Eats Mostly Flies

Once Peter gave his consent, Gwen moved on to the cuts on his opposite leg, leaning over the leg she had just been working on. She would have felt silly getting up just to walk around him, she had decided. Propping her head on his knee, she poured more peroxide onto a long gauze strip and carefully dabbed it onto the cuts. Gwen waited patiently for any bits of debris to fall out of the cut and flicked them away.

He shook his head to snap himself out of it.  Bad Peter.  He glanced down at Gwen to see if she'd noticed the spasm, but she was still focusing on a long graze down the side of his thigh.  Her hair covered most of her face, but he could just about make out the line that her cheekbone made past the tip of her nose down towards her round lips, which were a pale pink in the cold night air.  The tips of her teeth shone in the half light as she bit her lip in concentration.  As Peter watched, her mouth relaxed to allow her small tongue to slide slowly along her upper lip, leaving a thin trail of moisture in its wake.  The tip was still stained purple from the wine.  Peter was transfixed.

He didn't even notice when, apparently satisfied with the state of his legs, Gwen dropped her gauze and peroxide to the roof.  He was too busy staring at the way that she'd tucked her hair behind her ear, allowing a few stray strands to spring loose and curl around the milky disk of her earlobe.  Peter didn't realize that anything had changed until she shifted on the roof and raised her head, bringing the full weight of her gaze down upon his own prying eyes.  Her lips were parted in trepidation, and her wide eyes caught the rays of the streetlamp behind him, and her irises blossomed into twin whirlpools of ice and sulfur.   Peter was lost to them.  All thoughts and protestations dropped from his mind -- what boy could resist a face like that on a girl so lovely?

Peter leaned forwards, dropping his head to hers and angling his mouth towards hers.  A cut in his leg strained as he moved, though, and a shot of pain arced through his back and sent him lurching forwards into her.  His head landed between her shoulder and her breast, and his senses were immediately ablaze with her proximity.  He could feel the heat that emanated from her chest, and his nose was flooded with the heady cocktail of her scent: hot skin and cold sweat, the chemical smoothness of her deodorant and the fruited hints of shampoo and old perfume.  The pounding of her heart filled his ears and mingled off-tempo with the rhythm of his own beating vessel.  He lingered against her for a moment, savoring the way the fabric of her top rubbed gently against his cheek as she shifted beneath it.  Then his embarrassment caught up with his libido, and he lurched away from her in automatic response.

Gwen caught Peter's gaze as he leaned back, and he her shot a nervous grin in return.  Awkward, Peter sat still for a moment, trying to guess what she was thinking.  He wondered if he had blown his moment.  But her gleaming eyes were still fixed on his with that same wide, questioning look, and there was more concern in them than laughter.  A man could fall in love with eyes like that.  

Peter picked up some gravel from the corner of the roof and flung it as far as he could.  He watched the speck disappear into the sky, listened for the slight clatter as it bounced off of a roof a block away.  All this power, and he was still just some confused, selfish kid.  He thought that he might leave before she got back, act like this had never happened, hope that she’d play along.  But no —- it did seem like she genuinely wanted to help, and disappearing now would only hurt her more.  Friends don’t turn down friends’ help like that.  Friends.  Just friends.

Jesus.

The fresh air made her think more clearly. She sat down next to Peter and moved the bottle of wine closer to him. She wasn’t sure if alcohol would actually make anything hurt less, but it worked in movies so she might as well try.

“So… uh. I guess I’ll say: ‘we have to stop meeting like this’,” she smiled awkwardly while making minimal eye contact.

Gwen uncapped the peroxide and tore off a small piece of gauze. After getting what she felt was a good amount of peroxide on the gauze, she held it over the largest of Peter’s gashes- of which there were quite a few, she realized with an odd amount of guilt.

“This is gonna sting.”

She looked him in the eyes this time, as she rubbed the gauze lightly over the open and quickly reddening wound, hoping it would offer some sort of comfort. After all of his cuts had been cleaned, she waited a few minutes for all of the gravel to bubble out.

Peter was suddenly acutely aware of how tight his costume was around his lower extremities.  He shifted uncomfortably where he sat.  Why did he have to pick the spandex onesie?  He regretted the decision now, wondered why he hadn't thought to include a utility belt, some conveniently placed pouches, or adamantium briefs.  He tried not to think about the gentle pressure Gwen was applying to his legs, about how close she was to him, how warm she would be in contrast to the cool night air...

Her question took Peter by surprise.  His revery broken, it took him a moment to realize what she was saying.  It took him another, more sobering second to understand that she was probably only talking about his injuries.

Gwen was very still during Peter’s speech. She hadn’t expected him to reveal so much at once, Peter had always been much more reserved. Maybe a bit more tongue-tied around her.

Instead of focusing on the heart and throat constricting feeling that overtook her when Peter mentioned her father, she focused on looking at Peter. His costume— or whatever he wanted to call it— seemed dirtier than normal and she wondered how he even got it clean. Then she noticed the blood still seeping from the long cut on his leg. And a pretty good opportunity to cut this conversation off.

“Your leg!” Gwen exclaimed,

Getting out of the chair and almost tipping it over, she knelt in front of Peter to get a closer look at the cut. It wasn’t too deep but it should still be cleaned and covered.

Peter picked up some gravel from the corner of the roof and flung it as far as he could.  He watched the speck disappear into the sky, listened for the slight clatter as it bounced off of a roof a block away.  All this power, and he was still just some confused, selfish kid.  He thought that he might leave before she got back, act like this had never happened, hope that she'd play along.  But no --- it did seem like she genuinely wanted to help, and disappearing now would only hurt her more.  Friends don't turn down friends' help like that.  Friends.  Just friends.

Jesus.

Gwen tensed when she felt Peter leaning over her. She was surprised he was actually getting so close to her. Was he just trying to confuse her now? She twisted in the flimsy lawn chair to glare at Peter as he drank some of her wine. The face he pulled made her snort softly. “So the big hero isn’t much of a big drinker?” she couldn’t stop herself from teasing.

"Oh.  Well, I guess you deserve that as much as anyone," was all he could think to say.

Peter sat down on the cool roof next to Gwen.  His head hang low over his chest, for he could not bring himself to look back at that so hurt girl that sat above him.  He fidgeted for a moment, playing with the scraps of gravel that were scattered around him.  Then suddenly it hit him, a wave of guilt and sickness and loneliness and love, and before he realized it the words were out of his mouth, and he had no choice but to keep going...

"I'm sorry, Gwen.  I shouldn't have come here tonight.  I didn't mean to invade, but I wanted to see you and tell you that I didn't mean to... that I don't...  You know.  I don't mean to shut you out.  I don't want to hurt you."

Peter paused, waited for Gwen to say something, to tell him that he was full of shit and kick him off of her roof. But she didn't say anything.  He could barely even hear her breathing -- was she holding her breath?  Peter didn't know what else to do but keep on babbling to the floor.

"And I'm sorry about your dad," he burst out, "And I'm sorry about you.  About how I've been treating you.  But I can't control what's happened to me, and I can't walk away from it, and I can't risk that what happened to... I can't risk anyone else getting hurt.  I try, I swear I try, but I'm not strong enough, Gwen.  I'm just not strong enough.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for everything.  Jesus.  Gwen, I'm sorry about..."  He looked up at her pale, round face, her straw hair bleached white gold in the summer moonlight, and he prayed that the tears weren't too obvious in his eyes.  

The all-too-familiar voice coming from behind her made Gwen drop the bottle of wine. None of the red liquid sloshed out to stain the fabric lawnchair miraculously. Not that Gwen noticed. She was too busy trying to figure out if Peter was a figment of her inebriation or actually sticking to the wall behind her. The first option made her brain completely pathetic, and the second made her confused. Peter didn’t want to see her for her. Because apparently he knew what was best for her.

"Nice one.  Maybe don't submit your audition to UCB just yet?"  He needled her without thinking, and kicked himself for it immediately.  Why did he always have to be such a smart-ass?

Peter dropped off of the wall and padded over to stand behind Gwen.    Leaning over her, he plucked the bottle from her loose grip, swung it up to his eye level, and, affecting a critical pose, examined the label.  Californian.  Nice.  He took a deep swig and recoiled, contorting his face into a puckered mask of disgust.  He gave a cartoonish shrug.  As he lowered the bottle, though, his pose softened.  His routine over, his whole aspect relaxed and opened.

eatsmostlyflies started following you

Gwen was so frustrated with Peter. After their short exchange online, it was clear to her that the boy didn’t care for her anymore. At least not in the way she wanted right now. So that was pretty much the end of that relationship, as far as she was concerned. She didn’t need the extra frustration. Or the pain that she could welling up inside as she made the decision to leave Peter behind as well.

Later on, Peter wouldn't be able to explain exactly why he did it.  Snide jokes aside, perhaps his Spider-Sense did extend to letting him know when people needed to see him.  Perhaps he was just feeling curious, more the Amazing Cat-Man than spider.  Or perhaps he just couldn't take that leaden feeling in his gut anymore,  the one that said that his brain was wrong, that it wasn't too dangerous, that maybe they could still make things work.

Whatever the reason, something compelled Peter to pass by Gwen Stacy's house on his way back home through Queens.  He knew that it was a stupid idea, and told himself that there was no point staring at an darkened house and feeling sorry for himself and that he'd be better off going straight home and tending to his bloodied thigh.  It was the smart thing to do, and the argument was convincing.  So convincing that he was still telling himself it as he snuck up behind the Stacy household, one of these low two-story brick buildings that are native to suburban Queens.  Peter stuck to the shadows that hugged the fence - with nuts like J Jonah Jameson on his case, it probably wouldn't do Spider-Man any good to be caught skulking outside the bedrooms of teenaged girls.  Especially not those of the daughter's of recently deceased hero cops...

A noise sounded out from the roof above him, the unmistakable clunk of heavy glass disturbed.  The sound was quiet, a slight disturbance snatched away instantly by the hot summer breeze, but it sounded like a gunshot to Peter's already on edge ears.  He stopped dead.  What could someone be doing on the roof of the Stacy house?  Now Peter was really on edge.  It was the work of seconds for him to jump the fence, dart to the wall in a half-crouch, and scale the brickwork.  He paused for a moment as he reached the roof, pressing his body tight against the gutter to minimize his silhouette.  He waited, but could feel no signs of danger.  There was no sound of breaking glass, no click of a latch forced, no shallow breathing of a burglar belabored by the stress of his occupation.  Even Peter's Spider-Sense remained utterly still.  He decided to take his chances and peeked over the edge of the roof.  Nothing.  Just an empty plain of tiles, sloped to a point about forty degrees above him.  Peter silently swung himself up onto the roof.

Whatever the source, Peter reasoned, the sound must have come from the flat area on the other side of the roof, where the large roof window provided direct access to and from the upper story of the house.  The one that opened into the corridor, right next to Gwen's room.  Peter shuddered.  If anyone had got inside, got into her room, and if it was because of him---  He shook his head, tried to send the thoughts that were begin to seize him back to the dark recesses at the back of his mind.  This is stupid, he told himself.  I'm basically stalking a girl I just told that I couldn't see her, and all because of some dumb noise I probably imagined-- There was a rustle from just beyond the line of the roof.  It was the unmistakable sound of a page turning in a book.

Peter scuttled to the top of the roof and looked down.  There she was, her blonde hair tumbling down her back like waves of cold silver in the blue night, reclining in a cheap plastic lawn chair by the window.  A large paperback book rested on her knee, and every thirty seconds or so she would turn a page in a slow, luxurious gesture.  Then she would rest her hand on the side of the book to keep the pages from turning in the breeze, while in the other hand she clasped--  is that a bottle of wine?

Sooo you’ve been doing all of those things when I try to say hi to you in the hall? 

Sooo you’ve been doing all of those things when I try to say hi to you in the hall?