@scorpionstung
With a glob of sauce on his face that he hasn’t bothered to wipe off yet, Peter unwraps his third Big Mac. It’s one of those nights: a genetically enhanced super-metabolism, hours of high-activity, and T-injections will do that to a guy.
“I haven’t forgotten about you,” he whispers, slowly running his index finger along the bottom bun to collect the runoff sauce before it can drip off. In a comically exaggerated motion, he brings his finger to his lips to lick it clean.
Satisfied that it won’t drip onto his shirt, he brings the burger to his lips, taking an obscenely large bite. Only to damn near choke as an unpleasantly familiar face walks past on his way to the counter. Try as he might to suppress the coughing fit that will only bring attention to himself, he can’t help it.
“Mac Gargan,” he wheezes inaudibly, reaching for his drink.
Unfortunately, he’d run out of soda halfway through Big Mac #2. And that means, he has to get up--still red-faced and coughing like mad--walk between the counter and the Scorpion of all people, refill his drink, and try not to die the world’s most embarrassing death.
In a McDonald’s. In secondhand sweatpants. At the Scorpion’s feet.
“‘Scuse me,” he manages, suspiciously--and pointlessly--keeping his face turned away from Mac’s as he lurches for the soda fountain.
