For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The last of Peter's shuddering breaths quieted, leaving a profound stillness in the room. They were still kneeling on the floor of his messy bedroom, tangled in an embrace that felt more sacred than any of their passionate encounters. He was raw, hollowed out, and utterly exposed. He had shown her the broken pieces of himself, the jagged edges he kept hidden from the world, and she hadn't flinched. She had simply held him.
Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled back, unable to meet her gaze. The shame was a hot, creeping thing, not for the tears, but for the weight of the secrets that had caused them. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, his voice hoarse. "You didn't sign up for... this."
Diana's hands, which had been cradling his face, moved to grip his shoulders with a gentle but firm strength. She made him look at her. Her eyes were not filled with pity, but with a fierce, unwavering loyalty that was so intense it was almost startling.
"Peter," she said, her voice low and steady, a bedrock in his swirling emotions. "There is a saying in my homeland: 'The strongest shields are not those that never dent, but those that are tested and hold.' Your heart has been tested. I am honored that you trust me enough to show me the marks."
He stared at her, the simple, profound poetry of her words washing over him, cleansing the last of his shame. He wasn't broken in her eyes. He was strong.
"Come," she said, her tone shifting from that of a philosopher to a pragmatist. "The floor is no place for a wounded warrior."
She stood with an effortless grace and pulled him to his feet. He felt weak, his legs unsteady, and he leaned on her for a moment, inhaling the clean, familiar scent of her. She led him to his bed and, with a surprising maternal authority, made him sit on the edge.
"Stay," she commanded gently.
She returned to the bathroom, and he could hear the sound of the faucet running, the quiet clinking of things in his medicine cabinet. He sat there, shirtless and vulnerable, listening to the quiet, domestic sounds. It felt strange. His room was usually a solitary space, a place for him to patch up his other life in secret. Having her here, not as a lover in the heat of passion, but as a caregiver in the quiet aftermath, was a new level of intimacy that made his heart ache with a feeling he was beginning to recognize as simple, unadulterated happiness.
She returned with the warm washcloth, a small first-aid kit he hadn't even known he owned, and a glass of water. She knelt before him again, ignoring his mumbled protests, and resumed her work on his bruised side.
"You know," he said, his voice a little shaky as he watched her meticulously clean a scrape he hadn't even noticed, "I'm usually the one patching myself up after a... clumsy incident."
"A warrior should never have to tend to his own wounds alone," she replied without looking up, her focus absolute. "It is the duty of his shield-mate to offer aid and comfort."
"Shield-mate," he repeated, the word feeling both ancient and perfectly, wonderfully new. "Is that what we are?"
She finally looked up, a small, soft smile on her lips. "Among other things."
She finished cleaning the scrapes and then opened a small jar of antiseptic ointment. The sharp, medicinal smell filled the air. Her touch was impossibly gentle as she applied it to his bruised skin. He watched her, mesmerized by the focused, tender expression on her face. This was the same woman who had held a bus aloft, who had stared down a tear in reality. The same hands that could channel the power of the gods were now tending to his injuries with the care of a surgeon and the tenderness of a mother. The duality of her would never cease to amaze him.
"You have a great deal of practice at this," he observed, trying to keep his tone light.
"My sisters and I were not gentle in our training," she said, a flicker of a distant memory in her eyes. "We learned early how to set a bone, stitch a wound, and soothe a fever. It is a necessary skill." She finished her work, her hand resting for a moment on his side, her warmth seeping into his skin. "You should rest. Your body is attempting to heal."
"Only if you stay," he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them, raw and needy.
Her smile was his answer. She stood and began to move around his room, not with the aimless wandering of a guest, but with a quiet, efficient purpose. She picked up the discarded pizza box from the night before, gathered their empty coffee mugs, and created a small island of order on his cluttered desk. She wasn't cleaning up after him; she was nesting, creating a calm space in his chaos.
Peter watched, a profound sense of peace settling over him. He pulled back the covers of his bed and slid in, the cool sheets a relief against his feverish skin. He was exhausted, but he couldn't close his eyes. He didn't want to miss a second of this.
When she was done, she dimmed his main light, leaving only the soft glow of his desk lamp. She came to the bed and, instead of getting in, simply sat on the edge, her back to him, as if she were a sentry standing watch.
"You can get in, you know," he said softly. "I don't bite. Unless you're into that."
She turned, a small, amused huff of a laugh escaping her. She slipped off her shoes and slid under the covers, lying on her back, a careful, respectful distance between them. They lay in the quiet darkness, side-by-side, not touching, just existing in the same space.
"Diana?" he whispered after a long, comfortable silence.
"Yes, Peter?"
"Thank you," he said again. "For everything."
He felt her shift, turning onto her side to face him. He couldn't see her expression clearly in the dim light, but he could feel the intensity of her gaze.
"There is no need for thanks between shield-mates," she whispered. "There is only duty, and care." She reached out, her hand finding his under the covers, her fingers lacing with his. "Now sleep. I will keep watch."
He closed his eyes, the solid, reassuring weight of her hand in his a final, perfect anchor. The storm in his mind was gone. The hurricane had passed. And in the quiet, safe harbor of his own bed, with his guardian, his partner, his shield-mate beside him, Peter Parker finally, truly, rested.
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