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friendly neighborhood spiderman

The Gravity of Six Suns

The sedative’s embrace was heavy, like a thick velvet blanket draped over Jungkook’s hyperactive mind. For the first time in years, the "radio" in his head—the one that usually played three different songs at once while simultaneously debating the structural integrity of skyscrapers and reminding him that he hadn’t eaten a vegetable in forty-eight hours—was silent. It was a terrifying, beautiful quiet.

When he finally drifted back toward consciousness, the silence remained, but it was external now. The room was dim, lit only by the soft, rhythmic hum of medical equipment and the warm glow of a lamp in the corner. He didn't move. He couldn't. His body felt like it was made of lead, and his skin felt hypersensitive, every fiber of the soft cotton sheets beneath him prickling against his nerves.

"I know you’re awake, Jungkook-ah. Your heart rate spiked the second your eyes moved under your lids."

The voice was low and smooth, like honey poured over gravel. Yoongi.

Jungkook let out a long, shaky breath and opened his eyes. He wasn't in the corner anymore. He was back in the elevated medical bed, but the IV was gone, replaced by a thick pressure bandage around his forearm. Yoongi was sitting in a chair pulled right up to the bedside, a book resting closed on his lap.

"Where..." Jungkook’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, the defiance flaring up in his chest like an old friend. "Where are the others? Did they go back to their secret lair to polish their trophies?"

Yoongi didn't take the bait. He didn't even look annoyed. He just leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Jin-hyung is in the kitchen making broth. Namjoon is on a call with the city council, probably lying through his teeth about why a warehouse in the industrial district looks like it was hit by a localized hurricane. The others are resting nearby. You’ve been out for six hours."

Jungkook tried to sit up, but a sharp, biting pain in his side made him hiss and slump back down.

"Don't be an idiot," Yoongi said, his voice blunt but not unkind. "You have twelve stitches in your side and a mild concussion. If you rip those open, Jin-hyung will bring the needles back out, and I don't think any of us want a repeat of your performance earlier."

Jungkook flinched at the mention of the needles. The memory of his meltdown was hazy, a blur of jagged panic and the suffocating feeling of being trapped, but he remembered the shame. He remembered screaming. He remembered hitting Namjoon.

"I don't... I don't like them," Jungkook muttered, looking away at the far wall. "Needles. They feel like... like they’re invading. I can't explain it."

"You don't have to," Yoongi replied. He reached out, his hand hovering over Jungkook’s for a second before he gently tapped the back of the younger boy’s hand. "We have a file on you, kid. Not the Spider-Man stuff—well, we have that too—but we’ve watched you. We knew you were struggling with sensory processing. We just didn't realize how much of a trigger medical intervention was for you. We’ll be more careful next time."

"There won't be a next time," Jungkook snapped, his eyes flashing. "Because I’m leaving. As soon as I can walk, I’m out of here. I don't do teams. I don't do 'safehouses.' And I definitely don't do whatever this weird, domestic, bedside-vigil thing you guys have going on is."

"Eat first. Then you can talk about running away."

Seokjin stepped into the room, carrying a tray that smelled heavenly—garlic, ginger, and rich beef broth. He looked different without the tactical gear. He was wearing a soft pink sweater that made his shoulders look even wider, and his expression was stern, the kind of look a doctor gives a particularly difficult patient.

"I’m not hungry," Jungkook lied. His stomach betrayed him immediately with a loud, cavernous growl.

Seokjin let out a short, amused huff. "Your stomach disagrees. Sit up, slowly. Yoongi, help him with the pillows."

Jungkook wanted to protest, to slap their hands away and tell them he could do it himself, but as Yoongi slid an arm behind his back to steady him, Jungkook found his strength failing. He was so tired. The ADHD made his brain feel like a burnt-out lightbulb—flickering, hot, and empty. He let them prop him up, his face burning with a mix of anger and unwanted comfort.

"Why are you doing this?" Jungkook asked as Seokjin placed the tray over his lap. "You’ve spent months trying to 'coordinate' with me, which we all know is just hero-code for 'get in my way.' I’ve been nothing but a brat to you. I’ve insulted your outfits, I’ve messed up your perimeters, and I literally tried to bite Namjoon’s ear off four hours ago."

Seokjin picked up a spoon and stirred the broth. "Because you’re one of us, whether you like it or not. You’re protecting this city with everything you have, and you’re doing it entirely alone. That’s not sustainable, Jungkook. Especially not with the way your brain works."

"You don't know how my brain works," Jungkook whispered, his fingers twitching against the blanket.

"Don't we?"

The door opened wider, and the rest of them filed in. It was like the room suddenly became too small, filled with too much presence, too much *care*. Namjoon stayed by the door, his arms crossed, watching Jungkook with that terrifyingly patient gaze. Hoseok and Jimin sat on the edge of the second medical bed, while Taehyung wandered over to the window, staring out at the rain.

"We see the way you fight, Jungkook," Namjoon said softly. "The impulsivity. The way you lose track of the main objective because you’re busy mocking a henchman’s shoelaces. The way you overstimulate and then disappear for three days. You’re brilliant, but you’re vibrating at a frequency that’s going to break you if you don't have someone to ground you."

"I don't need grounding!" Jungkook’s voice rose, his hands starting to shake. "I like the freedom! I like being fast! When I’m swinging, I don't have to think about... about the lists I didn't finish or the clothes I forgot to wash or the way people look at me like I’m a freak because I can't sit still for five minutes!"

He was rambling now, the words spilling out of him like a dam breaking.

"You guys are so... so *composed*. You’re perfect. You stand there in your cool suits and you make plans and you follow them. I can't follow a plan! I am the plan! And the plan is usually just 'don't die today'! So just let me go back to my shitty apartment and my shitty life and leave me alone!"

He reached for the tray, intending to push it away, but his coordination was off. The bowl tipped, and hot broth splashed over his hands.

The physical sensation was the final straw. It was too much—the heat, the pain in his side, the eyes watching him, the silence of the room. Jungkook let out a choked sound, half-sob and half-growl, and began to claw at his own skin, trying to rub the liquid off.

"Too hot, too much, get it off, get it off—"

"Jungkook, stop."

It was Namjoon. He was there in an instant, his large hands catching Jungkook’s wrists.

"Let go! Get off me!" Jungkook struggled, his body arching. He wasn't Spider-Man right now; he was just a kid who was drowning in his own senses. He swung a fist, catching Namjoon squarely in the jaw.

Namjoon’s head snapped to the side, but his grip didn't loosen. He didn't hit back. He didn't even look angry. He just moved closer, using his weight to gently pin Jungkook against the pillows.

"It’s okay," Namjoon murmured. "Hit me if you have to. Just don't hurt yourself."

Jungkook did hit him. He hit his shoulders, his chest, sobbing with a frustration that had been building for years. He hated them for being so patient. He hated them for seeing him like this—vulnerable, messy, and broken.

"I hate you! I hate you so much!" Jungkook wailed, his blows getting weaker as the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a crushing wave of exhaustion.

Eventually, his hands dropped, his fingers curling into the fabric of Namjoon’s shirt. He slumped against the older man’s chest, his breath coming in ragged, wet hitches.

"There you are," Namjoon whispered, his arms finally wrapping fully around Jungkook, pulling him into a firm, grounding hug. "You’re okay. We’ve got the noise under control. Just breathe with me."

Jungkook tried to resist the comfort, he really did. He tried to keep his body stiff, but the warmth of the other men as they crowded closer was undeniable. Jimin reached out, rubbing a soothing circle into Jungkook’s lower leg. Taehyung sat on the edge of the bed and began to hum a low, wordless melody that seemed to vibrate right through Jungkook’s bones, slowing his racing heart.

"You’re such a brat," Seokjin said, though he was busy using a cool, damp cloth to carefully wipe the broth off Jungkook’s hands. "Fighting us even when you can barely stand. It’s exhausting."

"Then leave," Jungkook whispered into Namjoon’s chest, though his grip on the shirt tightened.

"No," Hoseok said, his voice bright and steady. "We like a challenge. And we like you, Jungkook. Even when you’re being a menace."

They stayed like that for a long time. The "cooldown," as the Vanguards apparently called it, was a slow process. They didn't push him for answers. They didn't ask him to join the team again. They just provided a physical perimeter of safety that Jungkook’s brain couldn't argue with.

As the minutes passed, the tension finally bled out of Jungkook’s muscles. The sensory overload receded, leaving him feeling raw but quiet. He pulled back slightly, his eyes red and puffy, looking at the six men surrounding him.

"You saw my face," Jungkook said, the reality of his secret identity finally sinking in. "You know where I live. You probably know my middle name and my blood type."

"Jeon Jungkook, born September 1st, no known living relatives in the city, three outstanding library fines, and a suspicious amount of banana milk in your fridge," Yoongi recited with a small, crooked smirk.

Jungkook groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "I’m going to have to move to another country. Maybe I can be Spider-Man in Australia. Do they have tall buildings in Australia?"

"They have very large spiders," Taehyung offered helpfully. "You’d blend right in."

"You’re staying here for at least forty-eight hours," Seokjin said, his 'doctor voice' returning. "I’ve already cleared a room for you. It’s soundproofed, has weighted blankets, and I’ve stocked the fridge with—yes, Jungkook—banana milk."

Jungkook looked up, suspicious. "Why? What’s the catch? Do I have to sign a contract? Do I have to wear a cape? I’m not wearing a cape. They’re a safety hazard."

Namjoon smiled, and for the first time, Jungkook didn't find it annoying. It was just... nice.

"No catch," Namjoon said. "We just want to make sure you don't fall apart. You’ve been holding everything together by a thread, Jungkook. Let us be the ones to hold the thread for a while."

Jungkook looked at each of them. He saw the genuine concern in Jimin’s eyes, the quiet strength in Yoongi, the warmth in Hoseok, the playfulness in Taehyung, the protective edge in Seokjin, and the steady leadership in Namjoon.

He still wanted to argue. He still wanted to be defiant and stubborn and push them away because being alone was easier than being known. But as he looked at the bandage on his arm and felt the lingering warmth of Namjoon’s hug, he realized he didn't have the energy to fight them anymore.

"I’m still not joining the boy band," Jungkook muttered, though he finally reached out and took the spoon Seokjin was holding.

"We’ll see," Jimin chirped, reaching over to ruffle Jungkook’s hair.

"Hey! Watch the hair! It’s part of the brand!"

The room erupted into soft laughter, and for the first time in his life, the noise in Jungkook’s head didn't feel like a storm. It felt like a symphony. He took a sip of the broth, the warmth spreading through his chest, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to think that maybe, just maybe, being caught wasn't the worst thing that could happen to a spider.

But he’d still definitely insult their outfits tomorrow. Some things were sacred.