"This is a new level of gay," I decided, watching the endless spiral. Red. Blue. White. Black. Bubbles. Repeat.

The newspaper stopped rustling. I slouched on the bench, leaned my head against his shoulder. "It is."

"Laundry's gay now? Clean uniforms?"

"Us doing it together at four in the morning is."

"Us doing IT is gay. This is just, tedious."

I groaned. "I'm a bad influence on you," I say, mostly to the ceiling. "No one'll need to catch us, they'll hear you babbling at some villain and they'll decide to quarantine me because obviously, chatter's an STD."

He made a noise that could best be described as a cough with suspicious origins.

"One of those really infectious ones," I continued. "That even the pitcher can catch."

"I told you I could switch hit," he managed after a few minutes manful giggling into the newspaper. "You never seem interested."

"Well, you've got a better bat that I do."

That got an out and out laugh, and I had to sit up because he was leaning against the wall now and if it hadn't been four in the morning at a laundromat he might have garnered some attention.

Really, all he would have needed to get attention would have been an audience. He's a big guy, he's gorgeous, and a whole hell of a lot of people know that face. Well, okay, quite a few do, but with a mask everyone knows him.

He might have also gotten attention for having a dweeb like me next to him. We're never out of costume together, 'cept for the... Trysts, I guess is the right word, meeting at hotels. And then we're not usually IN anything else.

This is different. It's strange. I feel paranoid out of costume, and he seems.. Fine. Why shouldn't he be? He's comfortable in his own skin.

I try to tell myself that it's a phase I'm going through, the whole, awkward thing, but seriously... I remember enough of my father to know I'm doomed. I loved, love him, yeah, and I wish he was alive today, but some days all I can think is that if he was still alive, he'd take me aside and say 'Peter, us Parkers tend to fall for hotties WAY out of our league but the secret formula to bagging them anyway is-'. Uncle Ben claimed not to know it but he might have been waiting till I was old enough.

He settled enough I lean back against him, comfortable. I'm not quite brave enough to grab his hand or anything like that, even if it's four am, no one's around. There's a few reasons. One, I'm totally flexible enough that there are at least seven positions possible on this bench that only I and another super-strong (well, strong) male could pull off, and too much skin contact will have me mentally drawing charts. Two, there are big glass windows over there, and unlocked doors, and I can't afford lunch as it is what with the all the expensive webbing it too to deal with that stupid zapper man again this week. And three...

It's nice. Sitting like this, in no rush, waiting for the buzzer so we can shove our things into the dryer. Okay, after, we'll either split ways, or he'll go down the street to the Ramada, get a room, I'll go get take out, climb in the window and sex will be had, but those are both...

Okay I'm hoping for the second one. Maybe I'll tell him my suit should line dry, and it's do best in a hotel room over a mini bar?

The first one's, lonely.

The second one I can't think about or I'll go back to those seven positions.

There here and now, which I have to keep reminding myself is bound to go to hell in the then and soon, is nice.

I hook a hand into his elbow and feel daring.