Spider-Man Imagines I

Really Not A Creep (Part Two) | Peter Parker [TH]

"___, it looks like you might have a slight concussion. No worries, though. It shouldn't bother you too much. I'll be writing a prescription for painkillers and I suggest you just take it easy the next couple of days."

"So she shouldn't go to school?" your mother pressed.

The doctor shook his head, pushing up his thin glasses with a finger. "No. Not for the rest of the week at least. If headaches stay or get worse, do not hesitate to call me."

You nodded. You were glad that you didn't have to go to school. No one had even attempted to contact you since the fight (except for Peter, who called you daily after he put your number in his phone) and you didn't want to face them now. Especially Flash.

In the car, on the way home, you went to your contacts. You debated on just texting Peter the news since he was so concerned about your appointment, but you decided that he deserved a phone call. He had stopped the fight; he was the reason you were given just a small concussion.

You had grown increasingly fond of Peter Parker since the incident. He had proved to be a complete gentleman and hero. You were grateful for his concern and his friendship that he offered you.

Plus, you found, that you had stared to like him.

Maybe it was the heroic part of him, or maybe it was just his kindness. You started to like Peter Parker more than you ever wanted to.

You tapped on the phone icon and watched his contact pop up. You held your phone to your ear and waited. He picked up on the third ring.

"H-Hey," he stumbled. He would never get used to talking to you.

"Hi, Peter," you said.

"Did you go to your appointment? How did it go?" he asked.

"Yeah, I went. I, uh, have a small concussion. Nothing too serious though. I won't be back at school until next week."

Peter was silent. Then, he inhaled deeply. You furrowed your eyebrows and waited for him to say something.

"Peter?"

"I'm sorry," he said, voice a little weak. "I should have stopped him sooner."

"Peter," you said, shaking your head. "No. It's just a small concussion. You did all you could - more than you should have. We weren't even friends, Peter, and you saved my life. I'm lucky to have had you there. I'm... I'm lucky to have you now."

He was quiet. "Are you in pain?"

"A little," you admitted. "But we're going to pick up my prescription now." You hesitated before adding, "Hey, Peter? Can you come over today?"

"Y-You want me to come over to your house? I... I, uh, well-"

"It's okay if you don't want to," you said, embarrassed. You played with a thread on your jeans. "I just thought company would be good for both of us. Sorry-"

"No, I want to!" he said. "I, uh, I'll be there. Just... text me your address. I'll come after I do my homework."

"Okay," you said, and you smiled. "Okay. I'll see you later."

"Yeah," he said. "B-Bye."

You hung up and grinned to yourself, sending him your address eagerly.

That evening, after you had dinner, you were sitting on the couch and lazily eating ice cream. A large blanket was wrapped around your bare legs. There was a knock on the door. Your heart skipped a beat as your father answered it and invited Peter in.

Your parents were grateful for the boy that saved your life. They showed it in the way they said his name. They embraced him like one would an old friend.