The giddy feeling in your chest bubbled up through your lungs and into the air, pealing, exuberant laughter filling the air, muffled slightly as you flew past shimmering buildings and rusty fire escapes, light of the stars and street lamps and office buildings reflecting off of the glassy surfaces all around you; wrapped up in Peter's arms the way your laughter wrapped around his heart.
He'd agreed to take you for a spin around the city in style, but only if you agreed to wear a ski-mask, and only if you waited until after dark. It hadn't been a difficult decision. You were bouncing on the balls of your feet, heart pounding, laughter already fluttering in the pit of your abdomen, hair tucked neatly underneath the scratchy fabric of your mask when he'd finally come knocking on your window.
So, really, to say that the abrupt end to your fun had been a disappointment was an understatement. Your laughter had distracted him. Your arms around his neck, and the warmth of your body pressed so closely to his had distracted him.
Both of your bodies had slammed into an ill-placed billboard. The sound of it echoing through the night would have been funny had it not knocked the wind out of you so entirely. Luckily, Peter had taken the brunt of the impact, his body jarring against yours as the whole side of him collided with the smiling face on the ad, your bones clanging against his, your mouth smashing against a pointy chin on the second bounce.
"Oh no, shit, shit, I'm sorry," words spilling from his mouth before your bodies had run out of momentum; your knee knocked into his one more time, "Are you OK?" His voice was high and cracking, worry edging into every syllable. His hand tensed as he worked to lengthen the web he held so that he could lower the two of you to the ground, old sneakers and red boots settling on the roof together.
"I think so," you said, mentally cataloguing every inch of you before running your hands over the lines of his shoulders, fingers running over a solid chest; you could feel his heart pounding beneath your fingers, "what about you?"
He clicked his tongue at that, shaking a masked head, "Of course I'm fine," he said as he reached out to pull the mask off of his head, curls spilling out over a sweaty forehead before doing the same for you. You could feel the strands at the top of your head lifting with it, static pulling at the fine pieces.
His eyes narrowed as he focused in on your mouth, sucking air into his mouth again, "Dammit," he whispered, fingers wiping at the little trail of blood making its way down your chin, "see, man, I'm so sorry. I knew this was a bad idea."
You tried to shoo his hand away from you, lip throbbing, but probably not as bad as it looked, "Peter, I'm fine. Stop."
"You're bleeding."
"So? I'm fine. It's nothing." Then his lips were all over your face, healing kisses smattering your cheeks, nose, and forehead.
"I'm sorry, you're hurt and it's my fa- " You pulled your face away from him, his lips frozen in a pucker, to interrupt him.
"Oh my God, Peter, you're doing the thing again." He gave you his best attempt at a dirty look, childishly sticking his tongue out at you, and you had to laugh at him. Had to laugh at how ridiculous this boy was, with his careful fingers and tender heart. He cared about you, there was no doubting that. There was no questioning the burning in your chest and the fluttering of your heart.
In all honesty, the pulse in your lip was keeping time with the one in your chest, but you would never admit that to him.
"Ok, but are you really, really sure that you're OK?" His brows were furrowed, gentle fingers crawling through your hair like the soft kisses he'd left all over your cheeks, checking for lumps and bumps that weren't there.
You let your amusement paint your lips with a soft smile.
"Peter," you huffed, an airy laugh pushing past a bruised lip, "really, really." He stopped his fussing then, silken tresses falling back into place as his fingers retreated to your face, warm palms embracing ruddy cheeks. Tips of a calloused thumb brushed over the split on your lip; gentleness matching the look in his eyes and contrasting with the little frown weighing at his mouth. You nodded your head at him, eyes pleading with his to let it go.
But then his thumb pushed a little too firmly into your lip as you moved your head and you winced before you could really help yourself and he was groaning, eyebrows furrowing all over again as he released your face and threw his hands into the air.
"See, you're not OK."
"Peter."
