The plastic cups burst open and blue and red slush pooled around Peter's feet. He stomped through it, muscles flexing as he clenched his hands into tight fists, teeth gritting against each other as he grabbed the man going through her backpack.
"You get away from her right now!" he shouted, fingers hooking on the man's hoodie.
He heaved upward, sending the man soaring through the air. He smacked against the brick wall and then fell in a heap on top of some dumpsters. The man screamed, clutching his arm.
Oops.
"What the-"
"Peter!" you shouted in terror, making Peter's wide eyes snap to you.
One of the men lunged at him, hands going to the front of his shirt. Peter stumbled back, shocked. It took a second for him to compose himself enough. He reminded himself who he was. He didn't kill and he didn't hurt people. He muttered an apology as he tripped the man and kicked him in the gut, sending him bending over.
He turned back towards you, hearing a gasp leave your lips. The man with the knife was holding you against his chest, the blade just above your collarbone.
He felt a cold rush of blood in his veins as he saw your eyes wide and cheeks flush. He heard your heartbeat pick up speed as terror spiked through your nerves.
Peter faltered for just a moment, the feeling of it all overpowering.
A pair of arms wrapped around his torso and locked his elbows at his sides. He grunted in pain as he felt a fist collide into his stomach.
"Don't move, freak," the man behind him said. "Make a single movement and your girl's head is cut right off her shoulders!"
Peter swallowed. He shook his head slightly, trying to reassure you, but your eyes were wide as the tip of the knife dug deep into the dip of your collarbone. You cried out.
Peter jerked. "Don't-" He clamped his lips shut and tried again. "I don't want to hurt anybody. Just let her go and you can both leave and no one needs to get hurt."
"We can't do that, freak," the man said.
"Okay," Peter said calmly. "Then... I'm sorry." He threw his arms out, probably too roughly, since the man behind him screeched in agony and held his right elbow to his side. "I said sorry! Plus I warned you!" He pushed the guy onto the heap of trash cans and the first man.
The one with the knife against your neck gaped. He looked at Peter, blanched, and pushed you away. You staggered forward and into Peter, who wrapped an arm around you to steady you.
"What kind of drugs are you on?" the man asked. "And who the heck are you?"
Peter pulled up his sleeve, uncovered his web shooter, and flicked his wrist. He shot a web at the man's face and then added him to the pile, too.
"I'm Spider-Man," he said, and he hooked am arm tighter around your waist, aimed the web shooter towards a building twenty feet above you, and you were soaring.
He landed on the top of the building with you and let you go. He grinned triumphantly.
"Um, that was awesome! Wasn't that awesome?" he asked you.
"Uh, sure," you said, "except you probably just gave up your identity to those losers and you left my backpack down there."
Peter's mouth dropped into an 'o' shape. "Okay, right! Your backpack! Hang on - I'll be right back!" He hopped off the side of the building and into the alleyway to retrieve it.
Once he was back, he handed it to you, out of breath and smiling. "So wasn't that awesome?"
"No," you said. Your hands were shaking.
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.