The tapping at the window came unevenly. Weak. Dragging.
Peter nearly missed the ledge the first time his hand slipped.
His shoulder slammed against the brick beside the window, breath tearing sharply through his teeth before he forced another crooked grin onto his face. Blood ran from a cut above his eyebrow, trailing past the edge of his mouth. His suit looked darker than usual beneath the city lights — soaked through in places, torn open along his ribs and shoulder.
Even standing seemed difficult.
Still, the second the window lifted, he tilted his head with a tired little smile, trying to look less destroyed than he actually was.
“Hey,” he rasped softly. “You should see the other guy.”
The joke barely landed before he bent forward slightly, one hand pressing hard against his side. A shaky breath escaped him. He tried laughing through it anyway, though it dissolved into a strained cough.
Peter stumbled inside the room the second he was helped over the windowsill. His legs almost gave out completely, but he caught himself against the wall, fingertips smearing red across the paint.
“Okay,” he muttered quickly, breathing unevenly. “Little bit worse than I thought.”
He tried straightening up, but another sharp pain crossed his face immediately. His eyes squeezed shut for half a second before he forced them open again, looking over with that same stupidly soft expression like he was more worried about calming someone else down than the blood dripping onto the floor.
“No, baby, don’t— don’t look like that,” he murmured.
His voice had gone quieter now. Slower.
He sat carefully on the edge of the bed while his hands shook trying to peel the suit away from the wound near his ribs. The fabric stuck to the blood. He hissed sharply under his breath but kept smiling through it, exhausted and stubborn.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “C’mon. You can do it.”
Peter’s gaze followed every movement while he got patched up, his breathing shallow whenever the alcohol touched a cut. Every now and then his hand would twitch toward the injury instinctively before stopping himself from interfering.
He kept trying to lighten the mood despite barely being able to hold himself upright.
“At least my face still looks good, right?” he mumbled weakly.
Another wince crossed his features when pressure was applied to his side. He swallowed hard, jaw tightening, then immediately softened again once he noticed the panic rising around him.
“No police,” he said quickly.
The words came out firmer than anything else he’d said all night.
Peter reached out immediately despite the pain shooting through his arm, fingers curling gently around a wrist to stop the movement before it happened.
“No,” he repeated, quieter this time. “They’ll… they’ll find the spider DNA.”
A breathless laugh escaped him after that, delirious around the edges.
“Which is a very weird sentence to say out loud.”
His head tipped back against the wall behind him afterward, exhaustion finally catching up all at once. The joking faded slowly from his face, leaving behind the bruising, the cuts, the trembling he’d been hiding since climbing through the window.
Still, even barely conscious, he kept trying to reassure instead of panic.
“S’just a rough night,” he slurred softly.
Peter’s eyes fluttered half shut while his hand remained loosely wrapped where he’d reached for comfort. His thumb brushed absentmindedly once against skin before his head lolled sideways from exhaustion.
And somehow, even covered in bruises and blood, he still looked unbearably pretty.
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