Spider-Man Imagines I

Not That Girl (Part Six) | Peter Parker [TH]

He noticed. "Hey, I had everything under control-"

A shaky sob broke out of your throat, but no tears came with it. "No! And Peter, that wasn't awesome! You could have been killed! And those guys know you're Spider-Man now!"

Peter's smile vanished. "This was no different from what I usually do, except I was sort of caught off guard because you were mixed up in it," he argued.

"Pete, that isn't the point!" you tried.

"Then what is the point?" he asked. "___, you've been making me feel guilty for days now because of what you feel. I try and help you, you act sad. I try and leave you alone, you act sad. So I help you again, and it's worse! And then I save your life - because of trouble you got yourself in - and now you're ticked again! What the heck!"

"I'm not mad at you for any of that, Peter!" you said tiredly. "For goodness sakes, I couldn't be mad at you. Not after-" You choked, gesturing to the alleyway below. "Peter, that was terrifying," you said. "I thought I was going to die or you were going to get hurt. And afterwards you treat it like it's fun for you. That's..."

"It kind of is fun," he said, shrugging. "I-I have this power and I can protect people with it. That's sort of amazing!"

"Well, I don't have that power," you said. "And I can't explain how powerless I felt watching you there." Your eyes welled with tears and your hand went to your chest. You hissed in pain, lifting your hand away to reveal a smear of blood across your fingertips.

Peter's face blanched. "Holy crap!" he said. He walked over to you and grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away.

The cut on your collarbone looked deep enough to need stitches, but maybe Peter was just paranoid. It was bleeding a lot though, and all over your t-shirt.

"Is it that bad?" you asked softly.

"No," he said quickly, but the look of it was making him feel a little weak at the knees. "No, it's not. I'll take you to my place and you can clean up." He wrapped an arm around your waist and grabbed your backpack for you, slinging it over his shoulder. He didn't look at you as he wrapped an arm around your waist. "I-I'm sorry."

"For what?" you asked.

He shook his head. "For everything."

...

You were sitting on the edge of the bathtub in Peter's bathroom. He was rummaging through the bathroom cabinets for any first aid he could find. It was a stiff quiet.

Finally, he found a tube of medicine. He closed the cabinet and grabbed a wash rag, rinsing it in warm water. He walked over to you and knelt, looking at you for permission to clean the cut.

After a short nod from you, he started to dab the cloth around your collarbone, wiping blood that was quickly drying against your skin.

"I forgive you, you know," you said, staring at the array of shampoos and conditioners on the side of the tub. "I know I didn't say it, but I really do."

"You always forgive me," he said, smiling warmly. He cleaned the rest of the cut and pulled the cloth away. "Why do you always forgive me?" He grabbed the tube of medicine and uncapped it. He squeezed some of the medicine onto his pointer finger and waited for you to answer.

When it was clear you wouldn't be saying anything, he looked at you. Your eyes were in the soaps still, and your cheeks were rosy pink. You chewed on your chapped lips nervously.

He sat back and sighed, smile disappearing. "___," he began, the sound of pity right back in his voice.

"Peter," you said, shaking your head. You looked at him and smiled. "Don't. Okay? Let's just be friends."

He searched your eyes. "Okay. Friends." He held out a closed fist and waited for you to knock your knuckles against his. "We're best friends."

You nodded.

Feeling better and relieved, he went back to the task of medicating the cut. He started to rub the medicine along the cut, mentally debating on taking you to the hospital just to be sure you were okay. He pressed on the corner of the cut, looking at the opening of it, wondering if it would easily get infected, if he was doing enough. You hissed.

He pulled his hand back. "Oh, sorry. Was that too hard?" he asked. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm okay," you said, grimacing. "I'm sort of a baby." You laughed softly.

He grinned. "Me too, believe it or not."

"Oh, I believe it."

He snickered and thumped you on the head gently. You laughed, scooting forward on the tub as he stood up, capped the medicine, and washed his hands.

"Come on," he said, "I'll find you a new t-shirt."

On the way out of the bathroom, he took your hand without even thinking twice about it.