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Gwen is at the corner of the stairwell, sitting on the windowsill from where the rows of emergency stairs meet and part on the side of the building, that very particular image that is so very New York-esque. She sighs, not languishing per se, but rather in wait, though what exactly she is in wait of the cop's daughter would much prefer to not admit. Above, the ceiling gives away the thrumming, complex beats of music and dancing, many pairs of feet beating down on the floor, all of it only partially kept away by the closed door, a blunted edge of noise.
Outside, the city looks... oddly normal, save from all the open windows at night. All the lights turned low, to avoid the unavoidable heat. If anything, this would be an endurance test of an evening, one of which the city knew many of. It made them who they were, the ones who belonged in that place. It was an earned quality.
Her mind wanders, as it tends to do. How the police station is doing, has Harry and Flash found any open bodega with any ice left, where did Peter find himself lost at, this time. What did Mr. Valente meant when he said she ought to cut corners in her research project, again. Focus up, Stacy, he recommended and she smiled at that, as if it had been a joke, even though her stomach had fallen to her feet like rocks.
As if Gwen hadn't spent the entire semester focused to the point of blindness, missing in most of their friend group's action. In a whirl of pages and research meetings and the odd stop at the coffee bean, MJ had signed a lease and she was invited, or rather, informed that her attendance was mandatory.
That Harry went as far as to pick her up made her blush, hot pink embarrassment rising to her face at the silent admonishment. Then again, it was Harry— with his own brand of chaos, smiling up at her in his emerald car, all old money and easy, rehearsed debonair despite his own characteristic oddity. Her blush was replaced with a proper smile in no time, and then with a shriek, when his driving almost threatened to loosen her new blue silk scarf right off her head.
Luckily, they were kind enough to not say a word when they knew she felt bad as it was. Flash wrapped her in his warms and swung her around effortlessly, his laughter ringing under her ear making her head spin, before he leaned back to get a good look at her, in his own words, as he had seen her so little as of late, "where have they been hiding you?" to which she only shrugged.
Before the blonde could muster a proper answer, there was MJ's tapping on his shoulder, and her voice warning him that if he did not let Gwen go at once, there would be dire consequences which he did not dare to see through and, before she knew of it, her feet were steady on the floor and she was swept into Mary Jane's perfume, impossibly red hair, and a series of questions and jokes and conversations being lifted off from where they had been left, days and weeks before, spinning her right into the thick of it.
Unfortunately, she still infused their innocent words with her guilt, their usual banter full of little white reminders. It was her own special talent, this guilt, a very catholic trait leftover from their sunday mass attempts at keeping her mother's faith alive (there weren't many other leftovers, thankfully.)
She almost doesn't hear the odd bounding up of steps, as if the late attendee were taking many steps at one go, quicker and quicker until she looked up to find Parker standing there, only half-winded despite the running, as if he had been surprised by herself, instead.
"Hi," Gwen raises her hand, jostling the forgotten coke bottle in it.
"Hey you." Parker calls back, shooting a look up to where the crowd seems to pulsate from the other end, calling all attention. "Up there, right?"
"Indeed, Mr. P." she nods, shooting him an analytical glance of her own. "What took you so long?"
He shrugged, "there was a fire downtown."
She smiled, understanding. There was no danger Peter wasn't told to run straight into at the Bugle, no wonder he ran the other way at any other opportunity. She noticed a smudge of ashes on his cheekbone, a dark stain all the way to his hairline, and tried to will herself out of walking up to him and cleaning it off, focused on setting her feet perfectly parallel to one another instead.
It doesn't take him long to catch up with the whole picture, "And what is a lady like you doing in a staircase like this?"
"You're the academic," she jeers, "shoot me your best theories."
There's that fleeting smile of his, light that crosses his features completely in one burst, as he thinks her words through. "Harry's late?"
"He's out with Flash looking for ice, we ran out."
"Already?" he exclaims, sneaking a look at his watch.
She hums, pressing her lips into a line to avoid giggling with him about the management of their friends' party supplies. "Last chance, Peter," she warns him, taking a sip of her lukewarm coke.
He draws in a breath, feigning deep thought with his eyes squinted at her, as if she held a clue left for his seeing. "I hypothesize that while Mary Jane's party is delightful, in the usual words of one beautiful Gwendolyn Stacy, it is also unbearably hot and crowded and you had to take a step outside?"
"Ding, ding, ding!" Gwen chimes in with a laugh, "It did just so happen that my step outside lingered. Might be more of a long walk by now."
Peter offers her his hand, "Then it's time for your return, lady. You can pin it on me."
"A gentleman, too?" she takes his hand and is gladly pulled into his orbit. "Be still my heart."
He chuckles at her flirtation, neither impressed or too used to it which she always appreciates. Peter leads the way upstairs, hand linked with hers behind his back. MJ's record player is strained, playing as loudly as it can go and barely overpowering the chatter. It makes Gwen's heart rush, in that anxious way that melts the second the party goes on unaffected by her entrance.
He's reaching for the knob confidently when the will to baby him gives out (not for the first time nor the last), "no, wait," she asks and he halts midway, free hand hanging midair when she turns to him, pulling her scarf off her neck to clean his cheek softly.
She has to lean close to him, in the small entrance, and a part of her wonders if he's watching the thinning space between them with even more of that glint in his eyes than usual, but doesn't gather it in herself to look for it.
Instead, Gwen leans away with a small smile, gaze falling down when she hums, "there you go," all while turning away and opening the door herself to a gash of light and warmth, a brick wall they were at once flush against, arm to arm. The music loud and sharp in their ears again, like a rushing heartbeat.