He stops at Harold's Pizza after dropping pictures at the Bugle. Even though Gwen likes weird-ass toppings. Marinated artichokes, blech.

Except, he had also stopped for a vandal mugging some chick. Now the suit clings to his skin, adhesive with sweat.

"Woah, you're that spider dude!" the guy behind the counter marvels.

Fuck, he should have taken it off.

"Yeah, even I eat pizza. A large half pepperoni, half artichoke. Thanks."

"Of course dude! And for Spider-Man, it's on the house!"

"Nah, I can-"

The guy calls over his shoulder, "Guys, it's Spider-Man!"

It's going to be a long night.

Calc is a bitch.

The room is blanketed in darkness; a better thinking environment.

Not that it's helping much.

The Red Bull tastes like ass, but she's not focusing without it.

Soft padding on the fire escape. Knows it's either him or a rapist. She hopes it isn't a rapist. She doesn't need that kind of stress. She has to focus.

His fingers drum on her neck. Shit, he's quiet. She glances over her shoulder. "What?"

"Square it first."

"Shit."

"Shit is right. I need out of this suit. "

"Then go change! And stop doing that potty dance."

"So itchy..."

Perfection equals t-shirts and jeans. Why he made his escape by jumping into the Hudson, is beyond his logical thinking.

She's picking those disgusting marinated artichokes off her slice when he comes back, popping them on her tongue.

He wrinkles his nose at her. "Guess who I'm not kissing tonight."

She chucks one at his head. Reflexively, his hands come up to cover his face. She snorts at him, the sound wildly unfeminine, and abrasively unattractive.

Except it's also sort of cute.

Shoots a web toward the discarded artichoke, flinging it at the trash can.

It misses. Pathetically.

More snorting.

Later.

"Go home, Peter. I don't want May to worry about you."

"You're probably right..."

"Am I ever not?"

"Well, when it comes to calc..."

"Asshole." She punches him on the shoulder. A little harder then softly. (Yes, there may have been a part of her that just wanted to touch his arm.)

His eyes shift sideways toward her. Presumably because her fist collided with his bicep a second longer than necessary. He bites the side of his lip. Then tilts his head.

And then they're kissing.

He pulls back. "How the hell could I have forgotten those fucking artichokes?"

He leans his elbows against the railing, letting the cool metal of the fire escape soothe his skin. "You know what I hate?" he murmurs.

"Hmm?"

"You can't see the stars here. Everything is so bright in New York."

"You're so dorky."

"I would call it romantic..."

"Isn't that a sleaze-ball move? Pointing out constellations. Like, 'Look, Orion's Belt. Can I undo your belt?'"

"Well since you asked."

"Bastard."

"Getting defensive only means you want it more."

"Ugh, eww."

"Oh, gee thanks. Not even my girlfriend wants to have sex with me."

"Go home, Pete. Before I slap you."