"I meant you would have hit me. You weren't exactly too careful coming out that door. I almost hit you and that would've been bad, I think, because I'm pretty sure it wasn't your vomit face you were sporting."
He stopped talking as suddenly as he'd started. One moment his words were a torrent at full blast and the next nothing. Silence. Peter wasn't good at moving at normal speeds. Go or stop. Those were his speeds. Moving at the right speed for everyone else made him feel as if he were betraying himself. It was disturbing to think he'd have to hate himself, what he was, what he could do, only to fit in with other people.
Other people sucked.
They were the least rad creatures ever.
Mutants had become a new thing in his life at home before he'd hit up Test City. Now, Peter knew he was far from alone in his life of inordinate experiences or 'gifts' as Charles Xavier liked to call them. Peter felt as far from a 'gifted youngster' as anyone could get, but that guy thought he was exactly what was printed on his paper card: a gifted youngster. It made him feel both ridiculous and pleased at the same time.
This guy looked as if he'd been somewhere unpleasant for a while. Peter resisted the urge to pick his pocket to check his identity out before he could blink. It would've been instants. Not even seconds. No one ever noticed. Peter had gotten so good at it, he'd forgotten when he'd learned how to do it or when the first time had been.
All he knew was there was something sad about the guy throwing away his drink.
Carefully, he enunciated every word to try to make it easier on the stranger, "Are you okay?"