PETER 🕷

_

"PARKER," her voice said above me, "I'm back."

I opened my eyes, the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen blinding me for a painful moment. I'd been laying on the floor while she was gone, and now that she was back, I stumbled back onto my feet. She lingered by the counter, watching.

I squinted my eyes. Something's up.

She'd left so abruptly and now she seems different. I can tell. I guess being her soulmate has its perks, because something in the back of my brain is telling me something's off. It's not my Spidey-Sense. It's probably my conscience.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yeah."

She blinked twice when she said that. It wasn't intentional, and I shouldn't have noticed it, but I did. I observed a similar trait when she told me she hadn't found her soulmate the second time we met—she has a tell when she lies.

I stayed silent, watching as she brushed past me and towards the counter, hands itching to resume her experiment.

"Where did you go?" I asked, tilting my head.

"For a walk."

"It's been almost forty-five minutes."

"There's ninety-three stories in this tower," she said quickly. Her knuckles were furiously kneading a slab of dough, and her eyes were pointed everywhere but at me.

"Ninety-three?"

"Yeah."

"And you walked through all of them?"

My sarcastic comment made her stop kneading, and she let out a dismayed sigh. Clearly something was happening, because she was kneading. Making bread. Her project was about cookies.

Throwing her hands in the air, the girl swiveled away from the counter, going towards the fridge. She slammed her head against the metal door.

"Hey, hey, hey," I said, grabbing the back of her shirt and pulling her away, "what are you doing?"

She crashed into my chest. "Life sucks."

"Does it?"

"Right now? Yes."

I'm not a trained therapist, nor do I possess the skills to make someone feel less worried (since I am constantly worrying myself), but I don't want to see her stressed. I still have no clue why she is, though. Whatever happened on her 'walk' must have not been relaxing in the slightest.

"Okay, Agreste," I smiled, patting her on the head, "let's sit."

Hoisting myself onto the counter, I crossed my legs and gestured for her to do the same. She stared at me blankly for a second before following along. Maybe it was unhygienic to be sitting on a kitchen counter, but that was a matter that was not of the greatest concern.

Squinting my eyes, I tried to read her for any telling signs. She was looking everywhere but at me. Her fingers, the marble finish, the fridge, the doorway—it was like she felt on edge. Strange.

"Talk to me," I said softly, "you know you can."

She was focused on the sink now. "I know."

"Do you not want to?"

"It's complicated."

"Most things are," I nodded, holding out my hand. She hesitated in taking it, but soon placed it on top seconds after. Tingles. "But I promise I'll understand."

There was silence in the air. If I could see what was going on in her head, I would expect it to look like a swirl of colors mixing together. That's how it felt to look at her.

When she finally met my gaze, I let out a subtle exhale in relief. I was doing something right. In a strange way, it looked like she was trying to read me. Like she wanted to know my thoughts, just like I wanted to know hers. Nevertheless, she was thinking deeply about something.

"I need help," she finally said.

I blinked. "Help?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, lay it on me. I'll try my best."

"This is actually pretty hard for me to say," she stammered, her body tensing up, "it's going to sound stupid, I know, but I've always been against this sort of thing, and..."

I had no idea what she was trying to say.

"...you're going to think I'm an idiot, I know."

Jeez, this was making me nervous.

"...And you can totally say no if you want to, because I know it's asking a lot of you."

"[y/n]," I said, squeezing her had abruptly. She stopped talking, eyes settling down from their previous restless state. "Just tell me, it's okay."

I wasn't sure why she was so nervous, but she said it was about needing help. Therapeutic help? Psychiatric help? Doing homework help? There were a million different forms that she could be referencing, and I wouldn't have any clue unless she told me.

I watched her retract her hand away, setting it into her lap. She was back to staring at the counter again.

"I need help with YANA," she sighed, "it's not working."

Oh.

I understand now.

Scientist to scientist, it's probably the hardest thing in the world to ask for help. When you're in charge of your own project, you want to be the sole proprietor. You want your creation to be 100% of your own work; if someone else helps you, there's a loss of pride.

That's how I was when Mr. Stark modified my web-shooters. I remember feeling like the work I'd already made wasn't good enough. That's probably what she's feeling now, asking me to help with her life's work.

I admired her for it. It was a brave thing to do.

And I was happy she trusted me.

"Hey," I smiled, "I won't let you down. Promise."

Her expression softened. "Thank you, Peter."

"Of course."

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YOU ARE NOT ALONE RECIPE

(Modified/Reviewed by Peter Parker)

Cookie batter (See Recipe)

Sugar

(Pls add chocolate chips - Peter)

Fine - [y/n]

Serotonin

Tetrahydronaphthalene

(What? This needs to be replaced - Peter)

Why? It should work. - [y/n]

(This stuff should not be digested - Peter)

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Additional Notes (made in Peter's private Notes App):

- The cookies explode because of the medicinal reaction to the rest of the ingredients. Removing Tetrahydronaphthalene should help a bit, but I have an idea that should be tested.

- WEB FLUID!!! BUT EDIBLE!!!

- It's the same stuff that I use to retain my webshooter's stickiness and keep them from exploding when being shot out of the canister at alarmingly fast rates. If we can make it edible, it should work.

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[y/n]'s TO DO LIST (Made in her private Notes App):

- Ask Peter for help ✓

- Ask Peter out on date

- Cease to exist

- Resurrect myself to finish YANA

- Finish Spanish homework