#so he just empties the shredded cheese into his mouth straight from its little corner of the plastic container

[anemicjellyfish]

Blitzø eats pepperoni pizza Lunchables

Moxxie eats turkey/ham cheese & crackers Lunchables

Millie eats the nacho Lunchables

And Loona steals all their Capri Sun pouches

These are my headcanons thank you for your time

[heli0s-writes]

IV. I’m in the mood for love

Summary: Beyond the sass and the crass lies a tender moment Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes A/N: Maybe I wrote myself into a pickle? Idk but I teared up a little at the end. Also this is the most politics I’ll ever put in my work-- let’s keep it civil and chill if we disagree.

Foot in Mouth Syndrome Masterpost

 It’s a miracle that you had worked up the courage to trot downstairs to return the only covering that separated two bare-ass naked men from your eyes. And not to mention yourself, who was only covered in a towel, too.

You make Steve stand so far around the corner of the doorframe that all he can do is stick out his hand. Bucky rustles the shower curtain impatiently and makes a comment on how “non-hyperverbal” you’re being and you’re too nervous to even respond back. When Buckyeye starts looking at you and the swinging white hem at your shins, you shoo him up the stairs before he gets any other bright ideas.

“Didn’t know you were such a prude.” Bucky comments later as you fiddle around in the kitchen, “But I guess it makes sense-- you still have those stuffed animals on your bed.”

You bristle and glare at him, “Just because you didn’t have a childhood doesn’t mean I can’t.”

It’s a little too mean, and you hear the venom that shoots right into him as soon as it leaves your mouth. “Sorry.” You comment. Damn it. He grew up in the fuckin’ Great Depression where everything was dusty and shit.

“Not all of us can travel the world eating caviar at the ripe age of four.” Bucky snarls. Ugh. Why’d he have to do that?

“Oh, fuck you.” You retort the same time Steve sharply calls Bucky’s name to reel him back in. It doesn’t work, as Steve knows, because when you and Bucky get into it—you get into it.

“You wish, princess. Wait, you’re such a goddamn prude, anyway--”

All Steve can do is cross his fingers and bark, “Buck!”

It’s too late. You’re across the room before Steve can say much else and you’ve launched yourself over one empty couch and straight into Bucky sitting on the other. The force knocks it slightly and it teeters before flopping back with a muffled thud.

Buckeye begins to run around in circles, unsure of the kind of play this particular moment is.

You have no idea what you’re doing, and you doubt you even want to—or can-- hurt him in any way, but you are so finished with his bullshit. You death-grip his hair as you jab both knees into his abdomen. Bucky moves to rip you off, but you clamp your teeth over his wrist and he yelps.

“Fuck you!” You scream, “fuck you so much! I—ow! I fucking apologized, you—Ugh!”

Buckeye, ever the perfect audience member, begins to bark to the rhythm of your screeching and aggressively nudges Bucky’s foot with his snout.

Soldat’s metal hand pushes your face back until its tilted up to the ceiling and further beyond, precariously suspended. The only thing keeping you from cracking your skull on the coffee table is your clinging to his hair. Steve’s concerned expression is upside down and his arms are outstretched, trying to determine the right configuration to pry the two of you apart. “Get that fucking! Aluminum foil finger the fuck away fr---”

“Shut up!” Bucky’s palm smashes against your mouth as his legs wrap around your back until you’re a squished human pretzel inside of him. You’re too crushed even to make any sounds and behind you Steve is sputtering vowels and consonants but not stringing together any real words. Finally, he nearly shrieks,

“Bucky! Jesus! You’re gonna actually kill her!”

Yep. This is how you’re gonna go, you think. The Winter Fucking Soldier has officially had enough of your bullshit, too, and he is going to bear-hug you to death. Who would have thunk it? Your fingers disengage and fall uselessly over his arms.

When time begins to slow and your soul starts to yeet itself from your body, Bucky blessedly lets go. “You’re bluer than I was in cryo.” He sneers.

Steve gasps, scandalized by the comment. For whatever reason, he’s covered Buckeye’s ears, too. You would send him an incredulous look, but you can’t feel your face.

With a pathetic whistle of air, you flop backwards and hang upside down over the couch, thighs gripped tightly by Bucky, heaving deep breaths until your lungs feel like they might burst through your rib cage. No wonder you are not a superhero—fuck the hubris, you are physically not built for this shit.

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” You mutter when Steve’s face begins to spin alongside your dog who slobbers all over your nose. Bucky yanks you up by the front of your shirt and the cough that blasts from your mouth goes right into his face. His smug expression twists into one of disgust and you take the moment to waggle your eyebrows suggestively.

Your sour mood has fled and now that you’re absolutely sure you cannot kick his ass—you return to the one thing you do know you’re capable of:

“Hey, baby. Is that a glock in your pants or are you just really happy to see me?”

To drive your point home, you bounce on his lap with a wide grin, wiggling your butt in exaggerated motions.

“Okay! That’s enough!”

Steve scoops you up and plants you back on the other side of the coffee table. “That’s too smart! Too smart!” He scolds as you pat your bottom and then curtsy. Bucky only huffs and crosses his arms, refusing to meet your gaze. Ha-ha. Winter Soldier, meet your match—Ass Woman. No, that just sounds like a porno.

“Alright, fuckers.” You declare, stepping over to the built-in bookshelf around the flatscreen and retrieving a leather-bound copy of The Wizard of Oz. “Ready for chili?”

They watch you open the front and stick your hand inside the false pages and retrieve a roll of bills. “What?” You ask nonchalantly. “Oh—shut up, Barnes. Like you guys really need me to pay back the vet fees. Technically, my tax dollars pay you.”

Steve shakes his head no. So, you casually toss him the roll of cash and then pull out another one.

“Jesus! Will you put these back?”

“Look,” You say, “For every month I don’t come home my mother puts another wad in this box.” You show them the pile of rolled bills, each encased in varying sizes of rubber bands. “She thinks it’ll ensnare me, but joke’s on her, the more I’m away the more there is to spend. She’s not very smart—a consequence of never having to think for herself.”

“And you’re fine with spending it?” Bucky ponders. The relationship you have with your family grows more confusing the longer they spend in your parents’ house. The memorabilia littered in your childhood bedroom seems to suggest that you aren’t completely detached from your family or your childhood. The way you respond to being home is paradoxical, too—disgusted at the excess one minute, reveling in it the next.

“It’s just fucking money. They make so much of it. I couldn’t bankrupt them if I tried. My father has offshore accounts in the fucking Caymans. I literally could not.”

They both pause before Steve speaks up, “Are you an only child?”

You frown. “No.” Then you aggressively push him by the shoulder and toward the exit, motioning for Bucky to follow. “It’s fucking Skyline time.”

Suddenly, you pause at the door and turn around to put both your hands on your hips. Looking both of them up and down, you shake your head impatiently. Steve is wearing his civilian Captain America outfit again. And Bucky, honestly, Bucky looks like someone cosplaying Bucky.

“Who dressed you?” You demand, exasperated, “You guys like, do spy stuff? It’s baffling to me that you don’t get caught immediately. Steve—khakis?”

Upon being admonished, he scoffs and looks around, “What’s wrong with my khakis?”

“Will you please tell him something?” You ask Bucky, who only rolls his eyes as if to say, you’re fuckin’ telling me. When it’s obvious that Steve’s poor choices are solely the result of him being an old fuck with no fashion sense, you mumble. “At least switch shirts. I’m going to take Buckeye out… please… fix this.”

-

When you come back, the sight of Steve wearing black and Bucky wearing light blue is so discomforting you cover Buckeye’s eyes. “It’s okay, boy.” You whisper loudly. Bucky flips you off but fixes the hem of the shirt he’s sporting. Steve—for whatever inexplicable reason, has decided to tuck… You quickly yank his shirt from his waistband and shake your head. “Christ, why are you like this?”

--

Untucked and uncomfortable in black, Steve looks at the menu as if the letters on it were runes from an ancient past. He doesn’t understand at all what Skyline Chili is or why it is. They’re coneys—this he does understand. But the rest of it—nope. Why would anyone ever need that much cheese? Bucky mirrors his sentiment by shutting the menu and crossing his arms.

The small bowl of oyster crackers in the middle of the table is being torn apart as you shovel handful after handful into your mouth. There is an inordinate amount of hot sauce sprayed on the top of the crisps, and you wipe your hands haphazardly on a napkin when you’re finished.

“Okay. You feelin’ spag or nah?” You ask, not even looking up. “Spagbol.” You continue, “Spag-y. SPAGHETS!” Then, in a terrible and very offensive Italian rendition, you pinch your fingers together and enunciate, “Its-a-spha-ghetta!”

Bucky slumps down into the booth until you stop. Steve puts his hand over his eyes.

“Why would you put chili on spaghetti noodles?” Bucky hisses.

The waitress arrives right after his question and you reach over to take his hands into your own— still reeking of peppers and vinegar from the hot sauce. “Shh,” You say almost tenderly, “Adults are talking now.”

“I hope you rub your eyes with that hand later.” Bucky snarls.

“I’ll cup your balls with it, instead.” You respond.

The waitress whimpers at the conversation she’s just stumbled into.

--

Six coneys arrive and as well as two plates of spaghetti. You explain to the boys that the Skyline specialty is steamed buns, mustard, special secret spice chili, raw onions, and hella shredded cheese. The noodles come with the same, sans mustard, and if you’re feeling extra frisky— beans. One plate is extra frisky today. Then you unscrew the cap to the hot sauce and shake the shit out of it onto everything.

They are bewildered at the sheer excess of American consumption as you shove almost half a coney into your face. Cheese flops down onto your plate.

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” Steve whimpers.

“Big baby, wimpy, Stevie can’t eat the cheesy?” Between mouthfuls, you’re still a dick. “Just try it! What are you, six?”

He glares at you and then sends a puppy-dog look to Bucky who already is lifting a coney to his face. You take another bite and watch them do the same.

Immediately, Steve coughs. Bucky starts laughing so hard he drops the pile of shredded cheese all over the table. You tuck into the overflowing plate of spaghetti, hot noodles melting the cheddar on top into an amalgam of gooey yellow. “I can’t do it.” Steve groans, “This isn’t right. This isn’t what God wanted.”

“God is dead, bitch.” You reply, “There is only Skyline Chili.”

--

“So what’s your deal?” Bucky asks from the couch.

The three of you have returned back to the house, winding down for the night. It’s eight now, and you’ve driven them around the city just to show them the sights. The gentrified downtown with its bustling crowd of young, white party-people interspersed with streets of dilapidated buildings and homelessness. There’s a bitterness to your voice when you talk about the changing scenery—but a kind of sadness, too. You admit you don’t really know the solution. The business brings in money to the city, but all the people left behind are really getting left behind.

You show them the more relaxed areas, like Over the Rhine and point out its massive brewery. You promise to take them there soon. There’s also the famous Cincinatti Zoo, and King’s Island, where you swear is better than where Steve wanted to go- Coney Island #2. There’s no point in taking him there, you declare when he starts to sputter, because he only wants to go to shit all over it, and because King’s Island is way cooler.

“What do you mean?” You ask back, flipping through the stations with your feet propped up on the coffee table. Steve and Bucky are sitting side-by-side under a blanket. There is a bowl of chips and hummus shared in their laps since Steve refused to eat during dinner and is now very cranky.

“All of this. Excess. Money. And then... you.” he waves to the house, then to you, sprawled out carelessly on a leather couch in mismatched pajamas. Buckeye’s head is faithfully in your lap, big eyes peering up at you, as if he’s waiting for an explanation too.

“You hating on my penguin top and pumpkin bottoms or what?”

“C’mon...” Steve beckons, knowing that your deflection is just another cop-out.

So, you groan, because they’re teaming up on you and after almost three months it’s bound to happen. They’ve told you so much about themselves already. You’ve learned all about the personal lives of the Commandos, the war stories, serums and experimentations, the cryo, the trial after the Triskelion... the blood, and sweat, and all of Steve Rogers’ tears.

“Well... it’s not as exciting as you think it is.” You mutter, tugging on Buckeye’s ear, finding the texture comforting under their persistent gaze. “Just a dumb girl born into an obscene family.”

But you tell them, truthfully and genuinely. Your family has old money- oil, or steel, probably both. As a result, you grew up in the lap of luxury, private schools, language programs, singing classes, dance lessons, horseback riding, trips to Europe and Asia, enormous birthday parties and a line of suitors as soon as you started growing breasts. The worst part, you admit, is that you loved it.

The picture they picked up in your room was from junior prom, and the date was a boyfriend- family friend- you’d been with for about six months, and he already planned on proposing. That was just how it was. Rich people marrying other rich people continuing the line of one-percenters.

Really, you say, your family was maybe the 10 percenter-range. As rich as maybe low A-list movie stars, not quite Jeff Bezos. But you know him, too.

“What changed?” Steve wonders out loud for both him and Bucky.

“Living in New York.” You half-smile at the memory of Union. “After Ohio State, I went to Union for my graduate studies and it blew my shit wide open. But that’s what happens when you start opening yourself up to other realities.”

You tell them about the immense struggle the first year at Union, feeling ostracized and realizing that your life is nothing like most peoples’ lives, and then beginning to frame your understanding of the world in a different way. You tell them you got mugged once and you felt like you probably deserved it.

“Then the election happened.” You sigh, and they both groan at the reminder. “As you know... it’s just been downhill and fucked. We had a big falling out here over Thanksgiving holiday.”

You didn’t come home in almost two years. You took out loans, you worked two jobs, took a full course load and wrote a thesis, and then went on to your Doctoral program. Your parents reached out to you and you eventually came half-way back into the fold.

“And spending their money?”

Most of the money you get you give to the local shelters. “That’s just direct action, baby.” You laugh. “We go at it, all the time. But you know, I figure... If I have to live in this shit world, might as well be a bastard about it.”

That earns a hearty chuckle from both your guests. “Jesus, that explains a lot.” Bucky grins as you nuzzle Buckeye and plant a kiss on his wrinkly face.

It feels so much better now that you’ve aired all the dirty, 1000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Steve hops up from the couch and runs downstairs, “Be right back!” He yells. You and Bucky narrow your eyes at the trail he’s padded into the carpet. In the distance, you can hear his rummaging and then thumping footsteps back up into the living room. He’s perfectly in one piece, because he’s Captain Damn America and nearly flying up a flight of stairs ain’t shit.

“I figured this would happen.” He grins, holding up a metal flask. “It’s time to break out the Asgardian mead.”

--

The three of you are drunk on whiskey and space-juice, tumbling around the downstairs living room. You are banging on the piano keys, tapping out a stuttering and off-kilter rendition of The Magic School Bus theme song while they wrestle. Why is it that no matter how old boys get, they still love to wrestle? Around their legs is Buckeye, running around in circles and panting, like a racecar at the Indy—only making left turns, having the time of his life.

“Get a fuckin’ ROOM!” You scream, throwing another shot down.

“You mean your room?” Steve laughs back, head under Bucky’s arm, tapping uselessly on his ribs.

“Captain America, fuckin’ in my room. Carve that on my grave, baby.” You mutter, as the piano lid slams down and you take a bow, knocking the bench over with a crash. “Oops.”

“Thas direct action, baby.” Bucky parrots you, “You’re so fucking lame.”

Buckyeye leaps into the air and licks him on the face. “Fuck!”

“Yeah, defend my honor, Buck!” You whoop. “Not you!” You point to Bucky, who flicks you off with a cackling laugh. The sound of it flutters into your ears like a ghost- leaving cold trails down your back. Suddenly, you get an idea.

“Hey-- you guys on Twitter?”

--

They sit crosslegged on the floor flanking you as you scroll determinedly through what seems to be endless tweets. There are other tabs open, too, of compilations of these. Thirsttweets, you explain. The internet loves and wants to bone the hell out of Captain America. Some of them want the Soldier there too—just watching, apparently.

Steve is seventeen shades of red and a little bit of purple. Bucky keeps cursing under his breath and at one point, you think, is reciting Hail Mary. It’s a million times worse than your playlist.

Who’s Got the Biggest Dick in Baseball is nothing compared to captain america could spit into my mouth and id say thank you

“I would never!” Steve gasps. “Or that!”

The tweet in question says: ruin my life big dorito daddy

“What does that mean?” Bucky groans, a little ruffled by all the lewd attention Steve is getting.

“His back is shaped like a Dorito, duh. Don’t get jealous, big boy. You’re next.”

For whatever reason, Bucky’s tweets are way worse. Maybe it’s his persona—that redeemed baddie type of thing. People eat that shit up like chips and dip—and apparently want to eat him too.

As long as I have a face, Winter Soldier has a seat rearrange my guts, Sargeant Sexy When will James Buchanan Barnes put his fist in me? WHEN? I didn’t know I was into getting choked until I saw that metal arm.

You snort whiskey into your lungs in the middle of reading one out loud and spend the next five minutes with your insides on fire. Steve has his head in Bucky’s lap and there are tears coming out of his eyes both from Bucky’s clenched jaw and you, crumpled into a heap spewing amber.

--

A jazz tune belts out from the surround sound system. Steve has picked a Music Choice station from the seemingly endless list of cable possibilities and of course, being a nostalgic thing, chose Swingers — wait, Singers and Swing. Your brain is loopy with joy.

“Didn’t you say you took dance lessons?” Steve asks nonchalantly.

“Uh-huh,” you sigh on the floor, legs crossed over Buckeye as you pull him down on your tummy. Rolling side to side with you, your dog begins to groan and flop, aggravated at your antics.

“You know, Buck used to dance.”

“Uh-huh, you sure did, didn’t you, big baby?” You kiss Buckeye on the nose.

“Bucky. Bucky, not Buckeye.”

He returns from the restroom with his hair pulled away from his face, changed into a long sleeved soft shirt and sweats. “What?”

“You used to dance!” Steve urges with a flick of his wrist, “Get on out there!” He waves his finger to the carpeted living space where you are spread-eagled, trying your best to keep your dog next to you. Damn it, you want cuddles!

“You want me to lead her? Stevie, I couldn’t lead the girl to water if she were a horse.”

“I am not a whore!” You cry indignantly, shooting up from the carpet and knocking Buckeye over with a yelp.

“A horse! Jesus H. Christ, ya deaf!”

You probably are, you think, as the music slurs itself into one long whine. Bucky grabs you by the hand anyway, determined to prove some point to Steve. He turns you around until you face him and takes a second to start on the right beat.

It’s like a switch has flipped and he becomes all step and sway as he moves to the music, leading you, too. Some vestigial memory digs its way out of your muscles from all those damn dance lessons and your feet point and tap along with him, hips rocking when he spins you around and pulls you back. A grin slowly breaks across his face, big and lopsided, all teeth.

You feel like a little puppet in complete submission to him as he expertly uses the perfect amount of momentum to change your course.

Laughter bursts forth from your mouth as you whirl dizzily around Bucky, hands clamped tightly in both of his. The room is a blur of colors and the blue of Steve’s eyes, watching.

At one point, you stand hip-to-hip side-by-side and kick your feet together before he takes you by the waist and dips you low. You’re breathless as he laughs, mirroring your puffs of warm air from above, wild with motion— his hair slipping from behind his ear to hang over your forehead.

“Holy shit you got moves.” You proclaim as the song finishes and he tugs you up with a satisfied chuckle. A slower melody comes on and you move to return to the couch where Steve is sitting with Buckeye, but Bucky tugs you again, closer.

He places one hand behind your back, resting on the ridged thread-bare waistband of your pajama shorts, and the other one he holds up to his chest. You blink away the fuzzy spots from your eyes and peer at him, looking so far away even though he’s just inches apart. His expression has changed, dropping into something distant and removed and staring straight through you.

You see it now. He’s not Bucky anymore.

It hits you like a bag of bricks, that this is James Barnes, in all his glory as a beautiful Brooklyn boy. Out dancing with a girl. Laughing, just like this: bristled, square-jawed and cleft-chinned. Wide, pouty lips. Bright steel eyes. Before he was a soldier, he was just a boy.

Before he was The Soldier, he was just a boy.

His chest rises and falls slowly as he takes a deep breath. The crooning in the background is tender, melodic, with the singer’s sweet voice pining for her loved one accompanied by delicate plucks of a piano.

Once, too, he pined.

The tears in your eyes spill over when you press your mouth to his. Bucky lets go of your hands and you catch his face with them, instead, holding onto his head, fingers grazing his ears and neck and brushing away his hair. You kiss him as if he might be shipped out to war tomorrow. It hurts even more to know that he probably had a night just like this, in the arms of a girl he loved, right before his entire life changed.

And then, you tear away and look at the couch where Steve sits, chewing on his lip, red-eyed too. You sob uncontrollably when you rush around the table and into his arms. He wraps them around you, pushes his face down into your shoulder.

“I love you guys.” You whisper, curled up in Steve’s lap, because the story of Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter was never explicit in the history books, but you know it too. “Oh God. I’m so sorry it’s like this. I’m so sorry.”

Steve forgets sometimes, that they were ripped out of time. He forgets the torment and tearing of Bucky’s entire being. They busy themselves in tomorrow and moving forward so much that they bury how the things that made them also broke them.

You are clinging onto his shirt, crying for him now, for both of them. Two handsome soldiers, living, dying, resurrected again. Having only each other to know and hold.

Sergeant Barnes of the 107th closes his eyes and presses his lips together. When he opens them, he is Bucky Barnes of the terrible, modern age once more. He crosses the room quietly, as he always does, as he was made to do. He sits down next to Steve as you look up at him with love and sympathy and so much sadness he can’t stand it. He links his hand in yours and smiles in a way that cracks your heart right open.

“Don’t get weird, kid.” Bucky whispers with moist lashes. Your laugh is strangled when it escapes your throat, all wet and whine as you squeeze his fingers tighter.

“I love you. You don’t understand.”

Steve breathes a sigh into your shoulder and rubs his damp cheeks on the penguin print of your sleeping shirt. From next to him, Buckeye looks up quizzically and gives his arm a long, slow lick.

“Yeah, yeah,” He mutters, swatting at your dog’s snout lovingly, lips pressed into your collarbone. Then, he kisses you too, tipsy and torn open. In the background, Julie London sweetly croons:

If there’s a cloud above and it must rain, we’ll let it.

But for tonight, forget it.

I’m in the mood for love.

Next Chapter

[builder051]

No sympathy (a Spiderman sickfic)

I was super enthused about how much love the first Spiderman fic got, so I had to run and write another one.  This one is Halloween themed, and it’s EXACTLY 2100 words.

Ned’s texted Peter four times in the last hour.  He’s as dead-set on inviting Peter to do something for Halloween as Peter is dead-set on saying no.

“Geez, how many times do I have to tell you,” Peter mumbles as he taps out another reply.  I’m busy. Stark internship.  Already told you.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to go trick-or-treating in Ned’s building.  To be honest, he kind of does. There’s that one neighbor that gives out full-size KitKats, and he has the best costume.  And it’s not even a costume, it’s, like, his work uniform…  But there are way more important things to do.

If urban legends and underground news reports are anything to go by, Peter has dozens of black kittens to save from satanic sacrifice and chocolate-stealing thugs to beat up and kids to help cross the street and baskets of candy to check for broken glass and LSD…  With that agenda, goofing off on Halloween doesn’t stand a chance of making it onto the timetable.

Peter turns his phone upside-down on the desk so it won’t glow at him when Ned inevitably texts back. Again.  He rests his elbow on his partially-finished algebra homework and drops his forehead into his palm for a moment, until he remembers he shouldn’t do that because it’ll give him acne.  But cool-hand-on-achy-forehead kind of feels good, so maybe it’s a wash.

The sun’s falling into its late afternoon position, warning that dusk is near.  And that people with headaches should close their blinds to avoid being shot in the eyeballs with extreme sunset glare.  Peter doesn’t think the blinds on his window have worked since he moved in, so he splits the difference and pushes out of his desk chair to head for the kitchen.

May’s working late, so Peter’s on his own tonight.  She’s given him free reign to do whatever he wants to celebrate as long as it’s legal and he’ll be ready for school tomorrow.  Usually Peter would be ecstatic about the breadth of his freedom, but today he’s just glad he’s alone so he can dry-swallow three ibuprofen and eat cheese shreds straight from the bag.

With hunger taken care of and medication yet to kick in, Peter checks his watch.  The neighborhood won’t start bustling with Halloweeners for another couple of hours.  His homework’s as good as finished; no one will show up with completed math assignments tomorrow morning.  Peter doesn’t feel like giving the school population at large another reason to call him a geek.  And he doesn’t feel like he’ll be able to concentrate especially well anyway.

Flicking on the TV to a random rerun of The Simpsons, Peter flops down on the couch.  He intends to hang through the 30-minute episode, then put on his suit and jump through the window to start his patrol.  But somehow Peter blinks and the TV’s playing Hocus Pocus and it’s dark out and he’s missed something.  Like two hours of passing time.

“Fuck,” Peter curses himself, jumping to his feet as realizations of the date, time, and fact that he’s not feeling well all crash into his head.  He tornadoes into his room and strips, almost tripping over his jeans as he tries to scramble into his suit.  He’s groggy and his reflexes suck.  The logical voice in his head, the one that’s usually reminding him to do his homework, tells him this is not smart.  He should think about staying in tonight.  Or hit up Ned for something safer to do.  But the louder impress Mr. Stark and justice for Ben voice makes him keep going.

Peter throws his jeans and hoodie into his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, and tosses back the blinds to open his bedroom window.  He crawls up onto the small ledge of the sill and shoots a line of web to the next building over.

He swings to his usual hiding spot in an alley near the school building and drops his backpack behind a dumpster.  Everything seems to smell worse than usual, and it’s not helping Peter’s head.  Or his stomach, for that matter.

“Ok.  Here we go.”  Peter revs himself up.  He jumps on top of the dumpster and swings himself onto the roof the bodega to survey the streets from above.  A few people in costumes are running around, and there’s a pretty comical looking group of small-scale Power Rangers standing on a street corner, but beyond that, everything looks normal.  There aren’t any black-robed Satanists brandishing bloody knives or kids dropping to their knees from poisoned candy.  At least not that Peter can see.

He sits down on the edge of the roof and watches for a while, then webs himself two blocks over to get a different view.  A couple taxis honk at each other.  Some guy re-lights the jack-o-lantern on his balcony three separate times because the wind keeps blowing it out.

Peter rolls his mask up to his nose so he can catch a little bit of the autumn breeze.  It feels nice, especially seeing as the pressure of the tight spandex over his face is doing little to make him comfortable.  It’s actually making him pretty uncomfortable.  The throb that was just between his eyes earlier is now playing across his whole forehead.  And his stomach’s starting to feel frothy, like it’s full of shaving cream.

There’s a sound coming from the sidewalk on the other side of the building.  Not of someone in peril, more of sound of frustration.  But with the lack of anything else going on, Peter decides it’s his business to investigate anyway.  He looks over the vertical line of brick wall and sees what he thinks is a scruffy homeless man lounging on a dirty bedroll and a stroller-pushing woman expressing disdain that he’s blocking the sidewalk.

It’s not the large-scale, Halloween-themed rescue mission Peter’s been expecting, but he knows how to diffuse this bomb.  He puts his mask back down and jumps to street level.  The impact reverberates from his feet to his head, and Peter tries not to cringe as the headache flares into momentary vertigo.

“Ma’am, he’s not gonna hurt you,” Peter says, addressing the gum-chewing young mother first.  A candy bucket for her sleepy baby clad in a skeleton onesie is slung over the stroller’s handle.  Peter imagines she’s really trick-or-treating for herself.

“Yeah, but he’s blocking the sidewalk,” she complains.

“I know, I got it,” Peter placates her.  He bends at the waist to tap the man on the shoulder.  He’ looks like he could be dozing, and he has a smoldering pipe held up to his lips.  The fumes coming from it smell a bit more illegal than just tobacco.  “Hey, dude?”  He says.  “You can’t sleep here.  People want to walk here.”

“Hm?” the guy says, exhaling a cloud of smoke and looking quizzically at Peter’s masked face.  “What’re you supposed to be dressed up as?”

“Hi, I’m Spiderman,” Peter introduces himself.  He holds out his hand, and when the guy shakes it, Peter puts his other hand into the guy’s armpit and pulls him to his feet.  “There’s an alley right up here where you can be without being in everybody’s way.”

The guy fumbles so as not to drop his pipe, but doesn’t resist Peter walking him ten yards down and depositing him around the corner between a trash can and a drainpipe.  “I’ll go get your sleeping bag,” Peter promises, hustling back the way he came.

The young mom is already gone when Peter dashes back around the corner to grab the filthy bedroll.  He shakes it hard over the ground, muttering, “Could’ve at least stuck around to say thanks.”  Once most of the dust and stray flecks of weed are lost to the sidewalk, Peter re-traces his steps again.

The homeless man is braced against the wall and losing what sounds and smells like a full stomach of liquor.  “Oh, god,” Peter cries in surprise, turning his head away as soon as he realizes what’s happening. “Ok.  Um.  Yeah.”  He sloppily folds the sleeping bag into a rectangle with too many corners and sets it on the ground.  He can feel his own stomach asking to rebel, and his headache’s screaming a whole new tune.  “I’m not the one to help you with this.”  Peter’s mouth is full of spit.  “There’s a shelter with rehab stuff down on 35th by Steinway…”

The guy just pukes again, and Peter turns around to stumble out of the alley on shaky legs.  He swallows hard.  Vertigo threatens to take him down, and Peter leans against the cool brick wall.  He can hear blood pounding in his ears, but it doesn’t drown out the homeless man’s next retch.  That’s all that’s needed to send Peter over the edge, and he has to scramble to flip his mask up fast enough.

He heaves a couple times and watches dazedly as a small puddle of thick whitish spit forms between his boots.  His stomach empties before it settles, and Peter leans heavily into the wall.  He wipes away a moustache of sweat with the back of his gloved hand.  The spandex fabric still carries notes of the homeless man’s smoke and BO, and Peter almost goes down retching again.  But he just coughs and gasps for a moment before deciding he has to get out of here before he becomes a Halloween disaster himself.

Peter starts the stroll back around the block to pick up his backpack, feeling too dizzy to web himself around.  He briefly clocks in for another good deed and helps a couple third-grade ninjas cross the street, but practically undoes it when a yellow cab almost slams him on his way back across.  Peter halfheartedly flips the driver off and continues on his way to grab his stuff.

After struggling to pull his jeans over his suit, Peter zips up his hoodie and stows his gloves and mask.  He realizes he forgot to pack shoes, so he just has to hope his Spiderman boots won’t be noticeable.

Peter enters his building through the front door and pauses for a moment while he considers the choice of stairs or elevator.  He goes for the stairs, and even though his quads are burning by the time he reaches his floor, at least his head is still on his shoulders.

Light’s streaming from under the door when Peter approaches the apartment, and that can only mean that May’s home.  He tries to think up a good, believable story for what he’s been up to, but nothing comes easily, and he’s eager to get inside and shower and go to sleep.  Or maybe vomit his slimy guts out for the next millennium.

“Hey, May,” Peter says as he pushes open the door.

“Hey yourself,” May says.  She’s on the couch, eating popcorn and watching It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.  “You do stuff?  Have a good time?”

“Yeah, just, uh,” Peter starts, “Ran around with Ned for a while.”

“Great costume,” May says, nodding to Peter’s getup.

“Thanks,” he replies absently.

“That wasn’t…” May trails off and starts over.  “What’re you supposed to be?”

“Um.”  Peter looks down at his rumpled hoodie and finally understands.  He scrubs his scrambled brain for an answer.  “Um.  Dead tired?”

“Dead tired,” May repeats.  “Well, you’re doing a fantastic job with that.  You look awful.”

“Yeah, I’m not feeling all that great, so I thought it would be kind of appropriate,” Peter says in a mixture of truth and joke.

“Would you happen to not feel great because you ate all my cheese shreds?  And now I can’t make lasagna for tomorrow night?”

“Sorry, May,” Peter says, passing his hand over his forehead, which is beading with fresh nauseous sweat. He almost starts to unzip his hoodie, but stops himself before he reveals what he’s wearing underneath.

“Want some popcorn?  There’s candy corn, too.” May asks, inviting him to join her in front of the TV.  “We got plenty of that.  Could have snacks for dinner all week.”

Peter’s stomach rolls, and he has to swallow hard to push down the rising bile.  “You know, uh, I’m not sure I’m really in the mood to talk about food right now.”  He starts down the hall toward the bathroom.

“You do feel sick, huh?  You think you need help or anything?”  May makes to stand up.

“No, I’ll be ok,” Peter insists.  “Just, uh, maybe don’t eat all the candy corn.  I might want some.”  He suppresses a gag.  “But, probably not till later.”