After Gwen Stacey dies, there are two Peter Parkers.
One of them cannot sleep. He cannot eat. He's a walking, starving insomniac with bags under his eyes and unshaved stubble sketched across his chin.
The other still cannot sleep. But he makes himself try. He puts a picture of her on his nightstand, and he makes himself try.
One of these Peters remembers the sound of her head against the pavement. It was sickening, it rang in his ears for hours, it was the change of everything. It couldn't possibly be real. The blood running from her nose, the closed eyes, the open lips, how could it exist in the plane of reality? How could he not be dreaming? Her chest did not heave for breath. The silence was deafening.
The other Peter remembers the sound of her laugh. The cutest thing he'd ever heard. She could cackle, and it was the cutest damn thing. He couldn't get enough of it. She would scratch the bridge of her nose and make a smart comment, and stare off at the sunset and the light would catch her blonde hair. And she always looked happy to see him. She always was happy to see him.
One Peter remembers the promise he made. He screams and curses, tears himself apart with his own guilt. (I'll stay away from her). (I promise). (Yes, sir, I promise). But of course not; he followed her every day, watched her every move, was going to follow her to England, would follow her even now, even today. Long after she's gone.
Another Peter remembers the promise he kept. She would be his path. He would kiss her at midnight when they were supposed to be studying, he would make her dim sum when she came home late, he would tie Jack the Ripper to a lamppost by his toes, just for her. (There's crime in England, right?). He would drop everything for her. He still would now, even today. Long after she's gone.
The first Peter has nightmares. They're horrid things, with claws and laughing faces and electricity streaking through their veins. Harry Osborn's smile haunts him everywhere, it's in the walls, in the mirrors, under his skin, and from the Goblin's lips come that awful
crack
that means Gwen Stacey is gone.
But, somehow, the second Peter has dreams. They're lovely things, with no beginning and no end. Gwen Stacey takes him to an amusement park, holds his hand on the boardwalk, clutches his arm when the roller coaster descends.
"You scaredy cat," she teases him after the ride. He's woozy and dizzy and sitting at the edge of the dock, head between his knees. "You can scale buildings in a single bound," she whispers in his ear, "but put you on the Twisting Vortex and you turn into a five-year-old."
He sputters, "I-it's a little different when you're not the one in control."
"Uh huh, sure." She kisses his cheek; he feels better after that.
In these dreams, they sleep together curled up in sheets, they surprise each other at work with coffee and muffins, they finish each other's sentences and kiss each other goodnight when it gets late. She's snarky and doesn't put up with his crap; but she giggles like a schoolgirl and frets for him like a mother. He loves everything about her. She's so much smarter than he is; valedictorian in her class. She's better than him at just about everything. She cracks better jokes and plays a mean game of Monopoly. The only things he can best her in are Dance Dance Revolution and cooking spaghetti. She never understood the concept of "al dente."
She's just like she was, when she was tangible, when she was real.
One Peter considers giving up. He considers dropping everything, moving to England, going to Oxford in her stead. Or maybe just not doing anything. Maybe he'll live the rest of his days with Aunt May, living off of Froot Loops and frayed sweaters. It would be the easy way out. No more Spiderman: the menace that killed Gwen.
The other Peter knows he can't do that to Aunt May. After all, she's the only one he has left now, isn't she?
One Peter takes the costume outside, dumps it in a trash can, mutters "good riddance." Then he reconsiders; he carries it to her grave, starts to dig a hole. Spiderman died with Gwen, he decides. Gwen is gone. Spiderman is gone too.
The other Peter stares at her headstone, reads her epitaph, pours over every letter spelling her name. I love you, Gwen. (I love you.)
One Peter knows she is gone, and wants to throw aside his hope. Richard and Mary are gone. Uncle Ben is gone. Some day, Aunt May will be gone.
(Do I have to lose you too?)
But the other Peter listens to her graduation speech. And, amazingly, he laughs through his tears. He laughs, because there is a smudge of grape jelly staining Gwen's collar. He didn't notice it before. She looks beautiful, of course, (she always looked beautiful), but there's a stain on her pristine white collar. She ate a PB&J sandwich before her graduation speech. Of course she did; when Gwen was nervous, she always turned to comfort food. That was her habit. That was a "flaw" of hers. A lovely, lovely flaw.
He laughs, even as he cries, even as everything within him aches. Long after she's gone, she's still making him laugh.
The first Peter would give up, drop everything, sail where the wind takes him and life can't hurt him anymore. But the second Peter is Spiderman.
And the second Peter wins.