moment, he sighs. "No one said life was going to be fair, Y/N."

You're disarmed by the bluntness in your boyfriend's voice, and find your eyebrows raising reflectively. He finally tears his eyes from the park and brings his gaze to your face, his arms pulling around you as he takes in your expression. You bury your face in his shoulder and try not to cry as you think about the people down in the park, laughing and carefree, all because you're up here, protecting them and their city.

It's not fair. It will never be fair. But there's nothing you can do about that. Because leaving the job would be siding with the enemy, and you could never do that.

"One day we'll get out of here," Peter murmurs, hands in your hair. His sweet peppermint scent swept over you as he holds you tight. "One day, we'll take some time off, yeah? Go to the beach, have a vacation. Just...not yet." And his voice sounds so false that water burns your eyes as you blink furiously.

"You think Tony will ever let us both leave the city?" When he stills, you catch your lower lip beneath your teeth and sigh guiltily. Pulling yourself back from his grip, you nudge your mouth against his cheek in a quick, chaste kiss. "Sorry," you murmur. "It's just hard, sometimes."

Peter, only eighteen, but looking so much older with worried creases scrunched between his eyebrows, shrugs his shoulders. But he has an image of understanding on his face and a soft, sad smile spread across his lips, and it makes you feel a little less lonely to know you aren't the only one chained to responsibility.

"We'll get through it," he promises. "They need us."

And then you're both looking back at the images of happy people playing in the park, and the silence returns again.

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It's Christmas Eve and you're stumbling around on top of a rooftop, exchanging blows with a masked figure. In one hand he clutches a bag full of looted money, and in the other, he holds a knife. To say he's built stockily, with wide shoulders and a tall, looming figure, he's incredibly nimble on his feet. You're breathless as you parry his strikes, your aching body already exhausted from taking on the rest of his goonies.