"That's what they call me. Spidey the Fun Ruiner." Peter punctuates his sentence with jazz hands, because he's a total dork. The lack of an answer, though, ratchets up the tension a little. He's got zero guesses, despite the lingering familiarity - not just in the girl's appearance (or what he can see, with the way she's bundled up), but in the easy banter between them.

"Challenge accepted." He should know better than that, but even though his mask doesn't move, his shit-eating grin is readable beneath it. "I'll chase it with vodka, goes down clean."

But then the girl says her name, and his easy joviality is wiped away. Gwen. Gwen.

To be honest, he barely registers the Spider-Woman part, and that's on him.

"What." It's not a question. His hands, one tucked in the blankets, the other resting on the lip of the sled - his fingers actually dig into the metal, unintentionally leaving imprints behind. Peter's silent for a beat, and yeah, maybe she's right to avoid his gaze, because he's staring.

What he settles on, after a moment, is a measured, deceptively even tone (or, at least, his best approximation of one). "If this is a joke, I'd prefer to wake up now."