2012 01 30 Emotional Cocktail

Log Title:
The Spider and the Fly Girl: Emotional Cocktail

Heated Moments between two crimefighters who don't quite understand each other.

IC Date:
January 2012 sometime

Lower Manhattan and Nightwing Restorations

Brief log summary::
Spidey and Misty lock horns — and lips with unpredictable results.


There is no TS in this log::

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It's been a busy day for Misty — in a good way. She started the day with a lucky tip from one of her informants, which led her to the trysting place of a minor city councilman. "The Kew Motor Inn? /Really/?" She gets a handful of telephoto shots of him with his mistress, stops by the office long enough to back them up, then downloads them onto a thumbdrive and has them delivered by courier to his wife. The electronic funds transfer pings on her phone barely fifteen minutes after she expects the courier should've arrived.

Midday brought her to court, where she paid bail for a mutant kid with scales who had been brought in for shoplifting. The camera pics were nice and clear — the court case was going to be open and shut with Murdock on it, and the mutant kid would get to go home for keeps.

Now night has fallen, and she's feeling like things are looking up. She's on the streets, a black trench over her trademark red suit, stopping at this umbrella cart for a hot dog, or that bodega for a coffee, as she cris-crosses town watching and listening for suspicious activity. Or better yet, ninja activity.
Distantly, from somewhere on high she'll receive a beep of requested contact. When she checks who might be calling on this particular comm frequency the identifier will come back with Spider-Man attached to it. If she allows .gifs it'll be a big winky drawing of a cartoon spidey giving a thumbs up with the caption, 'Keep on Truckin'.
Should she pick up she'll hear that sing-song voice as he says. "This is Bogart One to Bacall Twelve, contact initiated. Over."
Misty plucks out the phone, and quirks a smile at the image that comes up on her com. She checks the signal encryption and once satisfied it's secure, answers, "We'll always have Paris, Bogart One," with amusement in her voice.

Reflexively, almost, she glances skyward. She has no idea what the range is on that com-thing he uses. She glances around as well, warily. Because Spider-Man is almost as bad for street toughs feeling chatty as Daredevil. Except the street toughs invariably think they can take Spidey, and they're more, um, terrified of Hornhead. She doesn't see the flash of red and blue against the night sky, right off, though. "What's up, sugar?" she asks.

The voice on the other end of the line is tinged with that tell-tale rush of wind that she's most likely come to associate with him swinging across the city. She'll hear the light sound of footsteps rushing across some kind of surface, then the resumption of that wind dashing across the receiver. His voice is only faintly muffled by the mask, but she can tell it's him.
"Have proceeded to cover ground-based elements from aerial points of recon. Will be ready to umm, like, help and stuff? Bah, I'm lousy with this spy thing. How do you do it?"

Misty shakes her head, terribly, terribly amused. No wonder the other heroes keep him around. He's a walking bright spot… which is kind of weird given there's a shadowy spot somewhere in his spirit, if she's going on a couple of moments from their more recent acquaintance. "Generally don't treat it like a classic movie. Think … Tarantino," she suggests. "So no pajamas up high, huh?" She is beginning to think they /are/ wannabes rather than real ones, and that encountering His Amazing Spiderness has scared them off. "None down here, either, though I did catch a purse snatcher."
"Ew, Tarantino?" Oh she hit a sore spot, she'll hear that characteristic /thwip/ on the other end of the connection, then a distant 'woohoo!' as he flies through the air. "So basically all the people down there sound the same while some kind of bizarre foot fetish scene takes place. No thanks!"
"But nah, no ninjas. Haven't seen much. A burglar, a mugger, there was an apartment fire it looked like but then it was just some old lady cooking goat. I think it was goat."
"You hate Tarantino?" Misty mock-gasps. "That's it! We're done!" She doesn't even pause before adding, laughing, "What, you were expecting more Tom Cruise Mission Impossible stuff?" He is, now that she stops to consider it, on the more squeaky clean end of the heroic spectrum, so maybe that would suit him a bit better. And a bit of a romantic if he was envisioning Bogart and Bacall. Quite a lot like Danny, suggests one part of her mind. She does not stop to examine that thought, leaving it to die of abandonment. "Sorry to disappoint. Goat, huh? Actually not bad if you cook it long enough. Hope she didn't burn it."

"Yeah, I didn't stick around for a sampling." Spidey's voice is light as the wind rushing past seems to stop. He lands lightly somewhere and keeps an eye out while he talks on the hands-free comm. "And honestly I have no idea what to expect when I am exposed to your particular brand of crazy, Ms. Knight." Alright he still sometimes calls her that, but it's fun to. He then adds quickly, "Not that your crazy is a bad brand of crazy, it's just… an acquired taste." He smirks and she can hear him shift the receiver slightly.

"You dress up like a big arachnid, and /I'm/ the crazy one," Misty retorts, mock-annoyed. "And what you expect is to keep out of sight like you have been doin', or you're gonna spook the locals. They all expect you to web them up to lampposts with pretty bows and notes saying 'Dear Police: The City Made you Some Bad Guys, But I Caughted Them.' or something."

A flicker of motion, furtive and jittery, catches Misty's attention. Affecting nonchalance, she glances around from her vantage. What was that? Something? Nothing? She scans the street, waiting for that weird motion to stand out again from the crowd which — thanks to the hour — is starting to thin out.

"Alright, alright. I'll stay out of sight. Say, there's some lady up here doing a dance kata work out in front of her window with a boombox busting out some righteous beats. Oh wait, sorry, that was you. Nope not crazy at all."
Alright maybe he'll pay for that one later, but she's out of arm's reach he's safe. for now. Though, true to his word, he doesn't descend and just holds there for now.

"Says the guy with the acrophilia and manic energy workout," Misty quips back. She's learning. Spider-Man banters. He doesn't so much talk as quip, and quipping back is kind of fun. "One sec." She spots it again — another flicker of motion.

A burly man goes "Whoa" and raises his hands in the universal street sign for "I don't want any trouble." Oddly enough, the thing he doesn't want any trouble from turns out to be a teenage boy with … lavender hair? "Hello, that's strange," she murmurs, so intrigued now that she's all but forgotten her conversation with the wallcrawler.
"What's strange?" Spidey's voice is a little more distant sounding as he seems to be passing through some sort of tunnel, the air rushing past once again.
"There's a kid," Misty says, only remembering the com as she hears her compatriot's voice on the other end. "Looks strung out. Freaked out and tweaking, maybe." There's almost a predatory feline purr in her voice. "Good. Means I can either scare him or bribe him if he knows anythin' worth knowin'." She holds up the comm thoughtfully. "Check in with you in a few, letcha know if it turned out to be a lead." She clicks off the comlink, pausing to gauge the street. No visible cops; no plainclothes. Again, good. Less to cause the already anxious and raggedy teen to rabbit. And raggedy is the word. His T-shirt and jeans look like they've been through an extra-large pencil sharpener.
Something in her voice disturbed him, and as the link clicks off he's in mid-backflip, twisting through the air high above. He lands upon an flagpole that juts forth from one of the apartment buildings, his feet and hands holding him to it as he swings around it once… twice… three times until he settles into a perch. Those mirrored-lenses scan the way, looking for some sign of her, of her prey. Ah, there. That stylish flash of fashion across the street.
In the next instant he's moving again, moving stealthily as he at times has been known to do. Landing upon the rooftop he starts to crawl along the edge of the roof, mirroring Misty's movements for now.
The kid in question doesn't even know his own name. If he did, he'd answer to Janos. He doesn't know what he's doing wandering around the streets of New York alone, with no money, and badly dressed for the weather. He only has dim memories of breaking glass, and coughing up liquid as if he'd nearly drowned.

He's scanning faces as he passes, windows. Cars. To see if something, anything jogs his memory, or sets a synapse afire. Frustration makes his motions jerky, and he reaches up to rake lavender-violet hair out of his face.

The sight of his face causes those nearest to him to gasp. One or two people, bold and hateful, murmur "Freakin' mutie." The lavender hair was nothing to bat an eye at, but something about him sets people's teeth on edge. He finally pauses to stop and get a good look at himself in a car's side-view mirror. What he sees makes his already pale skin go positively fishbelly. His skin is breaking out in what would be acne on a regular teen, but the carbuncles are bigger and pulsating. His skin is sheened with oily sweat that's lanking his hair to stick against his face. "Wh-what's happening to me?" he whispers, so enthralled with the freakishness of his own face that he doesn't spot Misty coming up quietly behind him.

"You needing food, sugar, or a fix?" Her tone is gentle, but firm. Depending on his answer, she will adjust her approach.

Should the watchful arachknight spin himself down on a thread for a better look, the teen's frightened and frightful face may look distantly familiar. Nigglingly so.

Not wanting to be seen, at least not yet, Spider-Man moves into a position where he can watch. Crawling over the side of the building, he makes his way down upside down until he finds a sign that extends from the building. The sign proudly proclaims, simply, 'BEER' and its neon long ago burnt out. But it's a suitable place to perch upon over the closed remains of what must've been a bar at one point or another. He holds there, decently out of sight and lets Misty work for now. Though s'truth, there is something about the kid. It's enough to get the wallcrawler to wrack his brain and furrow his brow in consideration.

The kid jumps, and flinches, startled by Misty's question. He frowns up at her. Way up. He's maybe five four, and she's easily six foot in her platforms. "…Hungry," he ventures after a moment of visibly taking inventory. "Yes. Food?" he asks. He frowns, thoughtfully, raking his hands through his hair in what is becoming a nervous gesture. That ultra-acne effect seems to back off while he is thinking. "I … speak English," he adds, wonderingly.

"Yeah, and pretty good, too," Misty offers by way of compliment. "There's a good sandwich truck two blocks from here. C'mon, I'll buy you a bite." She starts to walk off, but when the kid stands there, staring at her, without following, she cocks her head. "C'mon. I ain't gonna hurt you." There's a flintiness in her eyes, though, that implies she suspects something. Hungry street kids are dubious and suspicious, but hunger never loses.

"No," says the teen. "I … I don't know you. And I want to find out…" he trails off. "I need to know…" And he trails off again, brow knitting. "Do you know who I am?"

Misty glances at the kid, shrugs, and shakes her head. "No, kid. No idea. But maybe we can start lookin' after we get a meal in you. You look like a stiff wind would blow you away."

"Ahem, Misty?" And there's that voice again, but now from much much closer. Hanging there upon that sign he seems a smidge out of place, but there definitely is something about that kid. In fact, he says as much. "Umm, there's something about that kid. I can't quite place it…"
He plants a hand and casually flips around and off the sign, landing with a light patter of feet and then straightening up to look across the way at the two of them. "I think I recognize him, I have a sort of… X-vibe I think." He's not sure where he recognizes the kid from, but probably something to do with the mutant super group.
"X…" the kid repeats, eyes glinting, as he glances up, seeking the source of the voice. "Something familiar…" And somebody stalks by, shoving Misty and the kid with a shoulder on his way past. "Lousy mutant," he sneers, glowering over his so-cool mirrorshades at them.
Misty's attention is split, between annoyance at a well-intentioned but meddlesome wallcrawler, the next burly mutant hater, and the kid suddenly becoming more agitated.
"I…I have to go," the kid says, abruptly, and takes off at a lopsided lope of a run. He's tired and hungry and he's still trying to bolt like a gazelle scenting a lion.
"Aw, damn it. Thanks a bunch, Spidey," Misty sighs, and breaks into an easier long-legged stride with intent to catch the kid. "Hold up — I can help!" she calls. If the kid really needs help and isn't just an addict, her intent is to do what she can.
"No hey, I'm like serious." And as he says this he starts after them, taking a few strides and then firing a webline up towards a lamppost. He uses the snap of the tension to push him up into a flying leap that has him flipping end over end to land in front of that kid. Spidey holds his hands up, as if trying to stay the kids departure by saying, "One sec, fella. There's just…"
And then that's when it hits him, the realization. This figure, it looks like that guy. The Morlocks, the X-men. Oh no, and Misty's coming up…
"Misty, get back!" He says this firmly, even as he moves around no longer seeking to stop the kid and perhaps moreso to interpose himself between her and the boy. "I'll explain later, get back!"
Oh, no he didn't!
The kid blinks, as the red and blue clad figure lands in front of him. Something in his partially-formed, incompletely downloaded brain recognizes the hero. "NO!" he cries, voice breaking in adolescent panic. "You stay away from me!" He whirls, as if in confusion, but the motion begins moving him faster. "I won't let you take me!"
Misty, for her part, is completely confused, and now annoyed. "He's just a kid, man, move!" She still has him pegged for hungry and confused, and now Spider-Man has just added "panicky" to that emotional cocktail. She leans toward Spider-Man with her right shoulder, seeking to gently check him out of her way so she can continue pursuing her quarry. "Look, he's just being a pest," she says, by way of trying to get the kid to calm down again.
But there are — things — glinting off the street light and the freezing rain that's starting to fall. Things that are starting to protrude sharply from his skin. They're tiny, little more than needles now, but they're growing — some slowly, some with an alarming quickness.
The boy, now frantic and driven to tears, is beginning to whirl faster, in a blur.
There's no time for niceties, no time to worry about how mad she's going to be at him. Spider-Man finally recognizes the danger and so he acts to handle it.
When the boy starts to twist and rotate, he's already moving. When Misty moves to push Spidey out of the way, Spider-Man lets her do so… but then she'll feel the /thwap!/ of webbing as Spidey tries to attach a line to her back and _suddenly swing upwards towards one of the nearby rooftops, making sure to catch that civilian too if he's still nearby.
But Spidey's moving fast, should he succeed in getting Misty clear he'll already be moving to try and leap back down to do something about the poor kid.

"What the hell are you do—OOAAAIAAOW!" Misty screams, startled being too mild a word, as she is yoinked, quite suddenly, off her feet and skyward. There's a brief stream of invective from her as she's deposited unceremoniously on an icy rooftop, slips, and falls on her backside, out of sight of what is happening on the ground below.

The civilians are worldly wise enough to know a mutant event about to go ugly when they see one. In New York, there's always something. And reacting fast is a survival skill. A circle of clear sidewalk has opened around the shaking, spinning teen, who is all but a one-boy tornado, hair whipping around him. There's an awful chit-chit-chak sound of the calcified blades his body produces hitting windows, cars, and sinking in deep. This would also explain why his clothes are shredded; he's done it before, recently. He has little control, and the blades go willy-nilly as they will, embedding in whatever they hit due to the speed they're moving thanks to his equally uncontrolled spinning.
But the moment passes, and the kid's whirling slows, as what little adrenaline he had in his system burns away. He ends up wobbling, taking a few staggering steps, then landing on his knees, hands on them, bent over and gasping for breath.
When Spider-Man arrives at his side, he looks up and asks, plaintively, "What /am/ I…" and sublimates in the cold. It's a weird and unnatural thing, that someone should just /evaporate/ like that, especially when it's only nineteen degrees out.
Landing in front of the kid and holding his hands up, Spidey was about to say something, about to try and reason with the kid. But then the kid turns wispy, fading, disappearing. For a time Spider-Man looks left, looks right, as if half-expecting him to reappear. When he doesn't then the vigilante straightens up slowly, frowning behind that mask. He lowers his hands, then kneels down to where the young man was standing, examining what little remains.
Of course, that's when someone in the crowd says loudly, "You see that? Spidey killed that guy!"
A few more voices raise, "Oh hell, he shot that guy with his venom and melted him!"
"That's crap, he didn't do that."
"What do you know, I saw it, you weren't here."
And slowly the crowd begins to devolve into cries of, "Menace!" There are a few counterpoint cries, still insisting the Webslinger isn't a bad guy, but the haters are louder and more numerous.
Misty's heels are ringing on the fire escape as she races down and once in decent jumping distance, swings herself off to land in a crouch, pose remarkably similar to one of Spider-Man's own. "Okay, break it up. You read too much damn Daily Bugle." She shakes her head, not sure whether the crowd or Spider-Man himself is more a source of exasperation. She decides the crowd, for now, has won. She shoots a glower at the wallcrawler. "I /will/ get that explanation," she seethes, before giving another once-over to the crowd. "Well if it isn't Vinnie the Barracuda," she smirks, pointing into the crowd.
"Vinnie the Barracuda?!" someone gasps, alarmed. Apparently the nickname means trouble, and the crowd begins to thin out, only one or two rabble-rousers still trying to froth up the remaining people with the 'Menace' meme.
Misty, for her part, is glancing this way and that, unaware of the lavender-haired mutant's sudden and unfortunate demise.
"Yeah, hey, sorry." Spidey tells Misty as she comes down, but then when the crowd starts up he starts to make his departure by stepping off. "That's my cue!" And having said that he doesn't stick around for an explanation, despite the terribly attractive glowering of Ms. Knight. He takes a half jogging step, jumps, then leaps onto the side of a building only to rebound off of it and fire a webline. The next instant he's swinging upwards and fairly quickly he's out of sight.
So that jerk leaves her there with the crowd starting to disperse, the clothes of the kid lying there what remnants there may be. Of course, he's probably forgotten she has his phone number.
Misty finds the clothes after a moment or two, and there's not more than a couple heartbeats before realization hits like a hammer between the eyes: her face fills with horror because there are not that many things in this world that cause a person's clothing to suddenly empty bloodlessly. So her quarry is gone, poor sad confused thing. And on a glance around, so is the spider.
There's a chirp of the comlink as she flips it open again. "And just where the hell do you think /you're/ goin'?" she demands, should he open his end of the connection.
There's a click that signals the link's engaged fully and then there's Spidey's voice, a bit subdued as he says. "Sorry, figured it best I not give the crowd something to rail against. Give me a place, meet you there." He says this quickly, levelly, without his usual aplomb.
The connection doesn't break however, as he starts to give her what he knows. "And sorry about the whole, you know, webbing you thing. I usually wait til the second date for that." Ha ha. Alright he still makes at least one joke, but his heart's not in it. "I recognized the kid, or at least I think I did. That was a mutant named Riptide, he was part of the team that attacked the Morlocks a while ago. The X-ers fought him. Sorry I felt I had to move fast. His ability is to spin around and basically fire off lots of sharp deadly things and you were too close."
The tone of Misty's voice when she first responds implies the joke bounced. Badly. "Mm, yeah, okay." She doesn't sound totally convinced. "Nightwing's office," she says curtly, and gives him a quick sequence of numbers that must be a one-use guest code to the door. "He didn't look like a deadly mutant killer. He looked like a damn scared kid. I'll see you there in ten minutes, and you can try to convince me." Convince her of what? That the kid really was dangerous? That Spidey himself isn't really a menace? She cuts the line off and heads for the nearest cab, since she doesn't have webline express to get from place to place. And while in the back of the car, with her phone, she hits a couple wikis. A few conspiracy sites. She's not as tight with the X-Men as she once was — their roster changes up so much, so there's no way to corroborate that from them unless she runs into one, and even in this city, the chances of that are not good. What she comes away with after a quick netdive is no more clear. It's all speculation about Morlocks, Marauders, clones, and some shadowy figure behind it all.
She is calmer, but her body language is still all tension as she takes the stairs to the Nightwing office, and lets herself in. The lights are off. She folds her arms and says, to the darkness, "Well?"
"I already told you what I think and why." There's a silhouette in the window, just a black outline of a crouching Spider-Man resting on the balls of his feet and his head tilted sideways as he considers her. He doesn't move off the perch when she arrives, nor does he seem too entirely enthused. He simply replies levelly. "I think that about covers it."
"Yeah, you did," Misty replies, voice even and level. She's lit from the streetlight spilling in from behind him. Her arms are folded over her breasts and her feet are in a wide stance as she regards the crimefighter. "But he didn't look like some monster mutant to me, is the thing. He looked like a scared, freaked out kid. Who maybe needed help. He didn't get it. What'd he get, huh?! He's scattered like ashes on the wind because you wanted to save the day or what?" The fact that her words are speeding up indicates how agitated she is. "I thought he was just a junkie or some street kid who needed a sandwich. But he …he …damn!"

There is a loud WHAM-KRAK! Somebody's bionic arm just punched the wall in frustration. "That is NOT what I'm … we're…supposed to be about!"

"No he didn't, and… he didn't look like I remembered. But it was him." Spider-Man stretches up a bit, one hand resting on his shoulder forlorn as he rubs there for a moment, thoughts distancing for a time. He looks back to her and says quietly, "Something was going on, people don't just evaporate like that. To be fair when it comes to the X-Men, it could be anything. That might not have been him, or it might have been a future self, or past self, or… something. But yeah, we failed him. I failed him, and I'm sorry I took the choice out of your hands."
There's a small shrug and he looks up towards her, "Wasn't your fault, if anyone's, it was mine."
Misty opens her mouth and stops. She wants to be mean. She wants to snap, "Yeah, it /was/ your fault," but something in her just can't do it. There is something so earnest and sincere under that mask that it comes right out in the voice. The anger isn't completely gone, but it dials back from lethal explosion levels. The desk is no longer in danger of being flipped.

"I'd be a hypocrite if I beat you up for that," is what she finally chooses to decide on saying to him, voice no longer thrumming with ill-restrained rage. "It was a mistake, and you made what you thought was the right choice." A pause. A breath. And then she takes two long strides across the room to raise her human hand, her left, to his masked face. "And if it was as bad as you thought — you saved my life. So … you don't owe me any apology. A'ight?"
"All right, fine I take it back." He smirks a bit behind the mask, but his heart's not in it. It's more a feeling like he makes these comments sometimes on autopilot. So he hops off of his perch and stands there for a time like a normal human being as he pulls open the window again. "You need anything else? I should probably get back out there and see what I can see."

Misty's already written off the quippage as some automatic defense mechanism. Maybe how his mind protects itself from the wonders he sees, the weird. To say nothing of the beating his ego must take from New York City itself constantly swinging on a metronome between love for him and hate. "Yeah," she says, gently tugging at his arm, using no more than human strength even though it's the right hand.

"Don't … Don't go just yet. I think the 'Oh my God I could have died' is about to kick in, and …" She glances away, a little embarrassed at the admission because the world knows Misty as the tough one. "It's been a minute. I don't think I wanna go through the cope fail by myself, a'ight?"

"Are you okay?" He asks this evenly, the wallcrawler turning back to look at her. She's close enough that she can see the crease of his brow as he looks at her, her own image cast back at her in the gleam of those mirrored lenses in his mask. He holds off on leaving, turning his attention fully upon her.
She's close enough that she can feel that warmth coming from him, easily noticed during such a chill in the air during the winter, but his metabolism is so high that he gives off waves of it at times. She might even be standing close enough to catch the subtle scents that touch him. The hint of exertion, something akin to leather, and steel, and sweat.
"Yes and no," Misty answers slowly, her breathing shallow and quick one second, then slowing and deepening. Her training is kicking in, but going from adrenaline rage, to solemnity, to envisioning herself cut to shreds by a mutant's powers gone out of control is a lot for one woman, even one who fancies herself tough-as-nails, to deal with. She wavers on her feet, sways, and then murmurs, "damn it." She reaches for the other person in the room and tilts her head down until her forehead is resting on his shoulder, breath hitching.

Despite the cute banter they've shared, this is clearly hard for her. Letting the wall down. Letting another person offer her comfort.
"Um," Spider-Man wasn't expecting this of course, it's not what fits the image people have of Misty Knight, Daughter of the Dragon. Not that anyone would fault her, it's just not something he'd expected tonight. Far from it in fact, he envisioned much more with the punchings and the yelling.
But slowly, slowly, he'll seem to ease into the embrace, as if allowing it, allowing her. She'll feel a strong arm circle around her waist and offer to hold her gently, very gingerly. He rests the other hand between her shoulderblades and pats gently, then she'll hear his voice as he murmurs quietly. "S'ok. Was a bunch of craziness. Heck, you know, usually when I get home I tend to break down into tears and eat all the Haagen Dasz in the house. And those are the good days." Again with that touch of humor, as if trying to defuse the situation, distance it. He tries to draw back to meet her eyes, offering his hidden sardonic self-deprecating smile.

Now there is a mental image. "That'd certainly explain the energy," Misty murmurs, a chuckle almost audible in her voice. "You're on a perpetual sugar rush." She lets him draw her back, almost surprised that her own arms have gone around him in return. "Thank you," she says quietly. For what? Saving her life? Being there for her until she could collect herself? For not blabbing it all over manhattan's rooftops because she knows he'd never do such an unkind thing?

"Seriously," she adds, as if that explains what she's thanking him for. And then, almost without realizing it, her right hand whips up, and reaches to flip his mask up just enough to reveal his lips. If he doesn't get all squirrelly about it, she'll lean in and brush a quick kiss across his lips by way of punctuating her gratitude.

It's a moment that's unexpected, that reaches him and grasps hold without warning. It's like an electric shock of revelation, and one that demands his full attention. One instant he's holding her gently, consoling her, trying to be that good guy that's needed at the time. But then the next this statuesque beautiful woman has drawn up his mask over the tip of his nose and brought her warm lips to his.
Perhaps before he knows it, before he realizes, he kisses her back. She can feel it, the subtle soft shift of breath, the surrender of it to her in that embrace, the faint parting of his lips, and a butterfly wing caress sensation that's just the faintest touch of his tongue, perhaps caught in that instant as he moistens his lips, but then simply allows the kiss to grow.
Misty has to be careful in moments like this. Maybe less so in this instance, but other people are so fragile and that arm, so strong. It's almost a relief to be able to relax and be gentle in the warmth of the embrace, and the soft, sweet sensation of the kiss that she had honestly only intended to ba quick peck. Somehow, these brief few weeks of banter and working together did forge something between them. Something that's warming and growing with the lingering kiss. It's a good few seconds before she comes up for breath, murmuring, "…uh…wow…" with an almost awed tone in her voice. "So. Webslinging, being a smart ass, and being a damn fine kisser. Any other hidden talents I oughta know about?"

"Oh umm…" Spider-Man's gaze is utterly unable to be gauged, but he's stuck looking at her, watching her features, enjoying the way her lips curve to say those few words, and to catch the glimpse of that tongue if only for an instant. He draws back then, abruptly awkward and feeling the weight of the moment hanging heavy upon his shoulders. He heaves a small, 'heh' and then says lightly, "I uhmm, can wiggle my ears? Totally non spider-related power." There's the humor, rising up like the defense mechanism that it is.
Misty's tongue does flit out briefly, licking her lips, as if to savor the warmth and taste of that kiss all over again. Loathe though she is to do it, she reaches up and brings the mask back down. "You said you had somewhere to go. Held you up long enough." She steps back, but the fingers of both hands trail down his shoulders, his arms, and catch briefly at his fingers. /What are you _doing_, Mercedes?/ runs briefly through her head, and vanishes, unanswered. Her lips curl into a smile that lacks the usual characteristic wryness.

"You can show me that trick some other time," she offers. "After all, we still ain't found your ninjas." A subtle admission that they still have reason to seek out each other's company.

"I, um." Spider-Man seems still out of breath, still definitely off balance. He points towards the window with one hand, then the other joins it with a thumb pointing in the same direction. His initial pointing finger shifts to gesture upwards as if he had an idea or was about to say something, but then he takes a half-step backwards. "I um, yeah, should probably go."
He stops after that step, seems about to say something else, but then adds. "Yeah, I should probably. You know. Go."
Misty watches this awkward display and instead of finding it pitiful,finds it somehow charming. It's that sincerity, that informs everything he does. This has thrown him off balance as much as it did her. "Don't worry about it," she suggests. "We'll figure it out as we go." She steps forward to brush one brief kiss — like the one she /originally intended/ across his mask, then steps back, still smiling faintly. "We'll have another go tomorrow night." Another go? At /what/?
Crawling backwards out the window, he hovers over the precipise for a moment, but the he turns back and tells her. "Misty, I… I mean, I shouldn't. You know. I'm like. You don't know how freaking terrible it is to like even consider maybe dating me. So like, I should tell you. Just it's super bad. Like imagine… dating well I don't know, I can't think of a suitable metaphor. Just…" He drops out of the window, hanging onto the ledge with just his fingers. "I mean you're great and amazing and so damned beautiful. But just… I'm bad news. And I'm not saying that trying to be like all dark and mysterious. But…"
He sighs, and then looks down to the city streets below. "Ugh, nevermind. I'm going to go crawl into a hole somewhere." And that having been said he drops from view.
Off in the distance she might catch him swinging away against the skyline once again.

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