The rain was coming down in torrents. The stench of garbage, sweat and blood hit your nostrils as everything dampened. Saltiness met your lips as you tasted the tears and blood from the gash above your brow they had left you with. Your breath was coming too fast; ragged, stuttering, and wheezy; the burning smell of gunpowder finally matching your inhale. Your chest ached. Your head was pounding in time with your racing heart.
You were cold.
Surely he was dead.
The sound of the gun should've been loud enough to wake anyone. In fact, you could hear people calling out from their windows; a shadow looked down from the fire escape above; sound making its way to your ears, but your brain wasn't ready, wasn't able to process it with the sight of the bodies in front of you. The broken figure in blue and red, his brown locks peeking out from the places his mask had split open. His skin was alarmingly pale, shocking against the colors of the suit. You had never seen him this still.
You couldn't remember when you had fallen to your knees only that they were screaming at you; aching. Everything ached.
"Peter?" That couldn't be your voice; it was too soft, too weak. Red rivulets ran towards you, streaming from him, dancing and swirling, following the path of the water pooling around your limbs.
"Peter, please." You had never begged. Not even when they had you shoved against the wall. Not when they held you down, held a knife to your throat, a gun to your skull; the gravel and broken glass burrowing into your back and shoulders as your shirt was torn from you.
"I need you to get up now, Peter." The shrill sound of police sirens echoed through the alley. It was enough to make you move, to go to him. Carefully, the mask slid over his features, allowing you to take him in fully. His lip had been split and both eyes were blackened. He had blood in his hair.
There was more blood on your hands and under your fingernails; his face, a shock of white, you were afraid to touch him, to mar anymore of his flesh with red. Gently, cautiously, your fingertips found his cheek, "Peter."
His dark eyelashes fluttered and then opened. You couldn't stop the ugly sob that came from your throat as he came to, or the tears that poured from you as he lifted himself from the ground to pull your body to his; his entire form shaking with the effort. His fingers found your cheeks, your nose, lips, jaw, neck, shoulders, and back up, making a circuitous route, cataloging, assessing the damage; what he could see.
Then he saw.
"Oh," his eyes were on your torso, taking in the state of your body, "oh." He retracted his fingers from you at lightning speed, his features changing to one of outrage just as swiftly. He stood on shaky legs, grabbing what was left of his mask and slipping it on. The sound of sirens echoed loudly in the narrow space, over powering the sound of your pounding heart.
He held out a hand, "Come on then," that couldn't have been his voice, it was far too soft, too full of doubt, "before they get here." His eyes avoiding yours, avoiding the bodies on the ground around you. A few were starting to move again. All but one, the one that had held the knife to his chest.
Your fingertips met, and tentatively, he pulled you close, tucking the front of you into his chest before lifting you up into the air and into the direction of his apartment.
Working at a café definitely had its perks. For one, it smelt wonderful. The deep, warm, nutty aroma of a good cup of coffee good enough to keep anyone coming back for more. The atmosphere in the particular café you had been employed in for months was fun. It was hip, artsy, and always full of interesting characters. Working behind the counter, mindlessly mixing beverages gave you plenty of opportunity to observe all of New York's strange inhabitants.
It also allowed you to exchange words with a certain dork you hadn't had the courage to speak to while you had been in high school. Or middle school. Or anywhere else, really.
"Good morning, Peter," you didn't need coffee to perk you up in the mornings. He was a regular. You could always count on your 8 o'clock pick me up. He had his blue sweater on today, "Have I told you that I like that color on you?"
"Thanks," his answering grin crinkling his eyes, "and yes, only every time I wear it." As he bellied up to the counter you started working on his drink.
"How are your classes going?" His eyes followed your hands as they poured milk into the cup and then set to work frothing.
"Really well, Peter, thanks for asking." He raised his brow at that, as if he didn't quite believe you. One eyebrow of his sat a little differently than the other, like he had been cut there once and the hairs had never grown back the same way after. You wanted to be allowed close enough to his face to check for a scar yourself.
"I remember last time you mentioned you were having some trouble in chemistry." The wallet he pulled from his messenger bag was well worn, well loved. Had it belonged to someone else before? He had lost an Uncle a while back when you were younger. You remembered it being featured on some of the news outlets. You remember how quiet he had become for a long time after it happened, before he had met his friend Ned. "Did you find some help?"
You handed the warm drink over to him, your fingertips brushing in the exchange. You grinned sheepishly at him, "Ok, so I'm not doing really well in everything." He passed the money over the counter.
He seemed to hesitate for a second, pinching his funny brows together, before lifting the corner of his mouth in a half grin and saying, "Well, I could help you out," back pedaling a little before speaking again, "you know, if you'd want me to."
Your beaming smile must have been answer enough, as he chuckled and dug in his bag again for a notebook and a pen. He scribbled out his phone number on a blank sheet, tearing it out of the book before giving it to you.
He stepped from the counter as you looked down at the number, his neat, even hand writing running parallel to the even lines of the paper. You had forgotten to say anything in the seconds that had passed as he stood there watching you with an amused look on his face, a red tinge taking over the tips of his ears and cheeks at your obvious excitement at having made it to this step with him, and the prospect of seeing him outside of this café.
"Ok, well I have to get to class myself. I'll - I'll, um, talk to you later?" He drew his last words out into a question as if he still wasn't convinced that you were currently on cloud nine.
You came back to life in time to quickly blurt out a "Yes! Thank you, Peter!" as his hand reached the door. You watched him walk away with a grin on his face; your stomach full of giddy warmth.
An elderly woman at the counter cleared her throat, smiling at you with a knowing twinkle in her eye. "He's cute. Having a good morning so far, sweetie?" You laughed as a blush took over your features.
"He's good." You set to work on the next set of orders.
