He hadn't meant to kill the Doc.

He was a massive pain in the ass, and his flagrant disregard for human life was beyond infuriating. Countless times, Peter had considered an earth without the villain. And in the midst of battle, there were moments when he saw a move that could've put an end to the Doc's terror. But he hadn't meant to kill him.

It was a miscalculation of pressure. A simple butterfly kick; nothing he hadn't done dozens of times before. And yet, he'd never done one on the Chrysler Building. Doc surged forward, arms closing in around Peter, and Peter kicked, propelling himself onto one of the Building's gargoyles. The Doc was launched in the opposite direction and fell thirty stories until he collided with asphalt.

He didn't scream. He just watched Peter, his eyes devoid of emotion, and plummeted.

When Peter's initial shock faded, he crawled down the side of the building and hovered over the Doc's corpse; in the fall, the Doc had been imprinted in the earth, several feet beneath the asphalt. His eyes were closed, and the wheezing breathing that normally accompanied him was gone.

So it came as a surprise when one of the Doc's arms snapped to attention and took hold of his hands. Peter squeaked and tugged backwards; his body trembled as the Doc sent him one last unhinged smile and a spark of electricity between their bodies. Peter's eyes glew a bright green as the life faded from the Doc's.

With a gasp, he stumbled away and tripped over his feet. He lifted a trembling hand before him and stared as a green energy was dispersed through his veins. Upon looking up from his hand, he found a crowd of concerned civilians staring at him. His chest ached as his ribcage was collapsing, crumbling, and his skin was crackling with unspent energy.

Peter wanted nothing more than to offer a witty retort to soothe the citizens. Because that was the job, wasn't it? Save the people and, when you can't, crack a few jokes to cushion the blow of what's sure to be a longstanding trauma. Everyone was freaking out, and Spiderman was always the cure for a good freaking out.

Except, Peter himself was on the verge of panic. The Doc was dead, lying so deep in the earth it might as well have been a coffin, and it was Peter's fault. Bad guy or not, he was Peter's responsibility, and Peter failed. People were watching him, and helicopters were approaching, and the Doc's dead eyes were watching him. His goggles had shattered in the fall, leaving Peter captive underneath a gaze that was both enraged and doleful.

A convoy of squad cars had just rounded the corner when Peter's senses returned to him. There was someone shouting, ordering him to the ground. But by then, he'd already launched a string of webbing onto an adjacent building and flung away.

He went home early that night.

Tonight, he hasn't left the house. He's just laying in bed, staring at the ceiling; he's sweating so badly that he's soaked through his pajama bottoms. He should probably change into something dryer, but he can't will himself to do more than roll out of bed; he pulls himself into his desk's chair, rubs a hand over his face, and yawns.

"Karen", Peter says, tapping his earpiece. He takes out a sheet of paper and a pen and begins writing. "Talk to me."

The earpiece whirrs to life. "Hello, Peter. What would you like me to talk about?"
"Anything", he groans as he presses his palms against his eyes. "It's too fucking loud."

Karen does a quick scan of the apartment and the surrounding neighborhood. When she replies, her voice is colored with confusion. "The apartment is silent. Excluding the occasional police siren and car horn, the neighborhood is relatively quiet. What is it that you're hearing?"
"My brain pounding against my skull for one." After misspelling a word, he pulls a face and drags his pen back and forward across the paper. The paper is worn thin to the point that he stabs a hole through it. Symbols that he doesn't recognize jump from the paper, and he winces. Peter inhales, pushes the notebook away, and drops his head into his hands. "I need some sleep."
The room falls silent. For a moment, the only sign of life in the entire apartment is the ragged breathing from Peter's chest; he feels wound up, stretched thin, and compressed all at once. It reminds him of life before Spiderman, back when things like asthma attacks were still an issue. And for all the fear and pain they caused, he can't help but yearn for them. He wants to feel scared, he wants to feel something, but he's just so tired.

He just wants to sleep.

"Peter", Karen pipes up. "I...liked that shirt you were wearing today. It's a very interesting shade of blue; cobalt, perhaps?"

Peter smiles into his hands. "Thanks, Karen."
"You're welcome." She's silent for another minute, then says, "And your socks are, er, riveting. Planets and kittens. I would have never thought of pairing those together, but you, as the kids say, certainly make it work."

"They do look kinda cool, don't they?"
"Yes, yes, they do."

He lifts his feet into his seat and stares down at his socks; the planet socks were a gift from MJ and the kittens from Ned. Truth be told, they were his favorite socks, his lucky socks. When deciding what to wear that morning, he'd chosen them with the hopes that they could turn the week around. They hadn't, of course, but they brought with them a sense of security. He misses security.

"The gang and I are gonna hang out next weekend", Peter tells her. "This old laboratory at the edge of the city."
"Well, that sounds like fun. Are you excited?"
"Yeah. It's been awhile since we've all just hung out." Spinning around in his swivel chair, he lowers his hands to his stomach and chuckles. "Ned and Cindy are kinda-but-not-really together, so that's gonna be interesting."
If Karen had a temporal form, she'd probably be cocking her head to the side right now. "Why?"
"Cause, you know, we're all friends. I don't think the dynamics will change or anything but...Well, that just leaves me and MJ and uh…"
"You like her."

Peter blushes and sinks further into his seat. Scratching the back of his head, he laughs and ignores the cold fingers dancing upon his chest. "Uh. I don't know, maybe."
"Maybe? Shouldn't you know how you feel?"

Peter smiles. "Okay, yeah, I like her. But it's like...Okay." Stirring abruptly, he kicks his feet against the floor and sends the seat spinning. "So, when we're talking, she's herself, you know? Blunt, weird, but cool; it's MJ. But, sometimes, we'll be talking, and I'll catch her watching me. Or she'll say something that sounds like flirting. Only, I don't know if that's just her being awkward or, you know, if it's something more." He shakes his head and kicks his feet beneath him. "You're a girl, Karen. How do you think she feels about me?"
Karen chuckles in his ear. "I'm a being of Artificial Intelligence, Peter; I don't have a gender. And even if I did, not all women think the same."
"Right, right." He juts a foot down, and the chair comes to a stop. His head spinning, he closes his eyes and exhales. "But if you had to guess?"
"Well, I'm no expert. But from the way you describe her, I'd say that she is attracted to you."
At that, Peter scowls. Which, yes, is a strange reaction given the circumstances. But he scowls nonetheless because if that's true, it just makes whatever it is that they have all the more confusing. He leaps from his chair, jumps into bed, and spreads into a star. "Then why doesn't she just tell me?"
"Probably the same reason you won't tell her."

He rolls his eyes; turning onto his side, he pulls his second pillow from beside him and tosses it into the air. Before it can fall back into his hands, he shoots some webbing from his fingers; a bedding of webbing cradles the fluffy pillow, swaying from side to side. Peter smiles, feeling the tendrils of sleep envelop him. "I just don't want things to get weird", he explains as he stretches his limbs. "Life's hard enough when you've got people that care about you."

"I've seen your friends", Karen consoles. "They won't let any 'weirdness' get in the way of what you have."

Peter hums and pulls his blanket over him. He's falling, falling quickly now, and that can only mean the nightmares are coming. But for the moment, he has Karen, and he has the thoughts of the gang and next weekend. He's dreading the next few hours, yet he's also cherishing the brief surge in pleasantness. It's an strange juxtaposition yet also a welcome one. And, sure, the nightmares do increase in intensity this time. But the resulting torrent of energy is more than worth it. Even if it's accompanied by an increasingly dour mood.