AN: First Spiderman fic ever . . . Please, be gentle . . . Oh, and a small warning for those of you who don't like slash: NO, this is not a slash fic, but for those of you who are slash fans, it could easily be perceived as such in your twisted little minds . . . No worries. I'm a slash fan myself, and, thus, have the most perverted mind of them all . . . But anywho, please enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own the movie Spiderman or Spiderman II. I do not own the characters.

He had only just sat down, a moment spent pondering whether to indulge in the steaming French vanilla cappuccino sitting enticingly before him or to delve into the fascinating world of his biology notes, when the man approached him in the small cafe. It took Peter a fragment of a second to realize that the figure was staring at him and not waiting in line or looking for someone else. He chanced to ignore him for near a minute before sighing and turning towards the annoyance.

"Can I help-" His voice failed him, sticking to the back of his throat as he immediately recognized the other. Slowly, the man, carrying a few small shopping bags from the grocery store down the street, made his way around the table. He sat directly across from the young photographer, his eyes still wide and his mouth drawn into a thin, tight line. He couldn't be more than thirty-five, forty at most.

"Do you remember me?" He asked softly, his eyebrows furrowing. "I'm-"

"From the train," Peter interrupted, his voice hoarse as he nodded his head slightly. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as his eyes broke contact to stare at his tightly clenched fists. He opened his trembling hands to find that his fingernails had bitten straight through the skin.

"You're him, aren't you?" The other man whispered, his eyes searching for any eaves droppers.

Peter took a deep breath, intending to lie, to say he must have mistaken him for someone else, but as he looked back into the man's wide, hope-filled orbs, he could not bear to tell him anything but the truth. With an audible swallow, the young man quickly nodded, his throat too tight for any words to pass.

"You're . . . You're Peter Parker, right? The one who gets all the photos."

"Yea," Peter managed.

"No wonder," the other man chuckled nervously. "I'm Dan. Dan Grates." He reached a tentative hand across the table, seeming almost afraid to touch the "human wonder." The younger man took the offered hand apprehensively and briefly, wincing as he pulled an arm muscle. Dan's smile wavered slightly.

"I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "I forgot . . . You're just so young . . . It's amazing, what you do."

Peter's cheeks colored slightly, his eyes averting to his slowly cooling cup of coffee as he attempted to hide a smile. He hadn't heard any kind of praise directly from anyone ever. He hadn't been allowed to.

"You don't get that often, I take it," Dan said, speaking the younger man's thoughts aloud and attempting to establish eye contact once again. Once he realized what he had said, however, he scoffed at himself, shaking his head. "No, I suppose you can't, can you?"

"Only from my girlfriend," Peter smiled distantly, lost in thought. Immediately afterwards, his smile faded, a look of alarm taking his face.

"What is it?" Dan asked, straightening and looking around defensively. "What's happening?"

Peter stood, quickly grabbing his notes, shoving them into his backpack, and zipping it up before slinging it carelessly over his shoulder and picking up his now cold coffee.

"Is something wrong?" The older man asked, standing as well and following the other out of the small shop.

"No, I have to go," Peter replied hurriedly, quickening his pace in the hopes of ridding himself of the man who knew too much already. "I'm late for class."

"You're in school," Dan stated matter-of-factly. "How do you juggle the schoolwork and your . . . 'job'?" Peter glanced to his left, where the other man annoyingly still kept pace with him.

"I don't," he said curtly, wanting more than anything to rid himself of the man. "I'm failing five out of the eight courses I'm taking, and I'm bordering on failing in the other three. I've got midterms next week and two thirty-page papers due by Thursday."

"Wow," Dan whistled. "Glad I never went to college. Hey, you gonna finish that coffee?"

"It's cold," Peter explained, looking into the sloshy, frothy mess with disgust.

"I'm just looking for something that's caffeinated," Dan shrugged, uncaring.

"Suit yourself," Peter shifted his pack to hand the soggy, styrofoam cup over, not noticing that his sleeve had pulled back until the other man grabbed his wrist, stopping the photographer in his tracks.

"Is that where the webs come from?" Dan inquired excitedly. Peter yanked his arm back defensively, backing away from the man somewhat with a guarded look.

"Listen," he said, anxiously glancing around, "I appreciate everything you've said. Really, I do, but . . . I can barely stand having to live my life . . . Talking about it just . . ."

"Makes it more real?" Dan finished for him quietly. "You didn't ask to be this way . . . but at the same time, we didn't ask for you either."

Peter stood stunned for a moment, wondering how to react to such a statement. He should have felt a sort of resentment towards the remark, he knew, but he could not, knowing it to be a fact.

This city had not asked for his help. He had forced himself upon them, and whether for better or worse was anyone's guess.

"You're right," the young man replied, his grip tightening on the strap of his pack as he averted his eyes to his worn sneakers. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to be a freak. But this is who I am. I can't give it back, but I sure as hell can do something with it instead of sitting on my ass all day and ignoring the muggings and robberies and fires. And, no, you didn't ask for me either, but if I were you and there was someone out there who could do the things I do, it wouldn't matter to me whether I'd asked for them or not. I'd just be grateful that there's someone who gives a damn about this city and who's trying to make a difference out there."

There was a long moment of silence, in which Peter glared down at his shoes and Dan stared curiously at the younger boy.

"Liar," Dan said softly, breaking the silence and causing Peter to look up into his bemused eyes.

"Wh-" He started but was quickly interrupted.

"It's Sunday," the older man stated, taking a sip of the near-frozen coffee, crossing his arms, and tilting his head back slightly to stare down the length of his nose. "You aren't late for class."

Peter quickly glanced at his digital watch, finding that the letters "SUN" blinked in the upper left-hand corner.

"Oh," he said quietly, just before Dan slung an arm around his shoulders and began to lead him down the street.

"So," he smiled, looking down at the younger man, "I say we go pick up this girl of yours and find some place that serves brunch. I know a great little place down the street a ways . . ."

And so, with Peter in tow, Dan started off down the street, rambling about nothing in particular but almost certain that the photographer wasn't listening anyway.

Terminar

AN: Questions? Comments? Vague disregard to any and all words written and established in the mind of one who has no sanity?

Hey, guys. Thanks for reading. I hope it wasn't as horrible as I think it is. I wrote it during an overnight shift in the grocery store. Yick! What a night that was, I tell ya.

Anywho, please leave a comment, suggestion, etc.. I'm always open to criticism or just a nice little note saying it wasn't as bad as I made it out to be. Later, Kats and Kittens! Have a good one, where ever you may be.