A/N: This is my first time writing for Peter Parker, and I hope I’ve done this request justice!! Feel free to send in more requests about this cutie pie!! Please don’t post this elsewhere without my permission!!
going, (Y/N)!” Sam hollers. “Get to the jet!”
hunker down behind a bench. From your vantage point, you can see Spiderman kicking
Sam and Bucky into a pane of safety glass. You duck your head to shield your
eyes, so you don’t actually see the windows explode. But you hear it. You feel
it, too. Those little shards of glass hurt
as they pelt onto bare arms and legs.
wish you’d thought to wear jeans.
go. You rise from behind your cover and sprint. Coach would be so proud, if he
could see you now.
“Your, mission, should you
choose to accept it, is to get through enemy territory, and hijack their jet.” So Captain America hadn’t
said it in those words exactly, but
the point he’d been trying to get across was essentially the same. Bucky and
Sam would keep you from having to engage anybody, leaving you free to slip over
to the Hangar and get the jet prepped and ready to go. You would have loved to
pilot a jet – say, maybe, after about ten
years of lessons, not after some hastily given instructions from ex-Agent
Barton – and had told Captain America as much. You only had a learner’s permit
for driving a car, not some fancy,
high-tech jet, but he was adamant on having you as the getaway driver.
if you were being honest, having Captain
America relying on you for help was pretty darn awesome.
warning comes too late. As you run onward and duck into a hallway, spandex-covered
arms embrace you from behind – one around your shoulders, one around your waist.
You put on an extra spurt of speed. The hands latch on. A shrill scream splits
the air. It sounds like you. But it’s a futile effort – Sam and Bucky are
securely trussed up, sticky webbing keeping them pinned to the floor. Even if
they wanted to help, they couldn’t.
“Let me go!” You demand, twisting and
kicking. “Let me go right this instant!”
the arms around you slacken; drop gracelessly back to their owner’s sides. You
scramble away, with wide and frightened eyes, until the small of your back hits
the concrete wall.
You stiffen. Oh, no. Please, no. The voice, though woolly and
quiet, is thoroughly familiar to you, from years of studying with him, talking to
him, being friends with him. “Oh,
God. Oh, God, why are you here?
(Y/n), you shouldn’t be here.”
You blurt out. “Peter, is that you?”
I’m not –” He’s nervously tripping over his words, trying to come up with a
suitable lie. “I’m Spiderman, not –”
lips twist up in a sad smile. “You’re a rotten liar, Peter.”
this time, he doesn’t try to deny it.
two of you had been best friends ever since the second grade, when your nanny had
forgotten to pack your lunch one day, and Peter had given you half of his tuna
and mayo sandwich. You’d shared every day, every moment … Every secret.
it would appear, not every secret.
… Spiderman, huh?” You manage, letting out a watery laugh that doesn’t hold
any real humor in it. Spiderman might have saved you once, but this side of
Peter is new and entirely foreign, much like the new and shiny suit that he’s
sporting. “You’ve – You’ve really been busy, huh?”
wonder when Peter was going to tell you; or if he was even planning to. Ever
since Uncle Ben had passed, Peter had been acting strange: Showing up to school
bruised and bloodied, cancelling days out together with only the flimsiest of excuses,
showing up late to the appointments he did
agree to go for …
now you finally, finally know why.
sorry, (Y/n),” Peter says miserably. Even under the mask, you know that his
forehead is creased and puckered up, warm chocolate eyes downcast. “I wanted to
tell you, but I didn’t – There was never a good time.”
Of course not.
what you’re really saying is: You don’t trust me.” It bursts out of you. You’ll
admit there’s a sour surge of satisfaction when Peter recoils, even though you
haven’t raised a hand to him. It comes out again, louder this time. “That’s what
it all boils down to, doesn’t it? I thought we were friends. I trusted you. I told you everything – the boys I liked, the
crushes I had. I thought –”
“Me?” Peter’s glumness turns into
irritation, and you realise your mistake. “I’m
not the only one keeping secrets! You
didn’t tell me that you’d be running around with Captain America and a bunch of
- Criminals. He doesn’t say it, but you know that’s what he
means. The word hits you like a ton of bricks. You stare at Peter, not moving,
not even blinking. A day ago, that wouldn’t have meant you. A day ago, you and Peter would have been in school. A day ago, the two of you would
have still been friends.
you had accepted Captain America’s request for help, you didn’t think that you’d
have to face off with your best friend in the process.
I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –”
cracked something in you wide open. You stride away from the boy you once knew,
but you can’t leave yet.
“Fine,” You say, infusing the word
with venom. “Then arrest me. Take me
in. I’m just a criminal, right?”
voice rises in octaves, building up to a high crescendo. Your anger rises up, blooming
in your chest like a poisonous flower, and you focus on that, since it chases
away the chill that permeates deep into your bones. Blind now with a mingled
combination of hurt and anger, your hand lashes its way through the air in a
flicking motion, forcing the powers sleeping deep inside you to the surface.
Even though Peter’s standing motionless at least six feet away, he’s shoved up
into the air by an invisible force, slamming into the window behind you hard
enough to crush bones. He flies out the window with a shriek.
turn away from the remnants of shattered glass and a broken friendship, gloom already
gathering atop your shoulders to weigh you down. In another life, you might
have been fighting by his side, the
two of you working together as Avengers. Now you’ve become public
enemy number one.
Criminal, criminal. Your mind chants it over and
over again, in a sing-song, lilting voice, matching each syllable with your
racing pulse. I’m a criminal.