1963-11-18 - Fry For Your Thoughts?
Summary: A meeting of hearts and minds doesn't go exactly as planned when Spider-Man's suit has something to show.
Related: Darkness in Hearts of Men
Theme Song: None
jennifer peter 

It's a Friday night which means the old boys of the big partnerships meet up for alcohol in spendy restaurants and taverns throughout the Financial District. The girls type away on their notes. The overworked clerks consider suicide or becoming longhaired artists in Greenwich. Jen usually bothers going to the gym when not called to save the world.

Forget the gym, though. Forget the texts thrown to her from a government agency and delivered in funny ways. In fact, let's just forget everything that doesn't start and end with hamburgers from the Empire Diner and a rooftop. It may be cold, but being green means never having to say you're sorry or care about the chill. Bruce can walk around the Arctic in torn cutoffs, for crying outloud. She can make do, sitting cross-legged, the bag beside her. A sign reading "NO HOT DOGS" is taped to a water tower three blocks over, a good enough sign as any. In the meantime, she eats a bag of fries. The whole thing might power her metabolism for two hours tops. Trouble and unease are all around; the lawyer in her probably wants to solve it all. The human in her refuses, going green to have a life.

Or what constitutes 'save the city' night.


Perhaps that sign was seen, and perhaps it was taken to heart. For when the Spectacular Spider-Man appears he's not carrying any, and in fact seems rather unladen with any package for meal conveyance, figuring that tonight was her turn. Wasn't it? Well the smell of the burgers was enough to convince him so.

He lands behind her, perhaps unheard considering the eerie stealthiness that dark suit has gifted him. But any sneakiness is dispelled when the tell-tale jovial lilt of his voice reaches her, "Hey hot stuff," He takes a moment to /inhale/ the smell of those diner burgers and sighs happily, "Oh and hey Jen."

A grin can be seen in the way the white eyelets broaden and his smile shifts behind the black 'fabric'. He hops down with a thip-thap of feet on the gravel rooftop then crunches his way towards her.

PDAs in public when he's in costume has been a bit of a contentious topic between them, so it might surprise her a bit when the suit roils back from his chin to allow him to kiss her on the cheek even as he drops down beside her. "Good to see you, babe."


Every darn Sunday is meal night. The rest of the time, get by on leftovers and whatever gets into the oven in a casserole dish. Jen has even less time to prepare a proper meal and the quieter gossip that Priscilla the Terrifying Secretary will shut down questions if she's even cooking for herself. Egads! A woman without doing any cooking, living by herself, is the very image of the impossible, the status quo flipped on its head and stuck in a skirt-suit.

Sneakiness might not be the best idea considering the events of present and future days. It's appreciated he says something, for the amplified reflexes best not be tested against student in ninja jammies, thank you. He might dare to reach for the burgers after that greeting, too, and see how fast she can snatch them up and hug them to her chest.

"Who said you were getting any?" White teeth and the nightshade smile are deliriously dangerous for the unprepared, especially with the fact she somehow straightened her wild locks. There's still an unearthly amount, but ironed, they go well past her hips. 1972 showed up a decade early.

"You didn't even ask nicely." Tongue stuck out, she crumples the bag and looks inside. Fries are still in the circle of her arms. He might have to fight for those, too, but the 'mrf!' sound from her is given to follow a kiss. She tips her cheek higher, the dimple of a smile directing the corner of her mouth juuuust under Peter's. Ha! It is a kiss. Take that, saucy britches.


Those eyelets lift upwards like his eyebrows rising as he leeeeeans over and makes an oh so plaintive face even as he reaches for the bag after she perhaps eases up on her dominion over the provided food stuffs. It's then that he'll take it up and open it to dig around inside for his own burger. The foil is pushed back and then a decently large chomp is taken out of the corner of it. He chews and chews and chews, then again kisses her cheek.

"Thanks, Jen. I needed this." He grimaces and looks across the way. "Man, freaking crazy week. And I still haven't heard from the Post." Another bite as he shifts closer to her, clearly just to get more warmth against the faint chill in the Autumn air.


Plaintive face with a mask is not necessarily the most effective thing, even for Superlatively Sassy Spider-Man. She will need some getting used to that untrustworthy, damnable suit that still prickles her mind in ways that have yet to be fully parsed. It helps to be an attorney; it doesn't help when the slightest bit of evidence sends her off like a bloodhound. Still.

The burgers are the way they should be, irregular patties, no more than medium, layered in ketchup, pickles, tomato, onion, lettuce. Maybe mustard, depending on preference. She is much more circumspect about munching because one bite into that lovely bun creation means half the burger is gone. Jen's long since given up on worrying about how she looks eating. "A crazy week, Mr. Man? Praytell, whatever has kept you busy? I stopped four attempts to corner some poor fellow they claimed was working for the green alien man, and you can imagine how they thought I looked. That's the second report of another person who is green. I'm going to kill Bruce if he turned me into someone from the Outer End of Beyond."

She throws enough heat to need no additional heating costs in the winter except when the snow is terrible. Then wearing a sweater is merely helpful. Stretching out her legs, she anchors easily on the lip of the building's roof while Peter leans into her. "The Post will come around or not. I can see about pulling a few strings for the Times, as I know one of the reporters there. He can probably swing a freelance deal."


"I've been just getting in more swing time," Spidey says around another bite, and sometimes he just seems so young. But then again that could just be the ease he feels when he's around her. "School is going well, so there's that. I still occasionally steal yesterday's paper from Mr. Bramowitz when he's done with it, just to try and see what's up with the Bugle. But…"

He gives a small shrug. "Tensions are just high out there. No thanks to all this alien stuff. It's… I dunno how to explain it Jen. I mean, you know the city has a pulse, right? Every New Yorker feels it."

He digs around for a napkin in the bag and uses it to wipe at the corner of his mouth before he continues. "But when I'm swinging around, my spider-sense feeling the sort of… vibe. I really get this feeling from it. and it's super tense."


"At least you have the practice. That counts for something. And classwork, don't underestimate the importance of that." Her fingers tuck a stray tress behind her ear and Jennifer peers down at the glittering expanse of Queens. It's not so exciting a borough as, say, Harlem, but right now, the small things count. "You need a newspaper, come by the office. We get the Bugle and everything else from here to Chicago, I swear. The magazines, too. No one will mind, I promise. It's not like we have any time to read them."

Free pass, then. Her burger is gone in another bite, and she looks back to him, Spider in a very different cast. A shinier one at that. "Yeah. You can hear it on the train. In the streets. There's a silence, a hint at small talk, and it's frankly terrible. No one in the city is supposed to be like this. Dad says L.A. isn't much different, they are all nervous and waiting for someone to pop up and tell them the President is a lizard and the Pope is actually Lucifer Morningstar."


There's a pause in mid-chew as Peter looks down towards the street below and she can hear him sigh a bit, "Man, you know if proof of that came out tomorrow… I wouldn't be as surprised as I would have been a week ago."

And from that springs a silence for a time, introspective and contemplative, though she might get a subtle feeling that he's having some sort of inner monologue, something she's not entirely privy to. Yet he's not lost for that long, instead he blinks a few times and looks sidelong at her and smiles. "How about you, any word on that super team? That could be exciting. I may ask you to put in a good word for me at some point. I mean sure I'd have to clean up my public image and all, but hey."


The sad state of affairs earns a laugh, flat and unhappy, from the emerald jotun. Jen's feet skim over the cinderblock ridge blocking her from falling over the side of the building. "I'd take the Pope as Lucifer, actually. Moral authority for being the fallen first angel and all that, it gives a certain familiarity. Now you tell me he ruled a universe somewhere outside our own and then I'm going to call really bad pulp science fiction novel."

French fries are consulted, the bag full of at least three handfuls. One fry at a time can be downed without a hurry, and she hands over the paper bag with a raised eyebrow. "I'm going to talk to Sue Storm and head in for a government meeting tomorrow, probably. This whole recent announcement flipped the timeline. Not that it matters, I'm still fighting them making us non-people in Wisconsin as a secondary consulting opinion. Apparently one of my briefs is being cited." Wave a tiny flag! "How about you? Come with us if you're worried. Nothing terrible is going to happen, and I'll back you up the whole way. You look…"

A pause. "You don't blame yourself for something, do you?"


"I don't," Peter looks to the side, his frown growing a touch. It's, perhaps, a tribute to his self-awareness that he murmurs. "After the thing with the space capsule, I've felt a little different. I mean, that is a life changing sort of situation though, don't you imagine?"

He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, "I mean. I've come close to death plenty of times and it's bothered me, but never bothered bothered me." The Spider-Man in black grins a touch and looks askance towards her, "Just I find I don't have as much patience as I thought I had. Blowing up at JJ, almost snapping at Aunt May. Heck I even lost my temper once with this mugger guy I've caught like five times. He's normally this harmless guy, but then the last time… he sort of hurt this woman. By accident I learned later but I just got… I felt like, 'What the hell am I doing here?' and I almost clocked him hard."


But then Peter shakes his head, "Maybe I'm _too_ keyed into the city and what's going down. Maybe I should move, go Spider-Man somewhere in Iowa."


"Okay. The cosmonaut wasn't your fault. You did a good thing helping out." Even if that good thing is apparently sentient pajamas. She crosses her arms and rests her chin atop her knees, looking over at Peter with eyes full of radioactive motes. No way around it; those luminous irises are as transformed as the rest of her, but at least they aren't wall to wall one shade. That only happens in moments of rage. "I'd say you might find peace in talking about it. No one has to. I know for me, at least, it helped rather than being angry and afraid of the world all the time."

Eat the fryyyy! Delicious fries. One of them is going to be stolen and stuffed into Jennifer's mouth. "Sort of hurt what woman? I'm not going to point out you or I clocking someone is generally bad. Is it like you're just slipping out of control or something?"

He can't turn green to make a tailored flu go away, but the ticking brain keeps computing what doesn't stand out, and there's one thing there completely speaking to the problem. Aunt May.


It's only then that he snaps out of his introspection by the smell of greasy potato. He grins and leans over, stealing the fry and popping it in his mouth, chewing for a time. He swallows and shakes his head, "And no, nothing like that. I just think… I have no patience, or not as much as I'd like. I'm quicker to get my dander up." He spreads his hands helplessly.

"Basically the guy had this MO, snatch and grab run by someone with a purse hanging loose. Real basic stuff. I mean, I think he might have been dropped on his head when he was a kid."

Peter draws a leg up and puts his weight against her side, accepting that she can handle it since well, she can. "Sorta like Lenny from Of Mice and Men, well his latest victim she held onto it too long and maybe too tight around her shoulder and he yanked it and dislocated her shoulder. So I dunno… just he's always out in like a week, and I just wanted to get through to him… so I yelled at him."

A grimace is seen there, his white eyelets narrowing in the recollection. "When it didn't seem to reach him I thought that maybe he just needed… you know. To be shown that he can't do this anymore."


"Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her burger and fry; along came a spider who sat down beside her, and confessed he's gone awry." It's in a somewhat singsong voice Jennifer recites that. She-Hulk singing poetry. That's the kind of night it is. She scratches at her neck to her shoulder blade, a pass of those hardened nails leaving faint marks that vanish in a blink of an eye. Even going all out, she'd be lucky to break the surface.

Bite the bullet, little girl. What's the worst that can happen? "You don't get short-tempered or mad like that. The riots? The trash can?" Memory beckons to their first meeting, the second to follow. "It's always me who runs the risk, not you. The voice of reason in there, the patient noble one. Something isn't right." Banner-Walters genetics and a good education, for the state of New York. She settles on a verdict very quietly, her gaze thoughtful rather than accusing, her tone calm instead of worried or demanding. "When did it begin?"


"After the space crash," Peter smiles a bit at the memory though now the black suit slowly begins to cover up his mouth after he finishes up the fry. He rests with his back against her and draws her arm over his chest to hold it with both of his own. "I mean, during the time I was exhilarated, I usually am. Adrenalin and all, and sure I had a brief morbid thought like… ok if this was how I go out… what an awesome way to go out." He grins a bit beneath the mask.

"But I made the leap onto the capsule, and made my way there and then it was like… I wasn't worried anymore. Just had a job to do. And I've felt that way before to be fair." He squeezes her for a moment then turns to look up at her with his white eyelets widening a touch, "But after that, there was the explosion. And I got hurt, got better. I dunno, maybe it's just residual from the concussion."


Jennifer should know better than to chew on her cuticle, given she heals as fast as she helplessly nibbles at it while listening. Agitated? Not exactly. Her level gaze lies there. "Concussions take a long, long time to heal sometimes. Bang on the head, not very good, you know? But how fast do you normally recover? I'm no doctor. You and I don't behave according to the normal ways though, right?" Her nose gives a little wrinkle and her lips crumple to a plum bloom. "Me, a conk does a whole lot less and not very much. Not to put it in graphic terms, but short of pancaking the street, are you going to be hurt?"

Skeptical on it just being a thing, as much as going to Iowa, the green arch of her eyebrow forms an elegant alteration. "Explosion. Anger. I don't know. Anger issues are … well, tough."


"That's the thing, I've… never really explored how far I can recover, or how much oomph I can take." Peter turns a bit to look at her closer. "I've had the tar kicked out of me a few times, but so long as it's blunt I can usually bounce back fairly quickly. But like this was the first time I got hit by something like shrapnel and I recovered pretty fast."

He rises to his feet then, shuffling up onto a boot and then offering her his hand if she wishes to get up as well. "C'mon, let's head somewhere I can go get changed. I think I left my jeans and a t-shirt at your place the other night."

Yet as Peter's speaking with his hand reaching out to help her up she'll see before her very eyes that black suit clinging to his body begin to shift and flow, amorphously gliding into the very things he's mentioning. The lower-half bulks out into a loose pair of jeans. Generic looking white sneakers seem to flow over his feet and only once they complete definition does the 'Nike' logo pop to the fore. And his sleeves roll back into a white t-shirt that is terribly plain until the small 'Hanes' logo appears at the bottom.


Oh, hello… whispers that angry, seductive voice in the back of her head. Hackles go up like a cat's, the ironed hair at her nape standing, and her eyes turn into emerald crystals full of balefire stolen from an infernal vent somewhere. Swallowing against the solid lump of granite in her throat, she asks, "Richards. Did he make anything for you? Sue, maybe? I know they have the unstable molecule suits." Damn straight they should. Because equally significant, they're probably why she can wear certain outfits, if the technology and science allow for 'Jennifer to Shulkie transformation sequence.' She'll kill them if they add flashing lights, ribbons, and a catchy themesong.

Shulkie is not an anime princess, regardless of what her webpage may include.

Her lips compress and she gestures, still taking his hand as she gets to her feet. "Or is that a new trick? Because I don't need to tell you how many nylons I rip and blouses I ruin in a week, do I?"

Aaaaaand cue suit facefault.


That… actually does seem to take Peter aback. And yes, now it's Peter Parker standing there in the place of where Spider-Man was only seconds ago. He looks around for a moment, not much chance someone was looking their way but he hops down off the perch and steps away from her, towards the middle of the rooftop. Spinning around once he frowns, then laughs and sort of smiles. "Oh man that's… that's awesome."

He looks across the way at her, "I've never seen it do this before. I mean… when I was leaving Reed told me he had a surprise he wanted to share with me, but then I took off before he had a chance."

Peter shakes the t-shirt lightly, as if making sure it's real. It definitely moves and seems to have the texture of a regular old Hanes Tee and all, but still. "Man, I… really need to thank him."


Peter Parker, Spider-Man, and a pair of clothes that have their own mind. "I think…" Jennifer pulls in a deep breath. "It doesn't want you to take it off. But it's going to have to come off, because I am not taking you to bed wearing plaid pants and flannel gloves."

Now the intentions are named, the voice in her head can be shut the heck up a different way. Intricacies of the situation beg a great deal of consideration. "I don't think this is Reed's surprise. Because Reed doesn't… it's not the same way. Or by now he would have told you what that surprise was, especially when you came out from being unconscious." For thirty hours. Yeah, that's not being forgotten any time soon. Fry to mouth would be nice, but she lacks that. "Or else you are a Ken doll and the underwear is welded on."



At her last words he blinks a few times, and with a nervous apprehension he quickly checks. She can see the relief take him as he says, "Phew." All good. He looks back at her and walks over to her, grinning happily. "Gimme a fry, woman. C'mon let's go home."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License