Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter isn’t supposed to be in the lab today.

He reminds himself even as he follows Reed Richards into the Baxter Building’s lower levels like a particularly obedient stray. The invitation had come casually—just a half-muttered question about his availability to help catalog some alien salvage. No compensation, obviously. Just a “great learning opportunity.” Peter had said yes without thinking, the way he always does when someone even marginally respected in the scientific community acknowledges his existence. Besides, what else was he going to do with his day? Patrol? Scour Craigslist for broken toaster ovens?

Reed usually lets him handle the smaller pieces while he runs calculations and mutters into his dictation device. It’s tedious work, but Peter finds it fascinating. He doesn’t mind the silence—or the almost-silence, really, since Reed never actually talks unless it’s to correct someone’s math. Peter’s comfortable here. Focused.

He doesn’t know Johnny will be there until it’s too late to pretend he has somewhere else to be.

Johnny’s already in the lab when Peter arrives, lounging against a bench. He’s tossing a baseball into the air, catching it with one hand, and making just enough noise to be distracting. The moment Peter walks in, Johnny gives him the kind of look that implies both recognition and complete indifference.

“Look who’s back,” Johnny drawls. “You applying for a permanent intern badge now?”

Peter adjusts the strap of his backpack and manages a tight smile. “Volunteering. Again.”

“Aw. That’s adorable.” Johnny grins, then tilts his head. “You do realize Reed’s not gonna write you a letter of recommendation, right?”

Peter doesn’t answer. He’s already moving toward the containment field where several alien artifacts are laid out across a heat-resistant table, each one tagged and numbered. Reed is somewhere deeper in the lab, calibrating a particle scanner, which means Peter and Johnny are alone for now. The silence between them grows louder by the second.

The object Peter’s focused on is a flat, disk-like piece of alloy with an opalescent core that pulses faintly every few seconds. It’s roughly the size of a drink coaster and emits low-level energy that Reed claims is stable, though not inert. Peter wants to run another scan before handling it directly, but as he reaches forward, Johnny sidles closer.

“Careful,” Johnny says, voice lilting. “Wouldn’t want to trigger an interdimensional wormhole or something. Although that would be fun.”

Peter rolls his eyes behind his goggles. “It’s not unstable. Just sensitive to bioelectric feedback. Maybe don’t crowd it.”

Johnny raises his hands in mock surrender but doesn’t back off. “I’m just observing, Bugboy. Gotta do my time or Sue’s gonna revoke my Xbox.”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“What? Bugboy? It’s a term of endearment.”

“It’s condescending.”

“You’re condescending.” He steps closer and peers into it. “This one’s new.”

Peter shifts slightly, placing himself between Johnny and the object without making a scene. “We’re still observing. Energy’s unstable.”

“Which means what, exactly?” Johnny leans in despite the warning. “Dangerous? Explosive? Is it going to hatch and eat us?”

Peter levels a look at him. “It means we don’t touch it.”

Johnny snorts. “Relax. It’s not doing anything.”

“Yet,” Peter snaps. “That’s the key word here. Yet.”

“I’ve handled worse,” Johnny says, already reaching for the edge of the containment casing.

Peter catches his wrist before he can make contact. “You’re being reckless.”

Johnny pulls his hand back, glaring. “You’re being uptight.”

“And you’re acting like a child.”

Johnny grins, infuriatingly smug. “You’re just jealous.”

Peter blinks. “Of what?”

“This,” Johnny says, gesturing to himself like he’s modeling for a magazine cover. “The headlines. The powers. The cool factor. You’re stuck babysitting space junk and swinging around in a red and blue costume while I get the real action.”

“You really think that’s what matters?” Peter mutters.

“I think you wish it was,” Johnny fires back.

"That's not—" Peter starts, but his retort is cut short when Johnny shifts forward, accidentally knocking Peter's arm against the containment field.

Their hands collide with the disk simultaneously. Peter's fingers brush against the opalescent core just as Johnny's palm makes contact with the outer rim. The artifact flares to life, pulsing with blinding intensity. A wave of brilliant blue-white light erupts from the center, expanding outward in a perfect sphere that engulfs them both.

Peter's heart seizes in his chest. His vision whites out completely. Every nerve ending in his body screams danger, and he braces for pain, for disintegration, for something catastrophic—

Then... nothing.

The light vanishes as quickly as it appeared. The disk sits inert on the table, its core now dark and lifeless. No alarms. No radiation. No interdimensional portal. Just Johnny and Peter, frozen in place, both still very much alive and intact.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Peter hisses, jerking his hand away and shoving Johnny back. "Are you trying to get us killed? Or worse—expelled from Reed's lab permanently?"

Johnny blinks a few times, looking almost disappointed. "That was anticlimactic."

"Anticlimactic?" Peter's voice rises an octave. "You were hoping for what, exactly? Superpowers? Newsflash, Storm—you already have those!"

"Maybe a cool explosion," Johnny shrugs, examining his hands like he's checking for new abilities. "Or at least some sparks. That thing just died."

Peter runs a trembling hand through his hair, adrenaline still coursing through his system. "You're unbelievable. We don't know what that thing did. It could have—I don't know—tagged our DNA or implanted alien spores or something."

"Alien spores?" Johnny snorts. "You watch too many horror movies."

"And you don't think enough about consequences," Peter bites, already reaching for a handheld scanner. He waves it over his own body first, then reluctantly over Johnny's. The readings look normal, which is somehow more unsettling than if they'd found something wrong.

"See? We're fine," Johnny says, but there's something off about his voice. A slight hesitation.

Peter narrows his eyes. "You feel okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Johnny says too quickly. "Why wouldn't I?"

Before Peter can press further, Reed's voice carries from the adjacent room. "What was that flash? Did something activate?"

Peter and Johnny exchange a quick, panicked glance—the first moment of genuine synchronicity between them.

"Nothing!" they call out in unison, then glare at each other.

"Just testing the new LED system," Johnny adds smoothly.

Peter rolls his eyes but doesn't contradict him. He turns back to the disk, which now appears completely dormant. Its surface has changed color from a matte silver to a deep, burnt bronze, like it's been oxidized by centuries instead of seconds.

His stomach churns. Whatever just happened, it wasn't nothing. He can feel it in his bones—a low-grade hum that wasn't there before, like he's been plugged into an electrical current set to the lowest possible setting. His spider-sense isn't going off, which should be reassuring, but instead it makes him more anxious. Maybe the artifact scrambled that too.

He glances at Johnny, who's now examining his fingernails with unusual interest. There's a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there five minutes ago, and Peter catches him flexing his fingers like he's testing something.

"You sure you're okay?" Peter asks again.

Johnny's head snaps up. "Stop being paranoid, Spidey. We touched some alien junk and didn't die. That's a win in my book."

Peter notices he doesn't quite meet his eyes when he says it.

Reed's footsteps echo from the hallway, growing closer. Peter quickly moves to block the view of the discolored disk, his mind racing through possible explanations that won't get them both banned from the lab forever. The humming sensation under his skin intensifies, and he has to resist the urge to scratch at his arms.

"Just... don't mention the color change," Peter mutters.

Johnny nods, which surprises him. Usually Johnny would take any opportunity to throw Peter under the bus, especially if it meant deflecting attention from his own recklessness.

Reed rounds the corner, already stretching unnaturally to peer over their shoulders at the workstation. "Everything progressing smoothly? I thought I noticed an energy spike on the monitors."

Peter forces his voice to stay level. "Just routine scanning. Nothing unusual to report."

The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, but the alternative—admitting they contaminated an alien artifact through sheer stupidity—seems infinitely worse.

Reed buys the lie, or at least pretends to, and the rest of the afternoon passes in a fog of tension. Peter can't shake the crawling sensation under his skin, like something's rewiring his nervous system one synapse at a time. He catches Johnny staring at his own hands more than once, opening and closing his fists as if testing their responsiveness.

By the time Peter leaves the Baxter Building, a headache has bloomed behind his eyes, throbbing in time with his pulse. He puts on his suit and swings home (to avoid subway delays and traffic) on autopilot, nearly missing a building when his web shooter misfires. The city blurs beneath him, a smear of lights and noise that feels more distant than usual.

He just needs sleep, he tells himself as he crawls through his bedroom window, peeling off his mask. It’s probably nothing.

He doesn't bother with dinner, just collapses onto his bed fully clothed. His last coherent thought before unconsciousness claims him is that Johnny Storm looked almost afraid when they parted ways.

The first thing Peter notices is the light, too bright and direct, slicing through his eyelids like a laser. He groans and rolls over, burying his face in a pillow that feels impossibly soft against his cheek. Not his lumpy Target clearance pillow, but something that probably costs more than his monthly rent.

His eyes snap open.

The ceiling above him is at least fifteen feet high, with recessed lighting and what appears to be hand-painted detailing along the crown molding. Peter sits up so fast his vision swims, and that's when he realizes several critical things at once.

He's not in his cramped bedroom in Queens. He's in an enormous bed with black satin sheets in what appears to be the master suite of a luxury penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a panoramic view of Manhattan that could only come from one of those buildings where the doormen wear white gloves.

More importantly, he's naked. Completely, horrifyingly naked. And the body he's looking down at isn't his.

"What—" Peter chokes, and even his voice is wrong—deeper, smoother.

He scrambles out of bed, nearly tripping over his own—no, not his—feet, which are bigger and attached to longer legs than he's used to. The floor beneath him is heated marble, because of course it is. He staggers across the room, drawn to a wall of mirrors that line what appears to be a walk-in closet the size of his entire apartment.

The reflection staring back at him isn't Peter Parker. It's Johnny Storm.

"No, no, no," Peter whispers, watching Johnny's lips form the words. He raises a hand to his face—Johnny's face—feeling the sharper jawline, the absence of his usual quick-to-grow stubble. His hair is golden and perfectly tousled even though he just woke up. His body is buffer and more muscular, more defined, compared to Peter’s own toned litheness.

His knees buckle. He grabs the mirror's edge to steady himself, watching Johnny's face contort with his own panic. This can't be real. He's dreaming, or hallucinating, or having some kind of psychotic break brought on by alien radiation.

He pinches his arm—Johnny's arm—and the sharp pain confirms what his mind refuses to accept. He's awake and coherent and he's somehow inhabiting Johnny Storm's body.

"Okay," Peter breathes, forcing himself to think through the terror. "Okay, this is... this is temporary. Has to be. Some kind of consciousness transfer triggered by the artifact. Reed will figure it out. Reed fixes everything."

His reflection doesn't look convinced.

Peter stumbles back toward the bed, searching for clothes, for his phone, for anything that might help him make sense of this nightmare. The nightstand is sleek black lacquer with a single drawer. Inside, he finds a wallet, keys to what looks like an expensive sports car, and a phone with a cracked screen protector because apparently even Johnny Storm drops his phone sometimes.

The wallet contains more cash than Peter usually sees in a month, several credit cards, and a driver's license confirming what the mirror already told him. Jonathan Lowell Spencer Storm. Age 24. The photo shows Johnny's trademark smile, the one that makes Peter want to punch him on a bad day.

Peter sinks onto the edge of the bed, Johnny's phone trembling in his hands. He needs to call someone. Reed. Sue. Hell, even Ben would be better than sitting here alone with this impossible situation.

But first, he needs to know if Johnny is experiencing the same thing.

The phone's contact list is exactly what Peter would expect, which is a mixture of superhero colleagues, media contacts, and what appears to be an alarming number of people listed only by first names with various emoji combinations. Peter scrolls past "Aaron 🔥" and "Annie 🌶️" until he finds his own contact information, listed simply as "Bug Boy 🕷️."

Even in his phone, Johnny can't resist the nickname.

Peter's finger hovers over his own number. What if Johnny doesn't answer? What if this is one-sided, and Johnny is unconscious somewhere while Peter is trapped in his body? What if—

The phone buzzes in his hand. An incoming call from Sue 👸💙.

Peter stares at the screen, paralyzed. He can't answer this. Sue Storm will take one look at him—at Johnny's face saying Peter's words—and know something is catastrophically wrong. But if he doesn't answer, she might come looking for her brother, and that would be even worse.

The buzzing stops. Then immediately starts again.

Peter's thumb swipes to accept before his brain can override the decision.

"Johnny, thank God," Sue's voice fills the room, tight with worry. "Reed's been trying to reach you all morning. Something happened at the lab last night, and we need to run some tests—"

"Sue." Peter's voice cracks, and he winces at how wrong it sounds coming from Johnny's throat. "I'm... there's something you need to know."

Silence stretches across the line. Peter can practically hear Sue's analytical mind processing the tone, the hesitation, the complete absence of Johnny's usual tone.

"Johnny?" Her voice sharpens. "Are you hurt? You sound—"

"I'm not Johnny."

The words tumble out before Peter can stop them. He squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles—Johnny's knuckles—go white.

"What do you mean you're not—"

"It’s Peter Parker." The admission feels like jumping off a building without webs. "Something happened yesterday with this artifact. Johnny and I, we both touched it, and now I'm... I'm in his body."

The silence that follows is so complete Peter wonders if the call dropped. He pulls the phone away from his ear to check the screen, but the timer is still running.

"Sue?"

"Stay exactly where you are." Her voice has shifted into the crisp, commanding tone she uses during Fantastic Four emergencies. "Don't leave the apartment. Don't talk to anyone else. I'm coming over."

"Sue, wait—"

But she's already hung up. Peter stares at the blank screen, his reflection caught in the black surface. Johnny's face looks as lost as Peter feels.

He needs clothes. Standing naked in a stolen body while waiting for Johnny's sister to arrive ranks somewhere between mortifying and traumatic on Peter's personal disaster scale. The walk-in closet reveals exactly what he'd expect from Johnny's wardrobe: designer everything, with enough leather jackets to outfit a motorcycle gang. Peter grabs the first normal-looking items he can find, which happens to be dark jeans that fit too perfectly and a plain white t-shirt that probably costs more than Peter's entire outfit budget for a year.

The clothes feel strange on this body. Johnny's broader shoulders fill out the shirt differently, and the jeans sit lower on his hips. Peter catches himself in the mirror again and quickly looks away. This is temporary, he reminds himself. It has to be.

His—Johnny's—phone buzzes with a text from Bug Boy🕷️: 

we need to talk. NOW.

Peter's stomach drops. If someone is texting Johnny from Peter's phone, that means...

Another text appears: 

Meet me at the Baxter Building. DON’T bring anyone else

Sue probably already called but DO NOT listen to her when she says don’t move

also where the hell is your autocaps. Why do you not use proper grammar

Peter unlocks the phone (thank god for face ID) and his hands shake as he types back.

Is this… Yk

The response comes immediately: 

there’s something in me that fucking tingles when im about to do something stupid so im assuming its the same for when ur doing smth in my body

right now it's going off like a fire alarm.

Only Peter would know that. Which means Johnny Storm is currently trapped in Peter Parker's body, probably freaking out just as much as Peter is. The thought should be comforting. At least they're both in the same mess. Peter stares at his phone—Johnny's phone—and feels a strange double layer of dread. His own spider-sense is absent, but there's something else, a different kind of awareness humming under Johnny's skin.

"Okay," Peter mutters, running a hand through hair that's too soft and too perfect. "Okay, think. Reed's lab. That's where this started, that's where we fix it."

He needs to get to the Baxter Building fast, which means finding Johnny's keys and figuring out where the hell Johnny parked his car. Peter moves through the penthouse on unsteady legs, still adjusting to Johnny's height and weight distribution. The apartment is exactly what he'd expect from someone with more money than sense: minimalist furniture that probably cost a fortune, a state-of-the-art entertainment system, and no books anywhere.

In the kitchen, he finds a bowl of car keys on the counter next to a half-empty bottle of expensive scotch, Johnny's lifestyle on full display. Peter grabs the keys, then hesitates. He's never driven anything fancier than his aunt's ancient Toyota and the thought of crashing Johnny's sports car adds a fresh layer of anxiety to his already overloaded system.

His phone buzzes again with another text from himself—from Johnny:

hurry up parker. ur neighbors are starting to notice me acting weird

also i think im allergic to ur breakfast cereal

or maybe ur just allergic and i didn't know

Peter types back quickly:

Is your mouth getting itchy?? It just does that sometimes ignore it

I’m On my way! don't do anything stupid in my body

The reply comes instantly:

too late 😎

kidding. maybe.

does ur tongue usually just tingle urcrszy

seriously tho get here NOW

Peter stuffs the phone in his pocket and heads for the door, only to freeze when he realizes he has no idea where Johnny lives. The view from the windows suggests Manhattan, but that narrows it down to about a thousand luxury buildings. He pulls out the phone again and checks Johnny's location on the maps app—a penthouse in Tribeca. Of course.

The elevator ride down to the lobby is an exercise in self-control. Peter keeps his head down, avoiding eye contact with the other residents, terrified someone will speak to him and expect Johnny's usual charm in response. The doorman nods respectfully as Peter passes, and Peter manages a tight smile that probably looks more like a grimace.

Outside, the morning air hits his face, and Peter immediately notices another difference: Johnny's body runs hotter than his own. What feels like a crisp fall day to Peter's normal physiology barely registers on Johnny's skin. It's disconcerting, like wearing a coat that's too warm but can't be removed.

He clicks the key fob, and a sleek red Ferrari chirps in response. Of course Johnny drives a Ferrari. Peter approaches it like he might a dangerous animal, circling it once before reluctantly sliding into the driver's seat. The leather interior still smells new, and the dashboard contains more buttons and screens than Peter knows what to do with. He takes a deep breath—Johnny's lungs expanding with unfamiliar capacity—and presses the start button.

The engine purrs to life with a sound that probably costs more than Peter's rent. He adjusts the mirrors, trying to ignore how Johnny's face stares back at him from the rearview, and carefully pulls into traffic. Every instinct screams at him to web-swing instead, but that's not exactly an option when he's missing both his web-shooters and his actual body.

The drive to the Baxter Building takes twice as long as it should because Peter refuses to drive faster than the speed limit in a car that probably costs more than he'll make in the next five years. Other drivers honk and swerve around him, clearly expecting a car like this to drive like a reckless showoff. Peter grips the steering wheel tighter, Johnny's enhanced body temperature making his palms sweat against the leather. He’s honestly just terrified that he’ll burst into flames while driving, which won’t be fun for anyone.

By the time he reaches the Baxter Building, his nerves feel like exposed wires. He parks in the underground garage, taking up two spaces because parallel parking a Ferrari is apparently beyond his current skill set, and rushes toward the elevator.

The security guard waves him through without question—Johnny's face is apparently all the ID he needs—but Peter still feels like he's impersonating someone. Which, technically, he is.

The elevator ride up feels endless. Peter catches his reflection in the polished steel doors and has to look away. Johnny's body language is all wrong, too tense and careful where Johnny would be loose and confident. If anyone looks closely, they'll know something's off.

The lab level is eerily quiet when the doors open. Peter steps out cautiously, his borrowed senses picking up the familiar smell of ozone and heated metal that always clings to Reed's workspace, though muted. But there's something else underneath it now—a sharp, electric scent that makes the hair on Johnny's arms stand up.

"Peter?"

He spins around to find his own face staring back at him, and the disorientation is so complete he has to grab the wall for support. It's like looking in a funhouse mirror, except the reflection is moving independently and wearing his clothes wrong. Johnny—in Peter's body—has the collar of Peter's favorite flannel shirt popped up and his hair styled in a way that Peter would never attempt.

"This is so weird," Peter breathes, and Johnny nods frantically.

"Tell me about it. Do you know your body is like, constantly vibrating? There's this buzzing thing that won't shut up, and I think I accidentally stuck to your ceiling this morning." Johnny holds up Peter's hands, examining the fingertips. "Also, what's with all the calluses? Do you work construction or something?"

"It’s from the web-slinging," Peter says automatically, then winces. Johnny's voice saying those words sounds wrong. "And that buzzing is my spider-sense. It means danger. Or that something’s wrong, usually."

"Great. So we're in danger. That's comforting," Johnny says, but Peter's barely listening to his complaints about his spider-sense. Something else has caught his attention. There’s a low humming sound coming from deeper in the lab, rhythmic and almost musical. It wasn't there yesterday.

"Do you hear that?" Peter asks, tilting his head toward the sound. Johnny's ears seem less sensitive than his own.

Johnny—wearing Peter's face but with completely wrong expressions—pauses mid-gesture. "Hear what? I can hear fucking everything. I can hear the water moving through the pipes underneath us. It seriously sucks."

Peter ignores his unhelpful remarks and moves toward the sound. Johnny's muscle memory seems to be guiding his steps, making him walk with more swagger than Peter would ever attempt. The humming grows louder as they approach the main lab, and Peter realizes it's coming from the containment area where they touched the artifact yesterday.

"We need to find Reed," Peter says, but even as the words leave Johnny's mouth, he knows they won't. The humming has a pull to it, like a song he can't quite remember but desperately wants to hear again.

"Reed's not here," Johnny says, trailing behind him. "He left early this morning to consult with some physicists at Columbia. Something about 'unprecedented consciousness displacement' or whatever." Johnny makes air quotes with Peter's hands. “Honestly, I think he already knows about this.”

The lab doors slide open with a soft hiss, and Peter stops dead. The containment field is empty. The artifact—the bronze disk that had been dormant when they left yesterday—is gone.

"Where is it?" Peter whispers, scanning the lab. Equipment has been moved, tables rearranged. Someone's been here, working through the night.

"Where's what?" Johnny moves up beside him, and Peter catches his own scent, deodorant and the faint chemical smell that always clings to his clothes after web-slinging. It's deeply unsettling to smell himself from the outside.

"The disk. The thing we touched." Peter walks to the empty containment field, Johnny's enhanced vision picking up scorch marks on the metal table that definitely weren't there yesterday. "Someone moved it."

Johnny shrugs with Peter's shoulders, and Peter wants to shake him. "Maybe Reed locked it up somewhere safer after he figured out what it did to us."

But Peter doesn't think that's what happened. The scorch marks suggest energy discharge, and the humming sound is getting stronger, not weaker. It's coming from somewhere else in the building now, somewhere above them.

"We need to get out of here," Peter says suddenly, backing away from the empty containment field.

Johnny frowns with Peter's face, creating an expression Peter's pretty sure he's never made before. "Why? Shouldn't we wait for Reed to get back?"

"No," Peter says firmly. "Something's wrong." It's not spider-sense—that's gone with his body—but there's something else, an intuitive awareness that seems to be part of Johnny's physiology. Heat sensitivity, maybe. Whatever it is, it's screaming at him to leave.

Johnny winces and presses Peter's hands against his temples. "Man, these senses of yours are going haywire. It's like everything's dialed to eleven. I can hear conversations three floors up and smell what someone ate for breakfast yesterday and my skin feels like it’s about to peel itself off."

"That's normal," Peter says, already moving toward the exit. "Sort of. You'll get used to it."

"Get used to it?" Johnny stares at him incredulously. "How long do you think we're going to be stuck like this?"

Peter stops at the door, Johnny's taller frame casting a longer shadow than he's used to. The truth hits him with sudden, terrible clarity.

"We might be stuck like this permanently," he says quietly. "Whatever that artifact did, it transferred our consciousnesses completely. Our DNA, our powers—they're all tied to our physical bodies."

"No way." Johnny shakes Peter's head vehemently. "Reed will fix this. He always fixes things."

"And what if he can't?" Peter turns to face him, and it's beyond strange to argue with his own face. "What if the artifact is destroyed or damaged? We need to prepare for the possibility that this is... permanent."

Johnny's expression—on Peter's face—shifts from denial to horror.

"I can't be you forever," he says, voice rising. "No offense, but your life sucks. Your apartment is the size of my bathroom, and your clothes feel like they came from a donation bin."

"They did," Peter says automatically, then sighs. "Look, we don't have a choice right now. Until Reed figures something out, we have to live each other's lives. Which means you need to put on my Spider-Man suit tonight and go on patrol."

"What? No way!" Johnny backs up, hands raised. "I don't know how to swing on webs or do whatever spider-thing you do."

"My body remembers," Peter insists, moving closer. "The muscle memory is there. And if Spider-Man suddenly disappears, people will notice. They'll think it's open season for every criminal in the city."

Johnny runs a hand through Peter's hair, messing it up in a way that makes Peter wince. "Fine," he concedes, "but first we need to get out of here. There's something seriously wrong with this place."

"Yeah, okay. Let's go."

They head for the elevator, Peter's hand hovering near Johnny's back without touching him—his own back, which is still the strangest thing to process. The doors slide open with a soft ping that sounds too loud in the empty hallway.

As they descend, Johnny shifts uncomfortably in Peter's body. "I'm serious, Parker. This spider-sense thing is going crazy. It feels like my skull is trying to split open."

Peter frowns. "That's not normal. It usually just tingles, maybe gives me a headache if it's really bad."

"Well, it's worse than that. Way worse." Johnny presses Peter's palms against his temples. "Like something big is coming. Or already here."

The elevator reaches the parking garage, and they step out into the dim concrete space. Johnny immediately marches toward the Ferrari, hand outstretched.

"Keys," he demands.

Peter hesitates. "I don't think that's a good idea. You're not used to my reflexes, and I'm not sure—"

"Keys," Johnny repeats, more forcefully. "It's my car, and I'm not letting you drive it again. You parked it like an eighty-year-old woman. Don’t think I didn’t see."

"I was being careful!"

"You were being embarrassing." Johnny wiggles Peter's fingers impatiently. "Come on. I need to get out of here before my head explodes, and I'm not trusting you with my baby again."

Peter reluctantly hands over the keys, watching as Johnny slides into the driver's seat with Peter's body. It's jarring, seeing his own lanky frame behind the wheel of a Ferrari, especially when Johnny immediately adjusts the seat and mirrors with practiced ease.

"Get in," Johnny says, revving the engine. "And for god's sake, stop standing like that. You're making me look like I have a stick up my ass."

Peter climbs into the passenger seat, trying to relax his posture. "Where are we going?"

"My place. We need to figure this out somewhere that isn't making my—your—whatever—spider-sense go nuclear."

Johnny peels out of the parking garage with a squeal of tires, and Peter grabs the dashboard.

"Easy! This is still my body you're risking!"

"Relax. I know what I'm doing." Johnny weaves through traffic with alarming confidence. "So while we're stuck like this, there are some things you need to know about being me."

Being Johnny Storm apparently comes with a long list of rules and instructions, though Peter supposes he really should have expected that.

"Rule number one," Johnny says, lifting Peter's index finger. "Daily flame-on maintenance. You need to practice at least twice a day or the power builds up and gets harder to control."

"Wait, what?" Peter grips the door handle as Johnny takes a corner too fast. "I thought your powers were always accessible."

"They are, but they're like muscles. Gotta exercise them." Johnny drums Peter's fingers against the steering wheel. "Also, Reed wants bio-readings three times a week. Sue will remind you, but don't blow her off or she'll hunt you down."

Peter nods, mentally cataloging everything. "Got it. Anything else?"

"About a million things," Johnny mutters. "This is impossible. We need to write this down."

When they reach Johnny's penthouse, Peter grabs a legal pad from a drawer while Johnny raids his own refrigerator. The next hour is spent creating the most surreal to-do lists of Peter's life.

"Patrol every night," Peter says, writing carefully. "Even if you're tired. Especially in the areas I've marked on the map in my closet."

Johnny groans. "Every night? Don't you ever take a break?"

"Not really," Peter admits. "Oh, and don't forget to check the police scanner. I've got an app on my phone that filters for keywords—"

"Which you've also keyed into your personal phone, I'm guessing," Johnny interrupts, looking pained. "Do you ever just, I don't know, watch Netflix and chill?"

Peter ignores him. "And Jameson wants three articles by Friday. The notes are on my laptop—password is—"

"I don't want to know your password," Johnny interrupts. "This is already weird enough."

But Peter keeps writing, adding details about his apartment, his neighbors, his schedule. The list grows longer with each passing minute: when to visit Aunt May (weekly, minimum), which villains are most likely to cause trouble this time of year, how to properly wash the Spider-Man suit without damaging the tech.

Johnny's list for Peter is both simpler and more complicated. "Hang out with Sue at least twice a week or she thinks I'm avoiding her," he says, watching Peter write. "Go to the photoshoot on Thursday—my agent will text you the details. Help Reed in the lab when he asks, but don't volunteer too much or he'll never let you leave."

Peter pauses, pen hovering. "That's it?"

Johnny hesitates, then adds: "Visit the children's hospital on Tuesday. Fourth floor. They're expecting me."

There's something in Johnny's voice—Peter's voice, technically—that makes Peter look up. "You visit hospitals?"

"Don't sound so surprised," Johnny mutters. "I'm not completely self-absorbed."

Peter adds it to the list without comment.

When they finish, Peter stares down at the two lists, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer complexity of pretending to be someone else indefinitely. Johnny's life looks deceptively simple on paper, but Peter knows there are layers he's missing—social dynamics, family expectations, the kind of casual confidence that can't be taught.

"This is insane," Peter mutters, Johnny's voice carrying his exhaustion. "We can't actually pull this off."

"We have to," Johnny says, and there's something steel-edged in Peter's usually softer tone. "At least until Reed gets back and figures out how to fix this mess."

Peter looks up from the legal pad to find his own face staring back at him with an expression he's never worn—determined but brittle around the edges. It's unsettling, like watching himself in a dream where everything's slightly wrong.

"What if he can't fix it?" The question slips out before Peter can stop it.

Johnny goes very still. Peter's body has always been expressive, but Johnny makes it even more so—every emotion playing across features that Peter usually keeps more carefully controlled. Right now, those features show something close to panic.

"He'll fix it," Johnny says, but his voice cracks slightly on the words. "He has to."

Peter wants to argue, to point out that Reed isn't actually omnipotent despite what the Fantastic Four's track record might suggest, but the look on his own face stops him. Johnny's scared. Really, genuinely scared in a way that Peter's never seen him before. It makes something twist uncomfortably in Peter's chest—Johnny's chest—some emotion he can't quite name.

"Right," Peter says instead. "Of course he will."

The lie tastes bitter.

Johnny's phone buzzes against the coffee table, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. Peter reaches for it automatically, then stops when he sees Sue's contact photo filling the screen.

"I should answer that," Peter says.

Johnny shakes his head—Peter's head—frantically. "No way. She'll know something's wrong the second you open your mouth."

"She'll know something's wrong if you don't answer." Peter picks up the phone, thumb hovering over the accept button. "Besides, we need to start practicing. If we're really going to do this, we have to be convincing."

The phone continues buzzing. Johnny bites Peter's lower lip—a nervous habit Peter didn't even know he had until he saw it from the outside.

"Fine," Johnny says. "But if this goes badly, it's all on you."

Peter swipes to accept the call and immediately puts it on speaker. "Hey, Sue."

"Peter. I've been trying to reach you all morning. Reed says we need to run some tests. Didn’t I tell you not to leave the apartment? Where’s Johnny? Is he with you?"

Peter glances at Johnny, who waves his hands frantically.  

You told her? Johnny mouths incredulously. Peter makes a face at him and shrugs helplessly.

"Um, yes," Peter says into the phone, trying to sound as Johnny-like as possible. "He’s here. We're, uh, trying to figure things out."

Johnny slaps his forehead with Peter's hand. Peter winces and turns away from the sight of his own body language expressing such dramatic dismay.

"Peter," Sue's voice sharpens. "I told you to wait. Reed is working on this, but we need to be careful. We don't know what that artifact did to your physiologies beyond the consciousness transfer."

"I know, I know," Peter says, trying to keep the anxiety from Johnny's voice. "But Johnny—I mean, I—was freaking out in my apartment, and there was this weird humming sound at the lab, and—"

"Humming sound?" Sue interrupts. "What humming sound?"

Peter glances at Johnny, who's now making frantic cutting motions across his throat.

"It was like... a vibration," Peter explains, ignoring Johnny's pantomimed warnings. "Coming from where the artifact was, except the artifact wasn't there anymore. Someone moved it."

The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long that Peter checks to make sure the call hasn't dropped.

"Sue?"

"The artifact wasn't moved, Peter. It activated fully after you both left yesterday. Reed's been tracking the energy signature, but it's... unstable. Shifting."

Johnny grabs the phone from Peter's hand. "What does that mean, Sue?" he asks, and it's beyond strange to hear Peter's voice using Johnny's speech patterns. "Like, is it going to explode? Because Parker's spider-sense was going crazy at the lab."

Peter can hear Sue's sharp intake of breath.

"Johnny?" she asks, and there's a note of wonder in her voice. "That's really you in there?"

"Yeah, it's me," Johnny says, rolling Peter's eyes. "Stuck in Bug Boy's body and not loving it. His apartment is a disaster, by the way. And I think I'm allergic to his breakfast cereal."

"You're not allergic," Peter mutters. 

Sue makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "This is... Reed was right. A complete consciousness transfer without any apparent physical trauma. It's unprecedented."

"Great, we're making scientific history," Johnny says dryly. "Can we go back to the part where the artifact might explode? Because that seems more pressing."

"It's not going to explode," Sue says, but there's something in her voice that makes Peter's borrowed stomach tighten. "At least, not in the conventional sense.”

"But it's doing something," Peter says, Johnny's voice sounding uncharacteristically serious.

Sue sighs over the line. "We're not entirely sure. Reed's initial analysis suggests the artifact is a consciousness transfer device, obviously, but it appears to be... unstable. The energy readings keep fluctuating, and there's evidence that it's still active despite appearing dormant."

Johnny rakes Peter's hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes Peter wince. "So what, it's going to keep swapping people? Can it reach outside the building?"

"We don't know," Sue admits. "That's why I need you both to come back to the lab. Reed has set up a containment field that should shield you from any further effects while we figure this out."

Peter exchanges a look with Johnny, who shakes his head emphatically.

"No way," Johnny says. "That place was making my head—Peter's head—whatever—feel like it was about to explode. We're not going back there until Reed fixes whatever's happening."

"Johnny, be reasonable—"

"I am being reasonable! This body has some kind of danger alarm, and it was screaming at me to get out of there." Johnny paces the length of his living room in Peter's body, movements jerky and tense. "Tell her, Parker."

Peter shifts uncomfortably. "He's right, Sue. Something felt wrong in the lab. Not just the body-swap stuff, but something else. Like the artifact was... calling to us."

The silence on the other end of the line speaks volumes.

"Sue?" Peter prompts.

"Reed was afraid of that," she finally says, her voice tight. "The energy signature seems to be resonating specifically with your biological frequencies. He thinks the artifact might be trying to... complete something."

"Complete what?" Johnny demands.

"We don't know yet. That's why we need you both here, where we can monitor—"

"No," Johnny interrupts, firm. "Not happening. Not until Reed knows exactly what that thing is doing and how to stop it."

Peter nods, though Sue can't see him. "We'll stay here for now. Johnny's penthouse seems safe enough, and it's far enough from the Baxter Building that whatever's happening there can't reach us. Right?"

"Theoretically," Sue concedes. "But if you start experiencing any unusual symptoms—anything beyond the obvious consciousness displacement—you call me immediately. Understood?"

"Understood," Peter says, while Johnny makes an affirmative noise that sounds strange coming from Peter's throat.

"And don't leave the penthouse," Sue adds. "Not until we know more. Reed says the consciousness transfer might still be unstable, which means physical exertion could potentially destabilize it further."

Johnny groans. "So we're under house arrest?"

"Think of it as a medical quarantine," Sue says firmly. "I'll call when we know more."

The call ends, and the silence in Johnny's penthouse feels heavier than before. Peter stares at the phone, Johnny's longer fingers curled around the sleek case. House arrest. In a luxury penthouse, sure, but still confinement. His gaze drifts to the window, to the city sprawling beyond, and something uncomfortable settles in his borrowed chest.

"So," Johnny says, crossing Peter's arms and leaning against the kitchen counter. "What now? We just sit here and wait for Reed to fix this?"

Peter shakes his head. "That's not going to work."

"Because Sue said—"

"No, I mean it literally won't work," Peter interrupts, getting to his feet. Johnny's body moves differently, with more fluid grace than he's used to. "If Spider-Man suddenly disappears, people notice. Bad people. The kind who take advantage when they think no one's watching."

Johnny rolls Peter's eyes. "Pretty sure the city can survive without you for a day or two."

"You don't understand." Peter paces the length of the living room, feeling the strange heat that seems to pulse under Johnny's skin. "There's a rhythm to crime in this city. When Spider-Man disappears, it escalates. Fast. And right now, I've got at least three ongoing situations that could blow up if I'm not there."

"Like what?" Johnny sounds skeptical, but Peter catches a flicker of curiosity in his own hazel eyes.

"Like the weapons deal happening tonight in Red Hook. Or the missing kids in Queens whose trail gets colder every hour I'm not looking." Peter runs a hand through Johnny's perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way Johnny probably never would. "People are counting on me.”

Johnny's quiet for a moment, studying Peter with an expression that looks strange on Peter's face—calculating, almost. "So what are you saying? You want to go out there in my body and play superhero? Because that seems like a terrible idea."

"No," Peter says, turning to face him. "I'm saying you need to go out there in my body and be Spider-Man."

Johnny barks out a laugh that sounds all wrong coming from Peter's throat. "Yeah, right. I don't know the first thing about being Spider-Man."

"You don't have to. My body knows what to do." Peter steps closer, uncomfortably aware of how he's looking up at his own face. "The reflexes, the strength, the web-slinging—it's all muscle memory. You just need to not mess up too badly."

"And what about you? What are you going to do, sit here and watch Netflix?"

Peter glances down at Johnny's hands, focusing on the strange sensation just beneath the skin. "No. I think I need to be you, too. The Fantastic Four can't suddenly be down a member either. It would raise too many questions."

Johnny stares at him for a long moment. Peter can practically see the arguments forming behind his own brown eyes, but whatever he's about to say is interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

They freeze, exchanging a panicked look.

"Who the hell is that?" Johnny hisses. "Did you invite someone?"

"Me? This is your apartment!" Peter whispers back, instinctively moving away from the door. "Do you have a doorman? Don't they call up before letting people in?"

"Yeah, but some people have permanent clearance." Johnny runs Peter's hand through his hair nervously. "Could be Sue. Or Ben. Or—"

"Johnny? Open up!" The voice from the hallway is female, impatient, and definitely not Sue.

Johnny's expression morphs into something that looks completely foreign on Peter's face, a mixture of guilt and alarm that Peter's pretty sure he's never worn before.

"It's Darcy," Johnny whispers, his voice dropping even lower. "From PR."

"PR? Like, the Fantastic Four's public relations team?"

Johnny nods his head minutely. "I was supposed to meet her for drinks last night and completely forgot about it because I was too busy being body-swapped with you."

Peter stares at him in disbelief. "Are you kidding me right now?"

"Johnny! I know you're in there. Your car's downstairs!" Darcy calls through the door, sounding increasingly annoyed.

Johnny gestures frantically. "You have to answer it. You're me right now."

"What? No! I'm not dealing with your... your..." Peter sputters, but Johnny's already shoving him toward the door.

"Just tell her I'm sick or something. Food poisoning. Very contagious."

"Johnny, this is ridiculous," Peter protests, but the knocking has become more insistent, and Johnny's practically pushing him across the room.

"Please," Johnny whispers, and there's actual desperation in his voice.

Peter sighs, Johnny's breath leaving his lungs in a frustrated huff. "Fine. But you owe me."

He approaches the door, taking a deep breath and trying to channel Johnny's casual confidence. When he pulls it open, he finds a striking woman with dark hair and sharp eyes glaring up at him—at Johnny's face.

"There you are," she says, brushing past him into the apartment before he can stop her. "You ghosted me last night, Storm. Not cool."

Peter's mouth opens and closes, his brain scrambling for a response that Johnny might give. "I, uh—"

"Save it," Darcy says, dropping her bag on the counter. "I brought coffee as a peace offering, but now I'm thinking I should have brought something stronger." She turns, her gaze sweeping the apartment, and freezes when she spots Johnny in Peter's body. "Oh. You have company."

Her eyes narrow as she scrutinizes both of them, her gaze flicking between Johnny's body and Peter's with increasing suspicion. She crosses her arms, coffee forgotten on the counter. "When exactly were you planning on telling me about your boyfriend, Johnny?" she asks, one eyebrow arched.

Peter feels Johnny's face flush with heat—actual heat, not just embarrassment—and he prays he's not about to spontaneously combust. "My what? He's—we're—"

Darcy doesn't look impressed with his stammering. "Uh-huh. And he's in your penthouse at eleven in the morning because...?"

Before Peter can stammer through another unconvincing denial, Johnny strides across the room with a confidence that looks bizarre on Peter's normally awkward frame. He slides right up to Peter, takes Johnny's hand in his own, and intertwines their fingers with practiced ease.

"Peter Parker," Johnny says with a smile so sweet it's almost sickening, using Peter's own voice to introduce himself. "I'm Johnny's boyfriend. It's nice to finally meet you, Darcy. Johnny's mentioned you a lot."

Peter feels like his—Johnny's—knees might give out. He stares at their joined hands, then at his own face smiling back at him with an expression he's absolutely certain has never appeared on it before.

"You have?" Darcy asks, looking more intrigued than upset now. "Funny, he's never mentioned you."

"It's new," Johnny says smoothly, leaning against Peter with familiar ease. "We've been keeping it quiet. You know how the press gets."

Peter tries to nod along, but his brain feels like it's short-circuiting. Johnny's thumb is rubbing small circles against his palm, and it makes his borrowed stomach flip in a way that's deeply confusing.

"That explains the ghosting," Darcy says, her annoyance visibly fading. "Though a text would have been nice."

"My fault entirely," Johnny says, resting his head on Peter's shoulder in a way that looks extremely uncomfortable given their height difference. "I surprised him with a romantic evening. His phone was... otherwise occupied."

Peter watches in horror as Darcy's expression shifts from suspicion to understanding to something like delight. "Well, this changes everything," she says, picking up her coffee. "I came here to yell at you, but now I'm thinking this is actually perfect for the rebrand."

"Rebrand?" Peter echoes weakly.

"The Human Torch settling down is exactly the kind of image shift we've been looking for." Darcy pulls out her phone, already typing notes. "The bad boy with a heart of gold. The ladies will be heartbroken, but the long-term PR benefits are incredible.”

 Darcy taps her phone against her chin, studying them. "We'll need some photos, of course. Nothing staged—candid shots work better. Maybe at the Foundation gala next week?" She glances between them. "You were planning to bring him, right?"

Peter feels like the floor is tilting beneath him. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out except a strangled noise that doesn't sound anything like Johnny.

"We haven't discussed it yet," Johnny says, squeezing Peter's hand with enough force to make him wince. "But I'd love to support him there."

"Perfect." Darcy beams at them. "This is going to be so much better than damage control for another nightclub incident." She picks up her coffee and heads for the door. "I'll reschedule our meeting for tomorrow. Bring Peter—we'll need to brief him on media protocols."

Before either of them can respond, she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

The moment they're alone, Peter yanks his hand away from Johnny's grip. "What the hell was that?"

"Improvisation," Johnny says, dropping the lovesick expression instantly. "You were about to blow our cover."

"By making me your boyfriend?" Peter's voice—Johnny's voice—cracks on the last word. "That was your solution?"

Johnny shrugs with Peter's shoulders. "It worked, didn't it? She totally bought it."

"She's going to tell people!" Peter paces across the living room, Johnny's longer legs carrying him faster than he intends. "The whole world is going to think Spider-Man and the Human Torch are dating!"

"Not Spider-Man," Johnny corrects. "Peter Parker. Big difference."

"Not to me!" Peter rakes Johnny's hands through his hair. "This is a disaster."

"Look, it was the first thing I thought of, okay? She was suspicious, and I panicked."

"You panicked?" Peter stares at him incredulously. "You looked like you'd been planning that performance for weeks!"

Johnny looks away, a flush creeping up Peter's neck that Peter himself has never seen from the outside before. "I'm good under pressure. And it's not like we need to actually date. We just need to pretend until Reed fixes this."

Peter collapses onto the couch, the leather cool against Johnny's overheated skin. "This is insane. This whole situation is completely insane."

"Tell me about it." Johnny sits beside him, the couch dipping under Peter's weight. "I'm stuck in your scrawny body with your weird sticky powers and your impossibly complicated life, pretending to be your boyfriend while also being you."

"My body isn't scrawny," Peter mutters. "It's lean and efficient, you asshole."

Johnny snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Parker."

They sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Peter can feel his body temperature rising with his stress, the strange heat pulsing under his skin in waves that make the leather couch almost too warm to sit on.

"We need ground rules," Peter says finally. "If we're really doing this—pretending to be each other, pretending to be dating—we need boundaries."

Johnny raises Peter's eyebrows. "What kind of boundaries?"

"No kissing," Peter says immediately. "No... anything romantic. We keep the physical stuff to a minimum."

"Relax, Bug Boy. I'm not going to molest you in your own body." Johnny's grin looks predatory on Peter's usually gentle features. "Though I have to say, your reaction to holding hands was pretty telling."

Peter feels heat flare across Johnny's face—literal heat that makes the air shimmer slightly. "That wasn't—I was just surprised."

"Sure you were." Johnny stretches Peter's arms above his head, joints popping in a way that makes Peter wince. "God, your body is so tense. When's the last time you got a massage? Or went to the gym for fun instead of, you know, life-or-death spider training?"

"I don't have time for massages," Peter mutters. "Some of us have real responsibilities."

"Right, because saving the world with the Fantastic Four is just a hobby." Johnny's voice carries an edge that Peter's never heard from himself before. "You know what? Fine. You want to play superhero in my body? Go ahead. But don't lecture me about responsibility when you don't know the first thing about what my life actually involves."

Peter turns to stare at him, caught off guard by the genuine anger in his own voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Johnny stands up abruptly, Peter's movements sharp and agitated. "It means everyone thinks being me is just fun and games. Party boy Johnny Storm, right? No real problems, no real pressure. Just flame on and look pretty for the cameras."

"Johnny—"

"Forget it." Johnny waves Peter's hand dismissively. "We've got bigger problems than my ego. Like the fact that your spider-sense is giving me a migraine and I can hear Mrs. Chen arguing with her landlord six floors down."

Peter winces. The enhanced hearing is one of the hardest things to adjust to; he remembers his first weeks after the spider bite, when every sound felt like it was being pumped directly into his skull at maximum volume.

"It gets easier," he offers. "You learn to filter it out."

"When?" Johnny presses Peter's palms against his temples. "Because right now it feels like my brain is trying to escape through my ears."

"A few weeks, maybe a month—"

"A month?" Johnny's voice cracks. "Parker, we better not be stuck like this for a month."

Peter wishes he could offer more reassurance, but the truth is he has no idea how long this will last. Reed Richards is brilliant, but even he has limits. And if the artifact is as unstable as Sue suggested...

His phone—Johnny's phone—buzzes against the coffee table. Peter reaches for it, grateful for the distraction, but freezes when he sees the caller ID: Foundation Gala Committee.

"What's the Foundation gala?" Peter asks, showing Johnny the screen.

Johnny's expression shifts from pained to panicked. "Oh, right. The Future Foundation charity gala. It's next weekend." He grabs the phone before Peter can answer it. "Don't pick up. Please don't pick up."

"Why? What's wrong with a charity gala?"

"Nothing's wrong with it. It's just..." Johnny lets the call go to voicemail, but his face has gone pale. "It's a really big deal. Like, red carpet, paparazzi, all of New York's elite kind of big deal. And if Darcy's already planning to use our fake relationship as PR..."

Peter feels his borrowed stomach drop. "They'll expect us to go together."

"As a couple," Johnny confirms. "In front of cameras. In front of reporters who will ask questions we're not prepared to answer."

The phone buzzes with a voicemail notification. Johnny stares at it like it might explode.

"We could just not go," Peter suggests weakly.

"Can't. It's a Foundation event, which means Reed will be there, Sue will be there, Ben will be there. If I don't show up, they'll know something's wrong." Johnny runs Peter's hand through his hair. "Plus, I'm supposed to give a speech."

"You're supposed to what?"

"Give a speech. About the importance of scientific education or something. I wrote it weeks ago." Johnny looks miserable. "Well, Sue helped me write it. Okay, Sue wrote it and I was supposed to memorize it."

Peter stares at him. "You want me to give a speech. As you. In front of hundreds of people."

"Unless you have a better idea."

Peter doesn't. He really, really doesn't.

His own phone buzzes from somewhere in Johnny's pocket. Johnny pulls it out and squints at the screen. "It's your boss, I think. J. Jonah Jameson."

Peter's heart rate spikes, Johnny's enhanced metabolism making the panic feel like electricity under his skin. "Answer it. But don't—just try to sound like me, okay?"

Johnny swipes to accept the call. "Hello, Mr. Jameson."

"Parker!" Jameson's voice booms from the phone's speaker, loud enough that Peter can hear every word. "Where the hell is my story? You were supposed to have photos on my desk an hour ago!"

Johnny holds the phone away from his ear, wincing. "Sorry, Mr. Jameson. I'm not feeling well today. Food poisoning."

"Food poisoning? What are you, twelve years old? Get your camera and get me pictures of that wall-crawling menace!"

"I really can't—"

"I don't want to hear it, Parker! Spider-Man was spotted in Queens last night, and every other photographer in the city probably got better shots than you. This is your job! Your only job!"

The line goes dead. Johnny stares at the phone, then at Peter.

"He's charming," Johnny says dryly. "Real confidence booster."

Peter slumps back against the couch. "He's always like that. And he's right—I was supposed to be out taking pictures last night, but instead I was here getting body-swapped with you."

"So what happens if Spider-Man doesn't show up for photos?"

"Jameson fires me. Which means I can't pay rent, which means I get evicted, which means..." Peter trails off. "I can't not be Spider-Man, Johnny. Even for a few days. People depend on that income."

Johnny is quiet for a moment, studying Peter with an expression that looks strange on his own face. "How much does he pay you?"

"For photos? Not enough. But it's steady work, and flexible hours, and..." Peter shrugs with Johnny's shoulders. "It's what I can manage while being Spider-Man."

"That's fucked up," Johnny says bluntly. "You risk your life every night and you can barely afford rent?"

Peter doesn't know how to respond to that. The economics of being Spider-Man aren't something he usually discusses with other heroes, especially not ones who live in penthouse apartments and drive Ferraris.

"It's fine," he says finally. "I make it work."

Johnny looks like he wants to argue, but before he can say anything, Peter's phone buzzes with a text message.

"Another one from Jameson?" Peter asks.

Johnny checks the screen and shakes his head. "No. It's from someone called May." He looks up. "Your aunt?"

Peter nods, and Johnny opens the message.

"'Haven't heard from you in a few days, honey. Just checking in. Love you.'" Johnny's voice softens as he reads it, taking on a gentleness that Peter didn't know his own voice could carry. "When's the last time you called her?"

"Three days ago," Peter says automatically. "I call her every few days, just to check in. She worries."

Johnny stares at the phone for a moment longer, then starts typing a response. "What should I say?"

"Just... that I'm fine. Busy with work. Maybe that I'll try to visit this weekend." Peter watches Johnny's fingers move across his phone screen, the sight deeply surreal. "She likes to cook for me when I visit. It makes her feel useful."

Johnny finishes typing and shows Peter the message before sending it: 

hi may! sorry i've been quiet work's been crazy. im doing fine, eating enough vegetables, getting enough sleep (mostly) might try to visit this weekend if things calm down luv u too❤️

"Good?" Johnny asks. “I tried to copy your terrible texting style.”

Peter nods, something tight in his throat. "Yeah. That's... that's good."

Johnny sends the message, then sets the phone aside. "She raised you, right? After your parents died?"

"Yeah." Peter doesn't usually talk about his family history, but something about seeing Johnny handle the conversation with May so carefully makes him want to explain. "My parents died when I was six. May and Ben took me in. Ben died a few years ago, so now it's just May and me."

"That's why you do this, right?" Johnny asks suddenly. "The Spider-Man thing. It's not about the thrill or the recognition, it's about taking care of people the way they took care of you."

Peter stares at him, surprised by the insight. "I... yeah. I guess so."

Johnny leans back against the couch, Peter's expression thoughtful. "My parents died too. I was younger than you, though. Sue basically raised me after that."

"I'm sorry," Peter says, and means it.

Johnny shrugs. "It was a long time ago. But Sue... she gave up a lot to take care of me. College, career opportunities, relationships. She never says anything about it, but I know." He's quiet for a moment. "I guess that's why I do the Fantastic Four thing. Not just for the world-saving, but for her. For the family we built."

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and Peter realizes this might be the first real conversation he's ever had with Johnny Storm. Without the usual posturing and antagonism, without the need to prove anything to each other.

"We're really going to have to do this," Peter says finally. "Be each other, I mean. For however long it takes."

"Yeah," Johnny agrees. "We are."

"And the fake dating thing."

"That too."

Peter takes a deep breath, Johnny's lungs expanding with more capacity than his own. "Okay. But we do it right. No half-measures, no slipping up in public. If we're going to lie to everyone we care about, we better be convincing."

Johnny grins, and it looks mischievous on Peter's face. "Does this mean you're ready for acting lessons, babe?"

The word sends an odd little shiver down Peter's borrowed spine. He can feel the temperature spike under his borrowed skin, making the air around them shimmer faintly.

"Don't call me that," he mutters, but his protest lacks conviction.

"What? Babe?" Johnny's grin widens, clearly enjoying Peter's discomfort. "We're going to have to get used to pet names. Couples use them all the time."

"We're not actually a couple."

"No, but we're going to have to play one convincingly." Johnny shifts on the couch, Peter's body language becoming more animated. "Which means we need to practice. Body language, casual touches, the way we look at each other..."

Peter's throat feels tight. "This is insane."

"It’s necessary." Johnny stands up, extending Peter's hand toward him. "Come on. If we're going to this gala thing together, we need to at least look comfortable around each other."

Peter stares at the offered hand—his own hand—and something in his chest does a weird flutter. "I don't think—"

"Trust me," Johnny says, and there's something in his voice that makes Peter look up. "I know what I'm doing when it comes to public appearances."

Peter takes the hand, letting Johnny pull him to his feet. The height difference feels wrong—Peter's used to looking up at people, not down—and Johnny's enhanced strength makes the movement effortless in a way that's disorienting.

"Okay," Johnny says, not letting go of Peter's hand. "Lesson one: proximity. Real couples exist in each other's space. They don't maintain careful distances like they're afraid of contamination."

"I'm not afraid of contamination," Peter protests, but even as he says it, he realizes he's standing a full arm's length away.

Johnny steps closer, closing the gap until Peter can smell his own shampoo in Johnny's hair. "Better. Now, eye contact. You keep looking away like you're embarrassed."

"I am embarrassed."

"Well, stop it. I'm devastatingly handsome." Johnny's grin is pure mischief. "Handsome people don't get embarrassed that easily."

Peter rolls his eyes, but he doesn't step back. "Your ego is showing."

"Good. Confidence is attractive." Johnny reaches up with his free hand—Peter's free hand—and adjusts the collar of Peter's shirt. "See? Simple touches. They look natural."

Peter swallows hard, hyperaware of every point of contact between them. "This feels..."

"Weird?"

"Yeah."

Johnny's expression softens slightly. "It's weird for me too. But we're going to have to sell this, Parker. Which means getting comfortable with being uncomfortable."

Peter nods, trying to ignore the way Johnny's thumb is tracing small circles against his palm. It's such a simple touch, but it's making his skin feel electrified in a way that has nothing to do with spider powers.

"What else?" Peter asks, his voice coming out rougher than intended.

"Well," Johnny says, stepping even closer, "we need to work on how you react when I touch you. Right now you look like you're about to bolt."

"I'm not going to bolt."

"Prove it."

Before Peter can ask what he means, Johnny's hand slides up to cup his face—Peter's face, technically, but it doesn't feel that way anymore—and Peter finds himself leaning into it without thinking.

"There," Johnny murmurs, his voice softer than Peter's ever heard it. "That's better."

Peter's eyes flutter closed for a moment, and when he opens them, Johnny is watching him with an expression he can't read. There's something in his own brown eyes that looks tender.

"Johnny," Peter says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"This is really complicated."

Johnny's thumb brushes across Peter's cheekbone, and Peter has to bite back a sound that would be deeply embarrassing. "I know.”

They stand like that for a moment, close enough that Peter can feel the warmth radiating from his own body. It should be weird—it is weird—but there's something else underneath the strangeness. Something that makes Peter's chest feel tight and his borrowed pulse quicken.

Johnny's phone buzzes against the coffee table, breaking the moment. They spring apart like they've been caught doing something wrong, and Peter immediately misses the contact.

"It's Sue again," Johnny says, checking the screen. "She wants to know if we're experiencing any 'unusual side effects.'"

Peter runs a hand through Johnny's hair, trying to get his racing heart under control. "Define unusual."

"Well, I can hear your upstairs neighbor's TV, I'm pretty sure I can smell what someone three blocks away is cooking for lunch, and every time I move too fast I feel like I'm going to throw up." Johnny pauses. "Oh, and I think I accidentally stuck to your bathroom wall this morning."

"That's all normal," Peter assures him. "What about... anything else?"

Johnny gives him a look that's hard to interpret. "Like what?"

Peter wants to ask if Johnny's feeling the same weird awareness he is, the way every casual touch seems to carry extra weight. But that feels like dangerous territory.

"Never mind," he says instead. "We should probably call her back."

"In a minute." Johnny sets the phone aside and turns back to him. "We weren't finished with the lesson."

"I think we covered enough—"

"Not even close." Johnny steps back into Peter's space, and this time Peter doesn't retreat. "We need to practice walking together. Sitting together. All the little things couples do without thinking about it."

Peter's mouth feels dry. "Okay."

"Good. Now, when we walk, you need to stay close. Maybe let me put my arm around you, or take your hand." Johnny demonstrates, sliding his arm around Peter's waist. "Like this."

The contact sends a jolt through Peter's nervous system. Johnny's hand is warm against his lower back, fingers spread possessively across his spine. 

"How's that?" Johnny asks.

"Fine," Peter manages, though his voice sounds strained even to his own ears.

"You sure? You look a little flushed."

Peter definitely feels flushed. Johnny's body temperature runs hot on a normal day, but right now he feels like he might spontaneously combust. "I'm fine."

Johnny studies his face for a moment, then grins. "You know what? I think you're getting the hang of this."

"Getting the hang of what?"

"Looking like you want to be here. With me." Johnny's hand shifts slightly against Peter's back, thumb tracing the edge of his spine through the expensive fabric. "Much more convincing than the deer-in-headlights thing you had going earlier."

Peter wants to protest that he's not doing anything differently, but the words die in his throat when Johnny starts walking, guiding him across the living room. Their bodies move together naturally, Johnny's longer stride matching Peter's borrowed one, and Peter finds himself relaxing into the contact despite himself.

"See?" Johnny murmurs, close enough that his breath tickles Peter's ear. "Not so hard."

Peter shivers, the sensation traveling down his spine in a way that makes him grateful for Johnny's steadying hand. "Not hard at all."

They practice for another hour—sitting together on the couch, sharing space at the kitchen counter, all the casual intimacies that real couples take for granted. By the time they're finished, Peter's skin feels hypersensitive.

"I think that's enough for today," Peter says, stepping away and immediately missing the warmth.

Johnny nods, though he looks reluctant to break the contact too. "Yeah. We should probably figure out the rest of this mess. Like how I'm supposed to be Spider-Man tonight."

"Right. Let's get to work."

Chapter Text

The lesson ends with both of them collapsing onto Johnny's ridiculously expensive couch, a safe distance apart now. Peter stares at the ceiling, trying to process the enormity of what's ahead.

"So," Johnny says, scrolling through Peter's phone, "looks like you've got that weapons deal to bust tonight, and I've got a charity dinner at seven."

Peter's stomach drops. "A what?"

"Charity dinner. For the Children's Cancer Research Foundation." Johnny tosses him his own phone with the calendar open. "You'll need to wear a tux. There's like five in my closet."

"I can't go to a charity dinner," Peter protests. "I don't know how to be you in public."

Johnny snorts. "Just smile a lot and sign whatever people shove at you. It's not rocket science."

"That's easy for you to say. You live for this stuff."

"No choice, Bug Boy. Sue's expecting me—you—there, and she'll definitely notice if you bail."

Peter reluctantly drags himself off the couch and heads to Johnny's massive closet, where he finds not five but twelve tuxedos, each probably worth more than his annual rent. He selects the most conservative one, which still looks obnoxiously expensive.

"Not that one," Johnny calls from the living room. "Third from the left. The blue one brings out my eyes."

Peter rolls his eyes but switches to the blue tuxedo. When he emerges from the bedroom fully dressed, Johnny whistles.

"Not bad, Parker. You almost look like you belong in that body."

"I feel like an imposter," Peter mutters, tugging at the bow tie.

"Yeah, well, here’s some news, you are. Stop fidgeting," Johnny says, standing to adjust the tie himself. "Just remember—smile, be charming, and don't get into any deep conversations. If anyone asks about scientific stuff, just say Reed handles all that."

"And what if someone wants a selfie?" The thought makes Peter's borrowed skin crawl.

"Then you take the damn selfie," Johnny says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And try to look like you're enjoying it."

The dinner is worse than Peter imagined. The moment he steps out of Johnny's Ferrari (which he drove at exactly the speed limit, much to the confusion of other drivers), flashbulbs explode in his face. He freezes momentarily before remembering to smile, but it feels more like a grimace stretching across Johnny's features.

"Johnny! Over here!"

"Storm, give us a smile!”

"Who are you wearing tonight?"

The questions come rapid-fire, and Peter has no idea how to answer most of them. He attempts Johnny's casual swagger as he approaches the red carpet, but catches his reflection in a window—he looks like someone impersonating confidence rather than actually possessing it.

"Just a quick comment on the rumored relationship with Peter Parker?" one reporter shouts, thrusting a microphone toward him.

Peter nearly trips over his own feet. "Uh, we're... taking things slow." He winces at how stiff the words sound coming from Johnny's mouth.

Inside isn't much better. The ballroom gleams with wealth—crystal chandeliers, ice sculptures, women dripping in diamonds. Peter accepts a champagne flute from a passing waiter, then realizes he has no idea if Johnny drinks at these functions.

"There you are!" Sue Storm approaches, looking elegant in a silver gown. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

"Wouldn't miss it," Peter says, trying to sound enthusiastic.

Sue studies him with narrowed eyes. "You feeling okay? You seem... tense."

"Fine! Great! Just, you know, adjusting to the whole body-swap thing." He attempts a Johnny-esque grin that feels completely foreign on his face.

"Well, try to adjust quickly. The Osborns just arrived, and Norman's been asking about the Future Foundation's energy research."

Peter's blood runs cold. "Norman Osborn is here?"

"Yes, and he specifically asked to speak with you." Sue looks puzzled. "I know you two don't usually get along, but try to be civil, okay? His donation last year funded half the pediatric wing."

Before Peter can protest, Sue guides him across the room to where Norman Osborn stands conversing with a group of wealthy-looking men.

"Ah, Mr. Storm," Norman says smoothly as they approach. "I was just discussing your sister's remarkable containment field technology. Perhaps you could explain how the thermal stabilization works?"

Peter opens his mouth, then closes it. Johnny would have no idea how to explain thermal stabilization in containment fields. But Peter does.

"It's... complicated," he finally says, falling back on Johnny's suggested deflection. "Reed handles most of the technical stuff."

Norman's eyebrow arches. "Really? I was under the impression you were quite involved in the testing phase."

"Johnny helps with all the practical applications," Sue interjects smoothly. "Especially when we need controlled thermal input."

Peter shoots her a grateful look. "Right. I just provide the heat. Reed does the real science."

Norman doesn't look convinced, but he moves on to other topics. Peter spends the next twenty minutes nodding and smiling, occasionally throwing in a "totally" or "that's crazy" when appropriate, all while sweating through Johnny's expensive tuxedo.

When Norman finally moves away, Peter exhales heavily.

"You're doing fine," Sue murmurs. "Just try to relax a little. You look like you're being held at gunpoint."

"It feels like I am," Peter admits.

A young woman approaches, smartphone in hand. "Mr. Storm? Could I get a picture? My sister's a huge fan. She's in the hospital right now and—"

"Of course," Peter says automatically, relieved by the simple request.

The girl positions herself next to him, and Peter awkwardly drapes an arm around her shoulders, smiling stiffly at the camera. The flash goes off, and he blinks rapidly.

"Thanks so much," she gushes. "Could you maybe say something to her? Her name's Ellie."

"Uh, sure." Peter takes the phone, staring at the recording icon. "Hey, Ellie. Johnny Storm here. Hope you're... feeling better soon. Stay, um, flame on?"

The girl beams as she takes her phone back, but Peter catches Sue's concerned expression. That was nothing like Johnny's usual smooth fan interactions.

"I think I need some air," he mutters to Sue, who nods sympathetically.

Outside on the balcony, Peter gulps in the cool night air. Being Johnny Storm is exhausting. The constant attention, the expectations, the performance of it all—how does Johnny do this every day?

"Not your scene?"

Peter turns to find Reed Richards joining him, looking uncomfortable in his formal wear.

"Not exactly," Peter admits.

Reed leans against the railing. "Johnny usually says the same thing about my scientific conferences."

Peter smiles weakly. "I bet."

"You know," Reed says carefully, "it's okay not to be perfect at this. Consciousness transference is unprecedented. There's bound to be an adjustment period."

"I'm terrible at it," Peter confesses. "I don't know how to be him."

Reed's expression remains thoughtful. "Perhaps that's not the point."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe the experience isn't about perfectly imitating each other, but understanding each other better." Reed glances back toward the party. "Johnny's life isn't as simple as you might have assumed."

"I'm starting to realize that," Peter admits.

Reed checks his watch. "You should get going. It's Tuesday."

"Tuesday?"

"The children's hospital visit. Fourth floor." Reed smiles slightly. "Johnny never misses it."

The pediatric oncology ward is quiet when Peter arrives. There's no press, no photographers, no entourage—just a nurse who greets him with a warm smile and leads him through security.

"They've been waiting all day," she tells him. "Especially Mia. She didn't respond to treatment yesterday, but she insisted on staying awake until you came."

Peter's throat tightens. "How old is she, again?"

"Seven, remember? This is her third recurrence."

The nurse pushes open the door to a colorful playroom where about a dozen children sit in various stages of illness. Some are in wheelchairs, others trailing IV poles, but all of their faces light up when they see him.

"Johnny!" several voices call out at once.

A small girl with no hair and enormous eyes rushes forward, throwing her arms around his waist. "You came!"

"Of course I did," Peter says softly, kneeling down to her level. This must be Mia. "I promised, didn't I?"

For the next hour, Peter forgets he's supposed to be playing a role. He sits on the floor with the children, listening to their stories, admiring their artwork, performing small, controlled flame tricks with Johnny's powers. He discovers that Johnny knows all their names, their favorite colors, which treatments make them sick and which ones don't.

"Can you make the phoenix again?" Mia asks, eyes wide. "The one that flies?"

Peter hesitates. He has no idea how Johnny creates complex flame shapes, but he doesn't want to disappoint her. Carefully, he focuses on Johnny's power, feeling the heat build in his palms. To his surprise, his hands seem to know what to do. A small flame bird forms above his palm, wings spreading as it circles once before dissipating.

Mia claps delightedly. "I told Dr. Evans you'd make me feel better! He said medicine makes people better, but I said Johnny Storm makes people better too!"

Peter feels something catch in his throat. "Sometimes we all need a little magic," he says.

When it's time to leave, Mia hugs him fiercely. "Will you come back next Tuesday?" she whispers.

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away," Peter promises.

In the car, Peter sits motionless, hands gripping the steering wheel. His eyes burn, and he realizes Johnny's body is responding to his emotions, temperature rising with his feelings. No wonder Johnny runs so hot.

His phone buzzes with a text from his own number—from Johnny.

how was the fancy dinner? did u embarrass me completely?

Peter stares at the message.

It was fine, he texts back. How was patrol?

almost died twice but ur body has good reflexes. saved 3 ppl from a fire and stopped that weapons deal. ur life is EXHAUSTING parker

Peter smiles faintly. Yours isn't exactly a vacation either.

A pause, then: u went to the hospital right

Yes, Peter replies. Mia says hi

Another pause, longer this time. she doing ok?

She asked for the phoenix. I did my best.

im sure it was perfect, Johnny texts. she doesnt have much time left. thats why i never miss tuesdays

Peter drives back in silence, his muscle memory taking him back to his apartment instead of Johnny’s penthouse. When he gets home, Peter finds Johnny waiting, sprawled across the couch in Peter's body, surrounded by what looks like a mechanical disaster area. Web fluid cartridges, dismantled web-shooters, and Peter's chemistry notebooks cover every surface of the tiny apartment.

"What happened here?" Peter asks, loosening Johnny's tie and stepping carefully around a pile of circuit boards.

Johnny looks up with dark circles under Peter's eyes. "Your life is a nightmare, Parker."

"What are you talking about?" Peter picks up one of his web-shooters, noticing it's been partially rebuilt.

"Where do I even start?" Johnny runs a hand through Peter's hair, making it stand up in ways Peter would never allow. "First, your apartment. The hot water lasts exactly four minutes. Your neighbor's TV blares Golden Girls reruns until 3 AM. And your refrigerator contains exactly one bottle of ketchup, half a carton of expired milk, and something in a container I was afraid to open."

Peter shrugs. "I've been meaning to go grocery shopping."

"Yeah, well, your aunt had the same idea. She showed up this morning with three bags of groceries and made me carry them up six flights of stairs because—surprise!—your elevator is broken again."

"Aunt May came by?" Peter's stomach drops. "How did that go?"

"Oh, fantastic," Johnny says with deep sarcasm. "She took one look at your face—my face now, I guess—and immediately knew something was wrong. Then she made me help put everything away while interrogating me about why I looked so 'peaky.' Do you know how hard it is to lie to that woman? She's like a human lie detector with cookies."

Peter winces. "Did she suspect anything?"

"I don't think so. I told her I was just tired from patrolling. Then she made me sit down while she cooked enough food for an army." Johnny's expression softens slightly. "She's really something, your aunt. Made me eat seconds. Said I was too skinny."

"That sounds like May," Peter says, smiling despite himself.

"After she left, I tried to get some sleep, but your neighbor's pipes started making this death rattle sound. Then your suit—" Johnny gestures to where the Spider-Man suit is draped over a chair, "—which, by the way, smells like a gym locker that's been marinating in New York summer sweat—"

"It's not that bad," Peter interrupts, protesting weakly.

"It is absolutely that bad. I had to wash it in your bathtub with dish soap because apparently, superhero suits don't go in washing machines." Johnny picks up a notebook. "So while it was drying, I started looking through your notes. And that's when I realized something."

"What?" Peter asks, nervous about whatever conclusion Johnny's reached.

Johnny holds up the notebook. "You're a freaking genius, Parker. Like, legitimately brilliant. These chemical formulations for your web fluid? The tensile strength calculations? The molecular bonding equations? This is insane stuff."

Peter shifts uncomfortably under the praise. "It's not that impressive."

"It is, though. Reed would be impressed by this, and that guy has four PhDs." Johnny flips through more pages. "You've got notes on potential medical applications for a modified version of your web fluid as a wound sealant. Do you realize how valuable that could be?"

"I don't have the resources to develop it properly," Peter mumbles.

"Yeah, well." Johnny gestures around the apartment. "Your life has zero glamor, Parker. Zero. No fancy cars, no adoring fans, no luxurious anything." He pauses. "I went out as Spider-Man tonight."

Peter tenses. "And?"

"It was... different." Johnny's voice changes, loses some of its edge. "There was this bodega owner on 39th who gave me—you—a free sandwich just because you apparently stopped his place from getting robbed last month. He wouldn't take money. Just said, 'Spider-Man eats free here.'"

Peter knows the place. Mr. Gonzalez has been feeding him for years, despite Peter's protests.

"Then these kids recognized me—you—on a rooftop," Johnny continues. "They were so excited, like I was the best thing they'd ever seen. Not because I'm famous or rich, but because they genuinely look up to Spider-Man. They asked me to do flips and one of them had this homemade Spider-Man backpack..."

Peter feels a strange tightness in his chest. "They're good kids."

"Everyone in your neighborhood seems to know you. This old lady waved at me from her window. Some teenagers asked me to settle an argument about whether I could lift a car." Johnny shakes his head. "They trust you. Really trust you, in a way nobody trusts the Fantastic Four."

"That's not true," Peter frowns. "People love the Fantastic Four."

"They admire us. It's different." Johnny picks up one of the web-shooters. "Anyway, I realized your gear is a mess. The calibration on this was off by at least three millimeters, and the pressure regulator was sticking."

Peter notices now that Johnny has laid out tools in a surprisingly methodical way. Circuit testers, micro-screwdrivers, even a small soldering iron Peter forgot he owned.

"I fixed it," Johnny says simply. "Both shooters. Recalibrated the pressure, cleaned out the nozzles, reinforced the wrist straps. They were cutting into your skin—did you know that? Left marks. So I added some padding."

Peter picks up the nearest web-shooter, turning it over in his hands. The workmanship is immaculate. The shooter feels balanced in a way it hasn't in months.

"You did this?" he asks, genuinely surprised.

"Don't sound so shocked." Johnny almost looks offended. "I work on engines all the time. This is just smaller. More precise."

"No, I just—" Peter tests the trigger mechanism, feeling the smooth action. "This is really good work."

Johnny shrugs, but Peter can tell he's pleased by the compliment. "Your equipment deserves better than duct tape repairs, Parker. Especially considering what you do with it."

Peter attaches the shooter to his wrist—Johnny's wrist—testing its weight and balance. "Thanks," he says quietly.

"Don't mention it. Seriously." Johnny looks around at the mess he's made. "Maybe we should clean this up before your aunt makes another surprise visit."

As they work together to restore order to the tiny apartment, Peter notices Johnny handling his equipment with unexpected care. There's a respect there that wasn't present before.

"So," Peter says after a while, "still think my life sucks?"

Johnny considers the question. "Parts of it definitely do. This apartment is a health code violation waiting to happen. Your boss is a psychopath. And the whole secret identity thing seems exhausting." He pauses. "But the other parts... the way people look at you when you swing by, like you personally make them feel safer just by existing... that's something money can't buy."

Peter nods, understanding dawning. Maybe this bizarre body swap is teaching them both something after all.

"The spider-sense still driving you crazy?" he asks.

"Less now," Johnny admits. "I think I'm getting used to it. Though it went absolutely nuts when I was trying to defuse that bomb tonight."

"What bomb?" Peter freaks out. "You didn't mention a bomb!"

Johnny grins with Peter's face, the expression more reckless than Peter's features usually display. "Relax. I handled it." He stretches, joints popping. "Though I have to say, swinging through the city is a rush. Different from flying, but good different."

Peter watches as Johnny carefully reassembles the last of the web-fluid cartridges, his movements precise and methodical. There's something strange about seeing his own hands work with such mechanical confidence, adding improvements Peter himself hadn't considered.

"We should probably get some sleep," Peter suggests. "Tomorrow's going to be another long day of... whatever this is."

Johnny nods, suddenly looking exhausted in Peter's body. "Yeah. And Parker? For what it's worth, I get it now. Why you do all this despite everything." He gestures vaguely.

As he settles onto the couch—Johnny insisted on taking the lumpy mattress, claiming Peter's body was used to it—Peter stares at the ceiling. Maybe they both have something to learn from walking in each other's shoes. Or swinging in each other's webs.

Peter closes his eyes, Johnny's enhanced senses picking up the sounds of the city through the thin walls—sirens in the distance, conversations from neighboring apartments, the rhythmic breathing of his own body across the room. For the first time since this nightmare began, he feels something close to peace.

It won't last, of course. Nothing in Peter Parker's life ever does. For tonight, though, it's enough.

As the days blur together, Peter finds himself settling into Johnny's skin like it's a second home. The transition happens so gradually he barely notices, like the way his hands now instinctively know the exact temperature needed to create a controlled flame, or how he can sense the thermal differences in a room without trying.

By Thursday morning, he wakes up knowing exactly how far he can push Johnny's powers. Last night he managed to create not just simple flames but complex shapes: fiery dragons that spiraled around his arms, miniature solar systems hovering above his palm, even a perfect replica of the Empire State Building that burned for nearly a minute before dissipating into sparks.

"Getting better," he murmurs to himself, rolling out of Johnny's ridiculously comfortable bed and padding toward the bathroom.

He catches his reflection in the mirror—Johnny's reflection—and pauses. The face looking back at him should still feel foreign, but somehow it doesn't anymore. Peter raises a hand to Johnny's jawline, tracing the sharper angles, the perfect symmetry that photographers have captured on magazine covers worldwide.

There's something mesmerizing about the way Johnny's eyes catch the light, how his hair falls just so even without styling. Peter flexes experimentally, watching muscles ripple beneath golden skin. He creates a small flame that dances across his knuckles, illuminating Johnny's features with a warm glow.

"This is getting weird," he tells his reflection, but he doesn't look away.

That's the problem, really. He doesn't want to look away. Something about inhabiting Johnny's body feels right in a way that makes his stomach twist with guilt. He likes the strength, the grace, the way people look at him—not just with recognition but with genuine admiration. He likes how clothes fit, how food tastes more vibrant on Johnny's enhanced palate, how he never feels cold.

Most disturbingly, he likes looking in mirrors now. Peter Parker has never been vain—has never had reason to be—but he finds himself stealing glances at reflective surfaces throughout the day, watching Johnny's body move with a fascination that borders on something else entirely.

Sometimes he tells himself it's just because Johnny is objectively beautiful. Anyone would appreciate that. But in quiet moments, when he's alone with his thoughts, Peter admits the truth might be more complicated. Maybe it's not just Johnny's body, but the freedom it represents; the permission to be seen, to take up space unapologetically. No secrets.

It's something he's never allowed himself to want.

His phone buzzes with a text from his own number—from Johnny.

breakfast at that diner on 7th? need to talk

Peter types back a quick affirmative and throws on some clothes—Johnny's clothes—still marveling at how everything in the closet looks like it was tailored specifically for this body. Because it was, he reminds himself. This isn't yours. None of this is yours.

The thought follows him all the way to the diner, where he finds Johnny already waiting in a booth, looking perfectly at ease in Peter's body. Too at ease, actually. Johnny has styled Peter's hair differently, added a leather jacket Peter doesn't remember owning, and somehow made Peter's perpetually tired face look rested and confident.

"You're staring," Johnny says as Peter slides into the booth across from him.

"You changed my hair," Peter replies, unable to hide his discomfort.

Johnny runs a hand through the styled locks, grinning. "Improved it, you mean. The whole disheveled scientist thing wasn't working for you."

"It was working fine," Peter mutters, though the evidence sitting across from him suggests otherwise. His own body looks better than it has in months—maybe years. The dark circles under his eyes have faded, his skin looks clearer, and there's a relaxed set to his shoulders that Peter can't remember ever achieving himself.

"How are things at the penthouse?" Johnny asks, stealing a fry from Peter's untouched plate. "Figured out how to use the espresso machine yet?"

"I'm managing," Peter says, which is mostly true. He's adapted to Johnny's life with surprising ease—the charity appearances, the fan interactions, even the family dynamics with the Fantastic Four. Reed's been too busy researching the artifact to notice anything amiss, and Ben seems to attribute any oddness to the body-swap situation in general.

"And the powers?" Johnny leans forward, lowering his voice. "Still having trouble with the flame control?"

"Actually, no." Peter can't help the small surge of pride. "I've got it down pretty well now. Last night I managed a full flame-on without burning anything."

Johnny's expression shifts to something Peter can't quite read. "Impressive. Took me months to master that." He studies Peter for a moment. "You know, it's weird. You look more comfortable in my body than I ever did."

"That's not true," Peter says automatically, though a small voice whispers that maybe it is.

"It is, though." Johnny leans back, crossing Peter's arms. "You've adapted to everything—the powers, the lifestyle, even the way I walk. Meanwhile, I'm still tripping over my own feet and sticking to random surfaces."

"That's not fair. You've made improvements to my web-shooters I never would have thought of. And you fixed Aunt May’s garbage disposal last week."

"Basic mechanics," Johnny dismisses, though Peter catches a flicker of pleasure at the compliment. "But you—you're becoming me, Parker. It's like you were meant for this body."

The observation hits too close to home. Peter shifts uncomfortably, avoiding Johnny's gaze. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just adapting."

"Adapting?" Johnny laughs, the sound strange coming from Peter's throat. "Is that what we're calling it? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're enjoying being me a little too much."

Heat flushes up Peter's neck—literal heat that makes the air around him shimmer slightly. "That's not—"

"The way you check yourself out when you think no one's looking? How you flex in front of reflective surfaces? I've seen it, Parker. You're not exactly subtle."

Peter feels exposed, like Johnny has peeled back his skin and peered directly at the shameful truth underneath. "I don't—"

"It's okay, you know," Johnny interrupts, his expression softening slightly. "Finally getting to know yourself through someone else's eyes. Must be enlightening."

Something in Peter snaps. The accumulated stress of the past week, the confused tangle of emotions, the disturbing ease with which he's slipped into Johnny's life—it all boils over in a sudden flash of anger.

"You think this is funny?" he hisses, leaning across the table. "Playing dress-up with my life while I'm having an identity crisis? This isn't a game, Johnny."

Johnny doesn't retreat. Instead, he leans forward until they're inches apart, a smile playing at the corners of Peter's mouth that Peter himself has never worn.

"A little," Johnny admits, voice low and intimate. "Mostly it's hot."

Hot. As in attractive? As in Johnny finds this whole situation... arousing? The thought sends a jolt through Peter's system that's definitely not anger.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter asks, hating how breathless Johnny's voice sounds.

Johnny shrugs, but his eyes never leave Peter's face. "It means watching you get comfortable in my skin does things to me. Weird things. Good weird."

"That's—" Peter starts, then stops, unsure how to finish the sentence. Inappropriate? Disturbing? Exciting?

"Complicated?" Johnny suggests, his smile widening. "Yeah, I know. But then, when has anything between us ever been simple?"

Peter wants to argue that nothing has ever been "between them" at all—they've been colleagues at best, reluctant allies at worst—but the words stick in his throat. Because maybe there has been something simmering beneath the surface all along. Something neither of them acknowledged until circumstances forced them to see each other and themselves differently.

"This whole situation is temporary," Peter says instead, retreating to safer ground. "Reed's making progress with the artifact. We'll be back in our own bodies soon."

Johnny's expression flickers, something like disappointment crossing his features before he masks it with another easy smile. "Right. Of course. Back to normal."

They eat in silence for a few minutes, the tension between them shifting into something more contemplative. Peter can't help wondering if Johnny is right—if part of him doesn't want this to end. If he's grown too attached to living Johnny's life, to being in Johnny's body.

To being Johnny.

"So," Johnny breaks the silence, toying with the straw in his water glass, "heard anything new about the charity gala?"

Peter blinks, momentarily confused by the change in subject. "What? Oh, that. No, I haven't really checked your schedule again."

"It's this weekend," Johnny says, drumming Peter's fingers on the table. "Black tie affair. All the rich and famous will be there." He pauses, studying Peter across the table. "And we already told Darcy I was gonna take Peter, remember? You'll—I’ll need a tux. A real one, not the rental garbage you probably wore to your prom."

"I can't exactly go shopping right now," Peter points out. “You know I’m broke.”

Johnny reaches into Peter's back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and slides a sleek black credit card across the table. "Use my card. Matter of fact, I’ll just use it. You just tag along and look pretty so you don’t get flagged for fraud. I’ll get something nice that actually fits."

Peter stares at the card like it might bite him. "I can't spend your money on clothes for myself."

"Not for yourself," Johnny corrects with an exaggerated eye-roll. "For me. My body needs to look good, even if you're the one driving my actual body around."

"Still feels wrong," Peter mutters, making no move to take the card.

Johnny scowls, looking strangely intimidating with Peter's features arranged in such obvious frustration. "It's technically my money buying things for myself, Parker. I'm still stuck in your shoebox apartment with your three shirts and one decent pair of jeans."

"I have more than three shirts," Peter protests weakly.

"Yeah, if you count the ones with science puns and mysterious stains." Johnny pushes the card closer. "Consider it payment for letting me crash at your place."

Peter reluctantly picks up the card, the weight of it surprisingly substantial in his hand. "Fine. But we’re not going overboard."

"At least two suits," Johnny insists. "And shoes. Actual dress shoes, not those scuffed things you call formal wear."

"One suit," Peter counters. "And maybe a pair of shoes."

Johnny narrows his eyes. "Two suits, shoes, and a couple dress shirts. Non-negotiable."

They stare at each other for a long moment, a silent battle of wills that Peter knows he's going to lose. He sighs. "Fine. But I'm not comfortable with this."

"You don't have to be comfortable," Johnny says with a grin that looks strange on Peter's face. "I just have to look good."

Peter pockets the credit card, already dreading the shopping trip ahead. "Anything else I should know about this gala?"

"Just the usual. Smile, be charming, pretend to care about whatever pet project the billionaires are funding this month." Johnny takes a sip of water, then adds casually, "You know, this is getting ridiculous, us constantly shuttling between your place and mine."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it makes more sense for us to stay in one place while we're sorting this out. Your apartment is a health hazard, and my place has actual functioning appliances and enough space for both of us."

Peter frowns. "You wanna live together?"

"Why not? I'll swing by your apartment later, pack up whatever essentials you need." Johnny leans forward, expression earnest in a way Peter rarely sees on his own face. "Look, we're both struggling with this situation. Might be easier if we're not doing it alone."

The offer catches Peter off guard. It makes logical sense, but there's something intimate about the suggestion that makes his stomach flip. "I don't know..."

"What's the problem? Afraid of what might happen if we're under the same roof?"

Peter feels heat rise to his cheeks again, the air around him warming noticeably. A nearby customer fans herself, looking around for the source of the sudden temperature change.

"Control, Parker," Johnny murmurs, nodding toward the customer. "Deep breaths."

Peter inhales slowly, focusing on regulating the heat that seems to flare with his emotions. "It's not that," he says finally. "It's just... weird."

"Weirder than being trapped in each other's bodies?" Johnny raises an eyebrow. "Come on. My place has better security, better tech connections for Reed to contact us, and an actual working shower with unlimited hot water. It’s my place, anyways, and we’re already gonna commit to the whole dating thing."

Put that way, Peter has to admit the offer is tempting. He knows his apartment is cramped and always either too hot or too cold, the neighbors are loud, and the plumbing is questionable at best. Johnny's penthouse, by contrast, is a marvel of modern luxury, and it feels mean to keep it from him just because he’s stuck in his body.

"Yeah," he relents. "But I'm not letting you pack my stuff. You'll just throw out half my clothes and replace them with things that cost more than my rent."

"That was exactly my plan," Johnny admits with a grin. "But fine, we'll go together. Though I reserve the right to accidentally lose anything with a science pun on it."

Peter can't help the small smile that tugs at his lips. "Touch my 'Never Trust an Atom, They Make Up Everything' shirt and there will be consequences."

"That shirt is a crime against humanity," Johnny declares, but he's smiling too. "We'll compromise. I'll pack your terrible shirts if you let me style them in ways that don't make me look like a total walking disaster."

"Deal," Peter says.

As they finish breakfast and head out, Peter feels an unexpected lightness. Maybe Johnny's right. Maybe facing this bizarre situation together, under one roof, will make it easier to bear.

Or maybe it will complicate things in ways neither of them is prepared for, something whispers in his brain.

They spend the afternoon at Peter's apartment, packing up what Johnny deems the "absolute essentials." This apparently includes Peter's laptop, his chemistry equipment, exactly three of his t-shirts (the least offensive ones, according to Johnny), and a framed photo of him with Aunt May that sits on his bedside table.

"What about this?" Johnny holds up Peter's Spider-Man costume, examining a tear along the shoulder seam that Peter had forgotten about.

"I can fix that at your place," Peter says, watching as Johnny folds the suit with surprising care.

"Our place," Johnny corrects, tucking the costume into a duffel bag. "At least temporarily."

The words send an unexpected flutter through Peter's stomach. Our place. It sounds domestic in a way that makes him both nervous and strangely pleased.

"What about this box?" Johnny points to a battered shoebox tucked beneath Peter's bed.

Peter lunges forward, perhaps too quickly. "Leave that one."

Johnny's eyebrows—Peter's eyebrows—shoot up with interest. "Now I'm intrigued. What's in the mysterious box? Love letters? Embarrassing high school photos? Porn?"

"It's private," Peter says firmly.

"Nothing's private when you're sharing bodies," Johnny counters, reaching for the box with a gleam in his eye that Peter recognizes as trouble.

Peter grabs Johnny's wrist—his own wrist, technically—stopping him. "Seriously, Storm. Some boundaries, please."

Something in his tone must register because Johnny backs off, hands raised in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. Keep your secrets." He pauses, studying Peter's face. "But you know I'll find out eventually, right? I'm very persistent."

"I'm counting on you forgetting all about it," Peter says, pushing the box deeper under the bed with his foot.

Truth is, the box contains mementos he's not ready to share with anyone—photos of Gwen, letters from Uncle Ben, newspaper clippings from his early Spider-Man days. It's the physical repository of his most private memories, both painful and precious.

"Whatever," Johnny shrugs, turning back to the closet. "But for the record, I've seen your browser history. Nothing in that box could possibly shock me."

Peter feels heat crawl up his neck. "You checked my browser history?"

"Of course I did. Wouldn't you?" Johnny grins, the expression mischievous on Peter's normally earnest face. "Gotta say, Parker, you're full of surprises."

Peter watches as Johnny efficiently sorts the rest of his clothing into piles: keep, donate, and what Johnny calls the "burn immediately" stack. It's strange seeing his own body move with such decisive confidence, handling his belongings with casual disdain.

"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?" Peter asks as the "burn immediately" pile grows alarmingly large.

Johnny looks up with an expression of mock horror on Peter's face. "Dramatic? Me? Never." He holds up a pair of jeans with frayed hems. "These aren't even fashionably distressed. They're just sad."

Despite his protests, Peter finds himself laughing. There's something freeing about Johnny's ruthless assessment of his wardrobe. Maybe some of these things do need to go.

"Fine," he concedes. "But I'm keeping the science pun shirts."

"Three," Johnny counters. "You can keep three. The rest are crimes against fashion."

They negotiate down to five shirts, with Johnny insisting that Peter model each one so he can "see the damage in real time." It's bizarre watching Johnny's critical gaze assess his own body wearing Peter's clothes.

"This one stays," Johnny decides after Peter tries on a faded blue t-shirt with the periodic table on it. "It brings out—your—eyes."

By the time they've finished packing, Peter's belongings have been reduced to two duffel bags and a backpack. Johnny looks satisfied with his work, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asks, zipping up the last bag.

Peter glances around his apartment, feeling a strange mix of emotions. It looks emptier now, but not in a bad way. More like he's shedding a skin he's outgrown.

"I guess not," he admits. "But I'm still not letting you throw out my Star Wars collectibles."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Johnny says, though his expression suggests otherwise. "Those are going in a closet where no one can see them."

They load everything into Johnny's Ferrari, which looks absurdly out of place in Peter's neighborhood. Several kids gather to admire it, and Peter catches Johnny signing an autograph on a scrap of paper—signing Peter Parker's name with a flourish that Peter himself never uses.

"What are you doing?" Peter hisses when the kids run off, clutching the autograph like it's treasure.

Johnny shrugs. "Building your brand. You're welcome."

The drive to Johnny's penthouse is quick, with Johnny insisting on taking the wheel despite technically being in the wrong body. "I don't trust you with my baby," he explains, patting the dashboard affectionately. "You still drive like someone's grandmother."

At the penthouse, Johnny unpacks, finding space for Peter's belongings among Johnny's designer clothes and expensive gadgets. It's a strange blending of their lives, Peter's worn paperbacks nestled beside Johnny's sleek electronics, his battered laptop looking out of place on Johnny's glass desk.

"There," Johnny says when they've finished. "Now it feels like home."

And strangely, it does. The penthouse feels less like a showroom and more like a lived-in space with their belongings mingled together. Peter finds himself relaxing into the environment, trailing his fingers—Johnny's fingers—along the back of the couch.

"I should check in with Reed," he says, pulling out his phone. "See if there's any progress on getting us back to normal."

Johnny's expression flickers, something unreadable passing across Peter's features. "Yeah, sure. I'll order some dinner. Pizza okay?"

Peter nods, already dialing Reed's number. The conversation is brief and not particularly encouraging. Reed has isolated the energy signature from the artifact but hasn't figured out how to reverse its effects. "It could be days," Reed admits. "Possibly longer."

When Peter hangs up, he finds Johnny setting plates on the coffee table, a large pizza box steaming between them.

"Any luck?" Johnny asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

"Reed's still working on it," Peter says, dropping onto the couch beside him. "Could be a while."

Johnny nods, passing him a slice of pizza. "So we're roomies for the foreseeable future."

"Looks that way." Peter takes a bite, the flavors exploding on Johnny's enhanced palate. Everything tastes more intense in this body—spicier, sweeter, richer.

They eat in comfortable silence for a while, some action movie playing in the background that neither of them is really watching. Peter can feel Johnny stealing glances at him, like he's trying to work something out.

"What?" Peter finally asks.

Johnny sets down his slice, wiping his hands on a napkin. "I've been thinking about what you said earlier. About how weird this all is."

"And?" Peter feels a flutter of nervousness in his chest.

"And I think we should lean into the weirdness," Johnny says, his expression serious in a way that looks strange on Peter's face. "Stop fighting it and just... go with it."

Peter frowns. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means," Johnny says slowly, "that maybe there's a reason this happened to us specifically. Maybe we're supposed to learn something from it."

The idea hangs between them, loaded with implications Peter isn't sure he's ready to face. "Like what?"

Johnny shrugs, but there's nothing casual about it. "Like maybe we've both been stuck in our own little worlds for too long. You with your secret identity and martyr complex, me with my..." he gestures vaguely, "...everything."

"I don't have a martyr complex," Peter protests automatically.

Johnny gives him a look so flat it could balance a spirit level. "You absolutely do. You punish yourself for things that aren't your fault and refuse help even when you desperately need it." He leans forward. "But that's not who I am. And living in your skin is teaching me that. Maybe living in mine can teach you something too."

Peter wants to argue, but the words stick in his throat. There's a kernel of truth in what Johnny's saying, and they both know it.

"So what's your suggestion?" he asks instead.

"That we stop treating this like a disaster to be fixed and start treating it like an opportunity," Johnny says. "Let's actually live each other's lives for a while. Really experience them. Maybe then we'll understand what we're supposed to learn from this whole mess."

It's a terrifying proposition. Living Johnny's life means embracing everything Peter has always avoided—attention, luxury, fame. It means stepping fully into the light after years in the shadows.

"I don't know if I can do that," Peter admits quietly.

Johnny reaches out, placing a hand on his arm. It's strange seeing his own hand against Johnny's skin, the contrast between them somehow more pronounced now.

"You already are," Johnny says softly. "I've seen you these past few days. You're starting to understand what it means to be me. Just like I'm beginning to understand what it means to be you."

Peter looks down at the hand on his arm, at the familiar calluses and small scars that tell the story of his life as Spider-Man. Johnny's right. He is beginning to understand, and the understanding brings with it a strange sense of freedom.

"Okay," he says finally. "I'll try."

Johnny's smile—Peter's smile, really—is bright with genuine pleasure. "That's all I'm asking."

The next morning, Peter stares at himself—at Johnny—in the bathroom mirror, trying to psych himself up for what's ahead.

"It's just clothes shopping," he mutters to his reflection. "No big deal."

Except it is a big deal, because they're going to some ultra-exclusive menswear boutique where Johnny apparently has a personal relationship with the owner. The kind of place where they probably serve champagne while you try on socks that cost more than Peter's entire wardrobe.

"Ready to become a fashion icon?" Johnny calls from the living room, sounding far too cheerful for someone who's about to spend thousands of dollars on clothes that aren't even for him. Technically.

Peter emerges from the bathroom to find Johnny lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone. It's still jarring seeing his own body looking so... relaxed. So comfortable in its own skin.

"As I'll ever be," Peter sighs, grabbing his wallet out of habit before remembering he doesn't need it. Johnny's already made it clear he's paying—or rather, Peter is paying with Johnny's money, for clothes that Johnny will wear once they switch back. The circular logic makes his head hurt.

The boutique is nestled between a Rolex store and a gourmet chocolatier on Fifth Avenue. The window display features a single navy suit on a headless mannequin, with no price tag in sight. Peter knows what that means: if you have to ask, you can't afford it.

"Mr. Storm!" A slender man with salt-and-pepper hair and round glasses materializes the moment they enter, his Italian accent as crisp as his perfectly pressed shirt. "What a pleasure to see you again!"

"Alessandro," Johnny says warmly, extending Peter's hand for a firm handshake. "I'm Johnny’s friend. I’m looking to get the full treatment."

Alessandro turns his appraising gaze on Johnny—on Peter’s body—and smiles knowingly. "Of course, of course. And what’s your name?"

"Peter Parker," Johnny says before Peter can answer. “Photographer for the Daily Bugle. And his boyfriend."

"Wonderful!" Alessandro claps his hands together. "I've been hoping to see Mr. Storm settled down with someone special. Come, come, we'll find something worthy of the Human Torch's significant other."

As Alessandro leads them deeper into the store, Peter catches two female employees exchanging whispers behind their hands, eyes darting between him and Johnny. One giggles, covering her mouth quickly when she notices him looking.

"Johnny Storm's boyfriend," he hears one murmur. "The photographer."

"So cute together," the other replies. "I knew Johnny wasn't straight."

Heat creeps up Peter's neck, and he has to concentrate hard to keep Johnny's powers in check. The last thing this fancy boutique needs is a customer spontaneously combusting in the tie section.

"Here we are," Alessandro announces, ushering them into a private fitting area with plush velvet chairs and a circular platform surrounded by mirrors. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. Champagne?"

"Yes, please," Johnny says, dropping into one of the chairs with casual elegance that looks completely foreign on Peter's body. "And maybe some of those little chocolate things?"

"Of course, Mr. Parker." Alessandro snaps his fingers, and another employee scurries off to fulfill the request.

"I can't believe you told him we're dating," Peter hisses once they're alone.

Johnny shrugs, the gesture distinctly his despite coming from Peter's shoulders. "It's the simplest explanation for why Johnny Storm would be suddenly so interested in dressing Peter Parker up. Besides, you agreed to it."

"For your family and the gala! Not for random salespeople!"

"Alessandro isn't random. He's dressed me for years." Johnny grins, leaning back in his chair. "Besides, you're the one in my body. You should be used to people gossiping about your love life."

Before Peter can retort, Alessandro returns with a young man carrying a tray of champagne flutes and chocolate truffles, followed by two more employees laden with garment bags.

"I've selected a few options based on Mr. Storm's usual preferences," Alessandro explains, directing the employees to hang the bags on a sleek rack. "But with some adjustments for Mr. Parker's coloring and build."

Peter watches in mounting horror as suit after suit emerges from the garment bags—midnight blue with subtle pinstripes, charcoal gray with a faint pattern, black with satin lapels that screams formal event. Each one looks more expensive than his monthly rent.

"Perhaps we start with this one?" Alessandro suggests, holding up a deep navy suit. "Classic, versatile, but with details that elevate it beyond the ordinary."

Johnny nods approvingly. "Perfect. Johnny, why don't you help me try it on?"

It takes Peter a moment to realize what Johnny means—he wants Peter to pretend to be helping Johnny try on the suit, when in reality, it's Johnny helping Peter pretend to be Johnny helping Johnny who's pretending to be Peter. The mental gymnastics make him dizzy.

"Right," he manages, following Johnny and Alessandro into an even more private fitting room.

The next hour passes in a blur of fabric swatches, inseam measurements, and champagne refills. Peter stands awkwardly to the side, trying to look like he knows what he's doing as Johnny confidently selects shirts, ties, and pocket squares to complement each suit.

"What do you think of this one, honey?" Johnny calls out, emerging from behind a curtain in a perfectly fitted gray suit that somehow makes Peter's lanky frame look sophisticated and elegant.

"It's... nice," Peter offers lamely, aware of Alessandro watching their interaction with interest.

Johnny rolls his eyes—Peter's eyes—dramatically. "Just 'nice'? Come on, babe, give me more than that."

Peter clears his throat, channeling what he imagines Johnny would say in this situation. "The cut really brings out your shoulders. And the color makes your eyes look more hazel than brown."

Johnny beams, and Alessandro nods approvingly. "Your boyfriend has an excellent eye, Mr. Parker. That's exactly right."

As Johnny disappears back behind the curtain, Peter catches the reflection of the two female employees in one of the many mirrors. They're hovering just outside the fitting area, stealing glances and whispering again.

"I didn't know Johnny Storm was so attentive," one says, just loud enough for Peter's enhanced hearing to pick up.

"It's adorable," the other agrees. "Did you see how he looks at him? That's not just a fling."

Peter feels his face—Johnny's face—flush hot. He takes a long sip of champagne, hoping the alcohol might dull the embarrassment, but Johnny's metabolism processes it too quickly for any effect.

"They're talking about us," he mutters when Johnny emerges in yet another perfect suit.

"Of course they are," Johnny replies, adjusting his cuffs with practiced ease. "I'm Johnny Storm, and I'm publicly shopping for my boyfriend. It'll be on social media within the hour."

"What?" Peter nearly spills his champagne. "Johnny, I can't—my identity—"

"Relax," Johnny cuts him off, keeping his voice low. "Peter Parker dating Johnny Storm isn't going to expose Spider-Man. If anything, it gives you a perfect alibi. No one would suspect Spider-Man is dating the Human Torch."

There's a certain logic to it, Peter has to admit. Still, the idea of his name—his real name—being linked to Johnny's in gossip columns and social media posts makes his stomach twist with anxiety.

"Final verdict?" Alessandro asks, returning with a tape measure draped around his neck. "Which suits shall we proceed with?"

"All of them," Johnny says decisively.

"All?" Peter checks.

"All," Johnny confirms, flashing Peter's most charming smile—a smile Peter himself didn't know his face could produce. "And the shirts, ties, and shoes we discussed."

Alessandro practically glows with delight. "Excellent choice, Mr. Parker! We'll have everything tailored and delivered by tomorrow afternoon."

As Alessandro hurries off to process the order, Peter collapses into one of the velvet chairs, head spinning. "Do I even want to know how much this is costing?"

"Probably not," Johnny admits, sitting beside him. "But don't worry about it. I'm investing in your future wardrobe, which is basically mine."

Peter glances at Johnny, at his own face looking back at him with an expression of contentment he rarely sees in the mirror. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Playing dress-up with my life."

"Maybe a little," Johnny admits. "But you can't tell me you haven't enjoyed certain aspects of being me, either."

Before Peter can respond, his phone buzzes with a text from Sue, just a simple question mark.

Attached is a blurry photo clearly taken in the boutique, showing Peter (as Johnny) adjusting Johnny's (as Peter's) tie, their faces close together.

"That was fast," Peter mutters, showing Johnny the text.

Johnny grins, entirely unrepentant. "Told you. Social media works faster than your spider-sense." He takes the phone, typing a quick reply: Will explain everything tonight. Don't tell Reed yet.

"Why not tell Reed?" Peter asks as Johnny hands the phone back.

"Because he'll want to study us more if he thinks we're actually dating. Scientific curiosity and all that." Johnny stands, straightening the already perfect suit. "Come on, let's get out of here before Alessandro tries to sell us matching watches."

As they leave the boutique, Peter notices the sideways glances, the whispers, the not-so-subtle phone cameras pointing in their direction. For the first time, he's experiencing what it's like to be the center of attention not as Spider-Man, hidden behind a mask, but as a person—as Johnny Storm, with his face fully visible and his identity proudly on display.

It's terrifying. It's exhilarating. It's nothing like he expected.

"You okay?" Johnny asks as they walk, his hand brushing against Peter's in a gesture that seems deliberately casual but sends a jolt through Peter's system.

"Yeah," Peter says, surprised to find it's not entirely a lie. "Just processing."

"Processing what?"

Peter gestures vaguely at the people around them, at the world that suddenly seems to revolve around their presence. "This. All of it. Being... seen."

Johnny's expression softens, understanding flickering across Peter's features. "It's different when you can't hide, isn't it? When you can't just swing away and disappear into the crowd."

"Yeah," Peter admits. "It is."

"For what it's worth," Johnny says, his voice unusually serious, "I think you wear it well. My life, I mean."

Peter doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't.

Back at the penthouse that evening, Peter finds himself standing in front of the full-length mirror in Johnny's bedroom, examining his reflection with a mix of fascination and unease. The shopping trip has left him mentally exhausted, but physically—Johnny's body still hums with energy, ready for more.

"What are you doing?" Johnny's voice—Peter's voice—comes from the doorway.

Peter turns to find Johnny leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. There's something unsettling about seeing his own body looking so relaxed, so comfortable in its own skin.

"Just thinking," Peter says, turning back to the mirror. "About what you said earlier. About learning from this experience."

Johnny pushes off from the doorframe and moves to stand beside him. Now there are two reflections in the mirror—Johnny in Peter's body, Peter in Johnny's—both looking at each other rather than at themselves.

"And?" Johnny prompts.

"And I think maybe you're right," Peter admits reluctantly. "Maybe there is something to learn here. About... perspective."

Johnny's reflection smiles—Peter's face lighting up with an expression of genuine pleasure that Peter himself rarely sees in the mirror. "That's what I've been saying."

A comfortable silence falls between them, both studying their reflections, the strange reality of their situation somehow more tangible when they can see it visually represented.

"Sue wants us to come over for dinner," Johnny says finally. "Tonight."

Peter tenses. "All of us? Ben and Reed too?"

"Family dinner. Can't avoid it forever." Johnny shrugs with Peter's shoulders. "Might as well get it over with."

"And what about... us?" Peter gestures between them. "Are we sticking with the dating story?"

Johnny's expression turns thoughtful. "Sue already thinks something's up. Reed's going to figure it out when he sees us together anyway."

"So we tell them the truth? That it's just a cover story?"

Johnny hesitates, something flickering across Peter's features that Peter can't quite read. "We could. Or..."

"Or what?" Peter asks, stomach tightening with sudden nervousness.

"Or we could see where this goes," Johnny says quietly. "For real."

The words hang in the air between them, loaded with implications that make Peter's heart rate spike. Heat rises to his face—literal heat that makes the air around them shimmer slightly.

"Johnny," Peter begins, not sure what he's going to say next.

Johnny holds up a hand. "Just... think about it, okay? No pressure. But I've been in your skin for a week now, and I think I understand you better than I ever have. Maybe you understand me better too."

Peter swallows, finding it suddenly difficult to maintain eye contact. "Maybe I do."

"So let's just... see what happens," Johnny suggests. "No expectations. No pressure. Just... us, figuring this out."

It's a terrifying proposition. Peter has spent years keeping people at arm's length, protecting them from the dangers of his double life. The idea of letting someone in—especially someone as bright and visible as Johnny Storm—goes against every instinct he's developed.

But standing here, in Johnny's body, surrounded by Johnny's life, Peter can't help wondering if those instincts have been wrong all along.

"Okay," he says finally. "We'll see what happens."

Johnny's smile—Peter's smile—is bright enough to rival the sun. "Great. Now go put on something decent for dinner. Sue's making her famous lasagna."

As Johnny leaves the room, Peter turns back to the mirror, studying Johnny's features one more time. The confident set of his shoulders, the easy smile that comes so naturally to these lips, the relaxed posture that suggests a man comfortable in his own skin—all things Peter has never had.

But maybe he could learn.

The Fantastic Four's home occupies the top floors of the Baxter Building, a testament to Reed's scientific genius and Sue's impeccable taste. Peter has been here before, of course, but always as Spider-Man or as himself—never as Johnny.

"Remember," Johnny murmurs as the elevator ascends, "Ben will definitely notice if you're too polite. We have a... dynamic. We need to convince them we can pretend to be each other well enough that we don't have to be jailed away until they find a solution."

"You mean you insult each other constantly," Peter translates.

"Exactly. It's how we show affection."

The elevator doors open directly into the Fantastic Four's living quarters, revealing a spacious living room with panoramic views of Manhattan. Sue stands at the kitchen island, tossing a salad, while Reed's arms stretch impossibly from his seat on the couch to adjust something on the dining table.

"Johnny! Peter!" Sue calls, setting down her salad tongs. "Right on time."

"Miracles never cease," Ben rumbles from an oversized armchair designed specifically for his rocky frame. "Matchstick's actually punctual for once."

"Had to be, Pebbles. Wouldn't want to miss seeing your ugly mug across the dinner table."

Ben's craggy features split into a grin, apparently satisfied with the response. "There he is. Was worried the body-swap might've improved your personality."

"Where's my favorite nephew?" Johnny asks, moving to hug Sue with an ease in Peter's body that Peter himself never demonstrates.

"Franklin's at a sleepover, and Val's finishing a project in her room," Sue explains, returning the hug before turning to Peter. "Johnny, can you help me with the drinks?"

Peter nods, following Sue into the kitchen area while Johnny engages Reed in conversation. As soon as they're relatively alone, Sue fixes Peter with a penetrating stare.

"Alright, what's going on between you two?" she asks quietly.

Peter nearly drops the glass he's holding. "What do you mean?"

"I saw the photos, Johnny—or should I say, Peter?" Sue's voice remains low. "You two looked... cozy. And now you're living together, right?"

Peter sets the glass down carefully, buying time to formulate a response. "It's... complicated."

"I gathered that much," Sue says dryly. "Look, I don't care who you date. You know that. But this is... unusual, even for you."

"It wasn't planned," Peter admits, which is at least true. "It just sort of... happened."

Sue studies him for a moment longer, then her expression softens. "Well, for what it's worth, I think you're good for each other. You’ve always been too serious, and Johnny could use someone who grounds him a bit."

“Thanks, Sue. That means a lot."

"Just be careful," she adds, her voice gentle. "This body-swap situation complicates things. I don't want either of you getting hurt when you switch back."

The concern in her voice catches Peter off guard. He's not used to people worrying about his emotional well-being; at least, not outside of Aunt May.

"We're taking it one day at a time," he says, surprised by how true the words feel.

Sue smiles, squeezing his arm affectionately. "That's all anyone can do. Now take these drinks out before Ben starts complaining about dying of thirst."

Dinner progresses more smoothly than Peter expected. The conversation flows naturally, with Reed occasionally lapsing into scientific monologues that everyone except Johnny—the real Johnny, in Peter's body—tunes out. Ben tells stories about his recent poker game with the Thing's favorite bar, and Sue updates them on Franklin's latest school project.

It feels... normal. Like family. Peter finds himself relaxing into Johnny's role, trading barbs with Ben and asking Sue about her forcefield research. It's easier than he expected, being Johnny Storm in this context.

"So," Reed says during a lull in the conversation, "I've been analyzing the artifact that caused your consciousness transference."

The table falls silent, all eyes turning to Reed.

"And?" Johnny prompts, leaning forward with interest.

"The energy signature is unlike anything I've encountered before," Reed explains, his excitement evident as his neck stretches slightly. "It appears to create a quantum entanglement between consciousness matrices, essentially swapping neural patterns while maintaining physical integrity."

"English, Stretch," Ben grunts.

Reed sighs. "It switched their minds but left their bodies intact. The interesting part is that the swap appears to be growing more stable over time, not less."

Peter's stomach drops. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that the longer you remain in each other's bodies, the more difficult it may be to reverse the process," Reed says carefully. "The neural pathways are adapting, essentially rewiring to accommodate the new consciousness."

A heavy silence falls over the table. Peter looks at Johnny, finding his own face looking back with an unreadable expression.

"How long do we have?" Johnny asks finally.

Reed stretches his fingers thoughtfully. "It's difficult to say with certainty. Based on my calculations, perhaps another week before the changes become... problematic to reverse."

"Problematic how?" Peter presses, anxiety building in his chest.

"There could be memory transfer, personality blending, possibly even permanent neural adaptation," Reed explains. "In the worst case scenario, a reversal attempt could result in... incomplete transference."

The implications hang in the air, unspoken but understood by everyone at the table. They could be stuck with pieces of each other's minds. Or worse.

"So we need to fix this soon," Peter says, voice steadier than he feels.

Reed nods. "I'm working on a reversal device, but it's delicate work. The artifact itself seems to be dormant now, so we can't simply activate it again and hope for the opposite effect."

"Great," Johnny mutters.

Sue reaches across the table, placing a hand over Johnny's—over Peter's hand. "We'll figure this out. We always do."

The reassurance feels hollow against the weight of Reed's revelation. Peter catches Johnny's eye across the table, seeing his own fear reflected back at him.

One week. One week before their minds start to permanently merge with their borrowed bodies. The thought sends a chill down Peter's spine despite Johnny's naturally elevated body temperature.

After dinner, they help clear the table in silence, the earlier camaraderie replaced by a tense awareness of their ticking clock. As they prepare to leave, Reed pulls them aside.

"I should have the prototype reversal device ready for testing in three days," he says quietly. "In the meantime, try to maintain awareness of any... blending of consciousness. Memory sharing, personality shifts, that sort of thing."

"We will," Peter promises, though the thought of his mind merging with Johnny's makes his skin crawl, or perhaps Johnny's powers responding to his anxiety again.

In the elevator heading down, neither speaks.

"So," Johnny finally breaks the silence as they reach the lobby. "One week."

"Apparently," Peter responds, stepping into the cool night air.

Johnny's borrowed face—Peter's face—looks thoughtful in the glow of the streetlights. "We should probably cancel that whole 'see where this goes' idea, huh?"

Peter should agree. It's the sensible thing to do. With only a week to fix this mess, getting emotionally entangled would only complicate matters further.

Instead, he finds himself saying, "Maybe not."

Johnny stops walking, turning to face him with surprise evident on Peter's features. "What?"

"I just mean..." Peter hesitates, searching for words. "Reed said we have a week before things get complicated. That's still some time to figure things out. Between us, I mean."

Johnny stares at him for a long moment, Peter's own face showing an expression he's never seen in the mirror—a vulnerability mixed with hope that makes Peter's borrowed heart beat faster.

"You sure about that?" Johnny asks, his voice careful. "Because if this goes sideways, we'll be stuck dealing with the fallout while also possibly trapped in each other's bodies forever."

Peter runs a hand through Johnny's perfectly styled hair, a habit from his own body that feels strange with Johnny's longer locks. "Nothing in my life has ever been certain. This is just one more complicated thing to navigate."

Johnny's laugh—Peter's laugh—sounds different coming from outside himself, deeper than Peter thought his own laugh was. "That's an understatement."

They walk in silence for a block, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brush. The city bustles around them, oblivious to the existential crisis walking in their midst.

"So what now?" Johnny finally asks.

"Now we go home," Peter says, the word 'home' slipping out naturally to describe Johnny's penthouse. "And tomorrow we figure out how to be ourselves—each other—at this charity gala without making complete fools of ourselves."

Johnny's smile is small but genuine. "That's a tall order, Parker."

"Hey, I managed to fool Alessandro into thinking I'm you."

"Alessandro would believe anything if you flash enough cash," Johnny counters, but there's no heat in it. "The gala's different. There'll be people who've known me for years."

"Then you'll just have to coach me," Peter says, surprised by his own confidence. "And I'll coach you on how to be a socially awkward scientist."

"Please," Johnny scoffs. "I've been nailing your awkward vibe all week."

As they approach Johnny's building, Peter notices a figure lurking near the entrance—a tall, slender woman with striking red hair. His stomach drops in recognition.

"MJ," he mutters under his breath.

Johnny follows his gaze, his borrowed body tensing. "Crap. I forgot she was back in town."

Mary Jane Watson straightens as she spots them, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the sight of them walking together. Peter feels Johnny's powers responding to his sudden anxiety, his skin warming beneath his clothes.

"Peter," she calls, her voice carrying across the sidewalk. "I've been trying to reach you all day."

Johnny glances at Peter, a question in his eyes. Peter gives a slight nod—go ahead, play the part.

"MJ," Johnny says, adopting Peter's slightly awkward posture as he approaches her. "Sorry, I've been... busy."

Mary Jane's gaze flicks between them, lingering on Peter in Johnny's body. "Johnny," she acknowledges with a slight nod. "I didn't realize you two were... friends."

"It's recent," Johnny replies smoothly.

"Very recent," Peter adds, trying to channel Johnny's easy confidence. "What brings you by?"

"I needed to talk to Peter about something," she says, her focus returning to Johnny. "Privately, if that's okay."

Peter feels a strange twist in his gut—jealousy? Protectiveness? He can't quite identify the emotion, but it makes Johnny's powers flicker beneath his skin.

Johnny hesitates, looking to Peter for guidance. They haven't prepared for this scenario—how to handle Peter's ex-girlfriend showing up unannounced.

"Whatever you need to say to me, you can say in front of Johnny," Johnny says, the irony of the statement not lost on Peter. "We're, uh, close."

Mary Jane's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. "How close?"

Johnny reaches out and takes Peter's hand—Johnny's hand—in his own, intertwining their fingers with a natural ease that sends a jolt up Peter's arm.

"Very," Johnny says simply.

Mary Jane's expression cycles through surprise, confusion, and finally settles on something like understanding. "I see. That's... new."

"Yeah, well," Johnny shrugs with Peter's shoulders, "things change."

"Clearly." Mary Jane's gaze returns to Peter, studying Johnny's face with an intensity that makes him want to squirm. "I just wanted to let you know I'm staying in town for a while. Thought we could catch up, but I can see you're... occupied."

"We could all grab coffee sometime," Peter offers, the words coming out in Johnny's confident tone before he can stop himself. Both Johnny and Mary Jane look at him in surprise.

"That's... very evolved of you, Johnny," Mary Jane says carefully. "But I think I'll pass for now." She turns back to Johnny, her expression softening slightly. "Call me when you have time, Peter. No rush."

With a final curious glance between them, she turns and walks away, her red hair catching the streetlights like flame.

"Well," Johnny says once she's out of earshot, "that was awkward."

"You handled it well," Peter admits, realizing their hands are still intertwined. He doesn't pull away.

"I just did what I thought you'd want," Johnny says, his thumb absently stroking the back of Peter's hand. "Though the real you probably would've stammered more."

"Probably," Peter agrees, finding it difficult to focus with Johnny's thumb tracing circles on his skin. "We should go inside."

Johnny nods, but neither moves immediately. They stand there on the sidewalk, hands linked, the city flowing around them like water around stones.

"This is weird, right?" Johnny finally asks, his voice low. "Not just the body-swap thing, but... this." He squeezes Peter's hand gently.

"Definitely weird," Peter agrees. "But maybe good weird?"

Johnny's borrowed face—Peter's face—breaks into a smile that looks foreign and familiar all at once. "Yeah. Good weird."

They finally move toward the building, still holding hands. Peter knows they should be more concerned about Reed's revelation, about the ticking clock on their situation, about the countless complications that tomorrow will bring. But for now, just for this moment, he lets himself enjoy the simple warmth of Johnny's hand in his, even if it's technically his own hand.

As they enter the elevator, Johnny leans against the wall, studying Peter with curious eyes. "So, about this gala tomorrow..."

"What about it?" Peter asks, suddenly nervous again.

"If we're doing this—" Johnny gestures between them, "—then we should probably make sure our story is straight. Or, well, not straight, obviously."

Despite everything, Peter laughs. The sound echoes in the elevator, Johnny's rich laugh from Peter's throat. "Obviously."

"People will ask questions," Johnny continues as the elevator ascends. "About us. How we met, when we started dating, all that stuff."

"We already know how we met," Peter points out. "That part's easy. The rest... I guess we just keep it vague? Say it's new and we're still figuring things out?"

"That has the benefit of being true," Johnny says with a crooked smile that looks strange on Peter's usually earnest face.

The elevator dings, and they step into the penthouse. Peter's still hyperaware of Johnny's hand in his—of his own hand, technically—and the strange intimacy of it all.

Johnny doesn't let go even as they move into the living room. Instead, he turns to face Peter, their fingers still intertwined. "There's something else we should probably discuss," he says, his expression suddenly serious on Peter's face.

"What's that?" Peter asks, his throat unexpectedly dry.

"If we're going to pull this off—the whole dating thing—we need to be convincing." Johnny steps closer, the space between them shrinking. "People will expect certain... behaviors."

Peter's heart rate spikes, Johnny's natural warmth intensifying with his emotions. "Behaviors?"

"Yeah," Johnny says softly. "Like how we act around each other. How comfortable we are. How we... touch."

The last word hangs in the air between them, loaded with implication. Peter swallows hard. "I guess that makes sense."

"We should practice," Johnny says, his voice dropping lower. "So it looks natural tomorrow."

"Practice," Peter repeats, the word feeling strange on his tongue. "You mean like...?"

Johnny steps even closer, close enough that Peter can smell his own shampoo on his hair. "Like this."

Before Peter can respond, Johnny leans forward and presses his lips—Peter's lips—against Peter's—Johnny's. The contact is electric, sending a jolt through Peter's system that has nothing to do with Johnny's powers.

It's strange—so strange—to feel his own mouth against his, to taste himself from the outside. Johnny's lips move with confidence that Peter never shows, guiding him into a kiss that deepens by degrees. Peter's eyes flutter closed, his hands coming up to cup his own face—Johnny's face now—fingers tracing features that should be familiar but somehow aren't.

Johnny makes a small sound in the back of his throat—Peter's throat—and steps closer, eliminating the last space between them. His hands slide up Johnny's back, pulling their bodies flush against each other. Peter feels dizzy with the dual sensation of holding himself while being held by Johnny, the boundaries between them blurring in ways that have nothing to do with Reed's warnings about consciousness merging.

When they finally break apart, Peter's breathing hard, Johnny's naturally elevated body temperature now running several degrees hotter than usual. The air around them shimmers slightly with heat.

"That was..." Peter starts, then stops, unable to find the words.

"Yeah," Johnny agrees, his eyes—Peter's eyes—darker than Peter's ever seen them. "Weird?"

"Definitely weird," Peter nods, but doesn't step away. Instead, he finds himself studying his own face with new fascination—the flush across his cheekbones, the slight swelling of his lips, the way his pupils have dilated. Is that what he looks like when he's turned on? He's never seen himself from this angle before, never witnessed his own desire reflected back at him.

"Good weird or bad weird?" Johnny asks, his hands still resting on Peter's waist.

"I'm not sure," Peter admits. "But I think I need more data to decide."

Johnny's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a smile spreading across his borrowed face. "Did you just make a science joke as a way to ask me to kiss you again?"

"Maybe," Peter says, feeling a strange confidence in Johnny's skin. "Is it working?"

In answer, Johnny pulls him back in, this time with more urgency. Their mouths meet with greater certainty, Johnny's tongue—Peter's tongue—sliding against Peter's lower lip. Peter opens to him without hesitation, deepening the kiss with a hunger that surprises him.

There's something addictive about this—about exploring himself through Johnny's eyes, through Johnny's touch. Peter runs his hands through his own hair, feeling the texture from an outside perspective. It's softer than he realized, curling slightly around his fingers.

Johnny makes another sound, something between a groan and a sigh, and the vibration travels through Peter like electricity. His hands move lower, gripping Johnny's hips—his own hips—pulling them tighter against him. He knows he likes it when he’s normally in his own body, and Johnny responds to it promisingly. The friction sends sparks cascading through his system, Johnny's powers responding to his arousal with literal heat.

"Careful," Johnny murmurs against his mouth. "You're going to set off the sprinklers."

Peter forces himself to take a deep breath, focusing on controlling the temperature the way Johnny taught him. "Sorry," he whispers. "It's hard to focus when you're doing that."

Johnny grins—Peter's face lighting up with an expression of pure mischief. "Doing what? This?" He slides his hands under Peter's shirt, tracing patterns against bare skin.

Peter's control slips again, the air around them wavering with heat. "Yeah, that."

"We should probably move this somewhere less flammable," Johnny suggests, his eyes never leaving Peter's face.

"Johnny, I don't think—"

"Just more practicing," Johnny clarifies quickly. "For tomorrow. That's all I meant."

Peter knows it's a flimsy excuse. They don't need to "practice" kissing to pretend to date at a charity gala. But he finds himself nodding anyway, allowing Johnny to lead him toward the bedroom.

Once there, they stand beside the bed, suddenly hesitant. The pretense feels thin in the face of what they're actually doing—what they both want to do. Peter studies his own face.

"Okay," Peter says softly, reaching for Johnny again. "More practice."

Peter loses himself in the sensation, in the strange duality of kissing his own body while feeling Johnny's presence behind those familiar eyes. His hands wander more boldly now, tracing the contours of his own shoulders, his chest, the lean muscles of his back—all features he knows by touch but has never experienced from this perspective.

Johnny responds in kind, his fingers mapping the territory of Johnny's body with a curiosity that borders on reverence.

They fall back onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs, mouths seeking and finding each other in the dim light. Peter loses track of whose body is whose, everything blurring until all that matters is the heat building between them, the shared breath, the growing urgency of their movements.

A small voice in the back of Peter's mind whispers that this is dangerous territory—that they're complicating an already impossible situation, that they have just days before permanent changes might begin—but as Johnny's hands slide lower, as their bodies press closer, that voice grows fainter and fainter, drowned out by the roaring of blood in his ears and the unmistakable certainty that whatever this is, it feels right.

For once in his life, Peter Parker isn't overthinking. He's just being. In Johnny Storm's body, that feels like the most natural thing in the world.