the coffee house at second and bridge

Crash Landing (Part Two/?)

Peter Parker X Reader

Word Count: 1225

Part One

(not my gif)

The next day, you were still in a half-daze. Everything only felt semi-real. Like you were washing all the coffee mugs, but at the same time you weren’t.
You’d met freaking Spider-Man.
Your Aunt was clueless, as always. Six days left until Christmas, and she wasn’t letting up on your hours. No time to buy presents. And the worst part was that you still had a worrying amount of homework to do, even though it was Christmas vacation.
About an hour before you were due to close, a slight, awkward-looking boy plodded through the café doors. He was slightly hunched over; the rucksack he was carrying looked like it weighed as much as the coffee machine you were standing next to. (You knew first-hand how damn heavy that thing was. Your Aunt had made you bring it in when it was delivered a few months before.)  The boy wore a thick, padded coat and had a scarf wrapped around his mouth, a bobble hat atop his head. His eyes darted around, unrelaxed. A mountain of thick books was cradled in his arms. He looked interesting.
“Welcome to The Grind!” You said dryly, but loudly, and he did a double-take, startled. “The name may be gross, but the coffee isn’t!”
His guard dissipated for a second, and a tiny smirk twisted his lips.
“I’m (Y/N),” You waved your hands around your surroundings. “And I’m going to be serving you today because I’m the only one on duty and my Aunt thinks I don’t have enough responsibilities.”
Bingo. His smile was here to stay.
“So, what would you like?” You turned your back to him for a second, prepping the coffee machine.
“I… I don’t know…” He swallowed. “I’ve never had coffee before.”
Swivelling around, you gaped at him. “How old are you? My age?”
He shrugged.
“How have you not had to do an all-nighter for a test? Coffee runs through my veins!”
“I – It comes naturally to me.”
“Okay…” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, I feel sorry for you, so I’m making you something off the menu. My specialty. On the house. Just… Don’t tell my Aunt. I have an art project to finish, I can’t be dealing with getting murdered right now.”
Not waiting for an affirmation, you whipped back to the coffee machine, pressing random buttons and grabbing fistfuls of sugar sachets. The machine whirred and buzzed, and you shoved a card cup under one of the nozzles, humming softly to the song playing over the speakers.
“What exactly is involved in this drink?” You turned and saw the boy looking at you quizzically.
“That is a fantastic question… What’s your name?”
“Peter. Peter Parker.”
“That is a fantastic question, Peter Peter Parker.” You jerked your head towards the coffee machine. “I like to call this ‘Press Whatever and Hope for The Best’.” You caught his sweet smile as you turned back to the whirring noises. “I tried to put those little bubble things you get in bubble tea into this once, you know? Not a good idea.”
Pulling the cup away, you placed a lid over it and shook vigorously. Then you slapped it down on the counter, ripped the lid off and stirred the contents. Even though you knew it was unnecessary, you grabbed a Sharpie and scribbled “Peter Peter Parker” across the thick paper. You held the cup out to Peter, who took it, albeit awkwardly, as he had to shift the books he was carrying into a comfier position.
Another customer came through the door, a regular, and you turned towards them, seeing Peter sit down at a table out of the corner of your eye.
“Hey, Chet!” The man, mid-thirties, grinned at you. “The usual?”
“What’s up, (Y/N)?” Chet nodded. “Usual, as always –”
Chet was cut off by a sudden exclamation from across the café. Both your heads spun, as well as a few others, to see a wide-eyed Peter, clutching his drink. He blinked, realising everyone in the café was staring at him. He looked to you, blushing.
“This is – This is really good.” Peter said uncomfortably. You beamed at him in appreciation. He was adorable.
Turning back to Chet, you told him his order would be out in a minute. He pushed ten dollars towards you and took a seat. This time you put a little more thought into your process; vanilla lattes were pretty specific. When the drink was done, you brought it out to Chet, who thanked you and went back to scrolling through his phone. You twirled around to look at Peter, making your way over to him, wiping tables and scooping up empty cups as you went.
Sitting down at his two-seat table, he looked up.
“So, you like the drink?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty good…” Peter mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was embarrassing.”
“Nobody’ll care enough to remember it, Peter,” you said gently. “Everyone in this shop is just a coffee-obsessed New-Yorker. It’s all about The Grind, baby.” You wiggled your eyebrows and snorted. Peter found it immensely endearing.
Peter examined his cup. “You didn’t have to write – Oh.” He snickered. “Really? ‘Peter Peter Parker?’”
“You said your name twice and it sounded dumb, so I had to document it.”
He grinned. “Fair enough.”
Peter came again the next day. And the next day. And the next. Always asking for a ‘Press Whatever and Hope for The Best’. On the third day, he stayed and helped you close the shop. He dried up while you washed; Peter was bubbling with conversation.
“I swear to God I saw Tony Stark in Wal-Mart the other day, (Y/N)! Don’t laugh, I’m not kidding! He was looking at the pasta sauces and I was going to go up and tell him which was best because Aunt May gets me to make dinner sometimes –”
“Peter, please. I’m trying to wash up and you’re ruining my chill-washing-up vibes with all your over-excited ones.”
“Oh – Sorry.”
Everything felt calm and collected when you were hanging with Peter. His sudden entrance into your life had caused your encounter with Spider-Man to take a backseat. Your new friend was entrancing and exciting, even if he didn’t think so.
“You go to Midtech?” you’d asked, disbelieving of what he’d just told you. Midtown School of Science and Technology was a school for geniuses.
“No one calls it that,” Peter said, rolling his eyes affectionately.
Midtech,” you repeated dramatically, to spite him. “Wow,” you said, genuinely impressed.  He’d beamed at you.
On the fourth day, you shooed Peter away about fifteen minutes before your massive lock-up. You dragged the day’s trash out back into the alley and over to the bins.
Someone cleared their throat behind you.
You whirled around, fists up and ready to defend yourself. It didn’t matter if you were kind of out of shape and got out of breath walking up the stairs. Someone was about to get their ass handed to them. Your right fist shot out and made contact with the figure in front of you, who let out a yelp. When your left fist made a move, they grabbed it and you struggled to get free. You felt a weird material against your hands, definitely not skin.
“Relax!” A familiar voice whisper-shouted through the darkness. “Relax, it’s me! Spider-Man!”