Reckless
The weekend comes too fast, and still there is no sign of Peter. Gwen tries not to worry too much. No news about Peter might be troublesome, but no news about Spiderman could only be good news. Still, she scours the papers every day, and cranes her neck to see every newscast playing in coffee shops, wondering where he could possibly be.
They are still in their first few weeks of classes, but Gwen's workload has picked up considerably. She can usually juggle her schedule between exams and her job at OsCorp and tutoring, but with the added stress of being a temporary media sensation, of having her lab broken into and subsequently facing her father's murderer, she finds herself barely able to come up for air, let alone go knocking on Peter's door every other hour.
On Friday her mother ends their stalemate to text her and tell her that Captain Johnson is coming to dinner on Monday, and she is expected to behave like a twenty-year-old young lady and set an example for her brothers. Gwen never answers the text. She knows she'll have to go, of course, but she dreads it a little less knowing that her mother is pacing the floors, wondering if her picture-perfect daughter will let her down or not.
On Saturday Gwen tries Peter's cell for the fifth time, and for the fifth time it goes straight to voicemail. She knocks on his door just to be safe, and then she pulls out her cell and finds his aunt's number.
"Gwen," answers Aunt May warmly, as if she and Gwen are old friends who habitually chat on the phone. "So nice to hear from you."
Gwen is a little thrown off by the reception. She stands in her hallway for a moment, her mouth open, not quite sure what to say. "Hey, Mrs. Parker," she says eventually.
"Please, I told you to call me Aunt May."
"Aunt May," Gwen corrects herself, her tongue feeling thick. "Listen—have you—is Peter in Queens, by any chance?" she asks.
There's a pause on the other line. "What's going on, Gwen?"
"Nothing," says Gwen, unconvincingly. She bites the inside of her cheek. Now she is frightening an old woman. Did she seriously just call Peter's aunt without a decent excuse when she started asking questions like this?
"Gwen," says Aunt May, her voice lowering. "Peter isn't in Queens. And I'm guessing you haven't seen him in Manhattan, either."
Gwen closes her eyes. She can't lie to this woman. "No. I haven't."
She listens to Aunt May exhale loudly on the other line. "When is the last time you heard from him?"
"Um." Gwen doesn't know why she feels self-conscious admitting this, but after taking a second to form the words, she says, "Well, after that attack with the smoke I was in his apartment with him for a little while."
Aunt May makes an appreciative noise. "He called me that night, I remember."
"And then—well, after he heard about the break-in at OsCorp, he left really quickly, and that was the last I saw him."
"And that was—"
"Tuesday," says Gwen. Neither of them says anything for a moment, and the longer the silence goes the more anxious Gwen feels, realizing that he is unaccounted for on both ends of the river. "I'm sorry," she says, "I didn't mean to call you like this, I don't want you to worry—"
"No, I'm glad you did. Please. Always call me when something like this happens."
"Alright," Gwen agrees.
"And call me the instant you hear anything from him, would you?" Aunt May says, her tone a little gentler. "I notice he always has a way of finding you before he finds me."
Sure enough, approximately five hours later she finds him roaming the streets.
Any other weekend she wouldn't have spotted him at all—but this particular Saturday she had agreed to meet with a high school student she tutored a little further uptown, so she isn't at all in familiar territory when she sees a shadow lurching in an alley. At first she draws back hesitantly, considering crossing the street to avoid whoever the concealed figure is, but then a person comes stumbling out looking as unthreatening and pathetic as a person can possibly be
"Peter?"
He flinches, but doesn't quite look at her. She has to jog over to him to fully get his attention.
"Hey," she says, trying to get a good look at his face, which he has fixed squarely on the sidewalk. It's dark out, but she can tell his hair is unshowered and sticking in unsightly directions, and that he probably hasn't changed his clothes all week.
He won't look at her. She feels a bubble of impatience in her chest threatening to burst, so she grabs his arm. "Where have you been?"
"Nowhere," he says defensively, shrugging her off. She gives him a moment, and sure enough, his shoulders relax just slightly and he turns to her and says, "Everywhere." His eyes are red-rimmed and desperate. "I can't find my father. I think something is wrong."
"Oh." This isn't what Gwen was expecting. "You mean—he won't answer his phone, or something?"
"It's not just that—I checked, I checked all the places we usually meet and he didn't bother to clear up any of his stuff, it's all just lying there, so I know he didn't mean to leave," says Peter in a rush, as if he needs to defend his father, needs to convince both Gwen and himself that the man didn't go willingly like he did when Peter was a kid. Peter's expression seems to sink further with every word he gets out. "I just—I have a really bad feeling about this."
They hit the light of a streetlamp and she takes a step away from him. He is visibly shaking in the September heat, and there is a sheen of unhealthy sweat on his forehead. She doubts that he has slept much since last Tuesday, if at all.
"Your father can hold his own," she says.
Peter shakes his head vehemently. "Something's wrong," he says, louder this time, sounding a bit crazed. He is unintentionally attracting attention toward them. Gwen grabs his arm and he lets her steer him closer to the side street, away from the people and the streetlights.
"What have you been doing?" she asks. "Have you just been out looking for him all this time?"
Peter nods, his eyes darting around them as if everything moving is a potential threat.
"It's been almost five days, Peter," says Gwen, hoping this will knock some sense into him. It doesn't. "You need to call your—" Gwen stops, deciding the better of it. She'll call his aunt later. He is in no position to be comforting his worried aunt on the phone right now, he is making so little sense that it would probably only make the situation worse.
When Peter still doesn't answer her, she says, "I'm taking you home."
"I can't," he says. Even in this state he is solid as a rock. She tries to grab his wrist and pull him along but he doesn't so much as budge.
"Peter, look at yourself. You're burned out. You have to come home."
"You don't understand," he says, frantic. "My father—he wouldn't just give up on me like this, I have to—"
"Tomorrow," says Gwen. "You're useless right now, what would you even do if you even found him? Your father wouldn't do this, he'd at least be smart about it—"
At that precise moment a shadow falls over them and they both glance up. Gwen's first thought is that it is impossible, and it must be Peter's first thought, too, because a strangled noise escapes his throat as they watch a fully identical, spandex-wearing Spiderman soar over them, swinging webs from building to building until he is out of sight.
Peter's eyes are wild. "You—you saw that, right? You saw that. Tell me you saw—"
"Yeah," says Gwen, her stomach knotting unpleasantly.
"Holy shit."
"Peter … "
"I have to go," he says, the words sounding like an apology. "This is crazy, you know I have to—"
"I know," says Gwen, "but please—be careful."
He nods, ducking into the alley again, out of sight. For a moment she wonders if she should really just let him go like this. He is in no state to be fighting, and who knows what else this imposter is capable of if he is already swinging on webs? She stands there, thinking maybe she should have tried to stop him, maybe she still should. But even if she does, what authority does she have? She isn't anything to him, not really. She can't ask him to do something or not to do something because she doesn't lay any claim over him, hasn't in years.
Before she can mull it over very long, though, the real Spiderman emerges from the alley, shooting out above her. Gwen watches him until he ducks out of view, which doesn't take very long, and then she walks into the alley and dutifully collects the clothes he has abandoned by a dumpster.
She continues her walk to her family's apartment for their regular Saturday dinner, already knowing how the next few hours will unravel: she will sit through dinner, tense and uncomfortable and itching to check the news report on her phone—she won't because one of her brothers will rat her out in an instant, so she will excuse herself an unnecessary number of times to check it out of sight and find nothing relevant to Spiderman, or worse, something incredibly relevant and foreboding that will make it impossible to stomach whatever elaborate meal her mother has thrown together.
Once Gwen reaches her apartment building she is relieved to find that there are no longer any reporters. The interest in her story has died down considerably, and Gwen has a feeling that if the imposter Spiderman is spotted, the interest in her will be squelched for good.
She considers calling Peter's aunt, but decides she will wait until after dinner. She doesn't want to scare the woman. Telling her that she ran into Peter just long enough for him to rush into yet another fight will do nothing to calm her nerves.
"Gwendolyn," her mother greets her stiffly.
Gwen feels herself slouch a bit. "Hey." She looks around for one of her brothers, thinking that their antics will smooth some of the tension, but they all seem to be engaged in a loud video game down the hall.
"I'm sure you've heard about Spiderman," says her mother, before Gwen can even set down her bag.
Gwen raises her eyebrows. She knows she shouldn't take the bait, but this time she has to. "What?"
Her mother thrusts her phone toward her. The headline on the site she has pulled up reads: Spiderman robs a bank! The time of the story is an hour ago, before Gwen encountered Peter, before they watched the imposter swing overhead.
Gwen grits her teeth. Peter doesn't need this right now—it will only make his situation worse.
"That's not Spiderman," says Gwen.
Her mother's expression shifts from smug to irritated. "Of course it is," her mother snaps.
"It's not."
"And how would you presume to know that?" her mother asks, stalking into the kitchen to take care of something on the stove. Gwen slips off her sandals and follows her.
"I just know," says Gwen stubbornly.
Her mother doesn't have to turn around for Gwen to know that her face is impatient and strained. "You talk about this guy like you actually know him. Do you realize how you sound? It's starting to concern me."
Gwen doesn't answer.
"Really, Gwen." Her mother sets the spatula down and lets whatever is in the pan sizzle, turning to look at her daughter. "I just—"
"Mom. Please, let's … drop it."
Her mother takes a beat, her jaw working tensely. "Alright. I shouldn't have brought it up." She doesn't move for a moment, perched by the stove, staring. Gwen considers how this seems from her mother's perspective—her mother, the parent that never knew Spiderman's identity, who will never understand how she stands by and watches in terror not for New York's superhero, but for Peter Parker, as he constantly toes the line between life and death.
Maybe she does sound a little crazy, from her mother's perspective. But Gwen can't help but defend him, especially when she knows her mother is wrong, whether she knows it or not.
"Help me crack some of these eggs?"
It's the closest thing to a peace offering Gwen is going to get, so she scoots off her chair and plucks an egg out of the carton, cracking it deftly with one hand. She sees a telltale smirk from her mother out of the corner of her eye. Gwen has always sensed that her mom was somewhat disappointed when Gwen took after her father more than she ever took after her, but there is no doubt where Gwen learned her nifty tricks in the kitchen.
"School must be keeping you busy, I haven't heard from you all week," says her mother. "How did that coffee date go—what was his name, Owen?"
"Oh," says Gwen. "It, uh—it was fine."
"Just fine?" says her mother knowingly.
"Yeah." Gwen cracks another egg and then collects all the empty shells, heading for the trash. "Hey, you remember Peter Parker, right?"
Her back is turned to her mother, which is good, because Gwen winces as soon as the words escape her. She doesn't know what made her ask, but she used to tell her mother everything and it's like an old reflex kicking in.
"After that whole scene on the rooftop, how could I forget?" her mom asks, referencing the rather passionate kiss she interrupted after the one and only dinner Peter had at their place.
"Ah, yes. That Peter Parker," says Gwen. "He goes to my school."
"Oh, did he transfer or something?"
"No, no," says Gwen, absent-mindedly poking at the vegetables sizzling in the pan with the spatula. "He's been there the whole time."
"Huh. You haven't mentioned him." Her mother seems very careful not to bring up the rather effusive argument Peter had with her father that night, instead saying, "Isn't he a smart young man? I remember you telling me he was second in your class."
"Yeah, back in high school, he was."
"Well, invite him for dinner sometime. We'd be happy to have him."
This is how Gwen knows that her mother is desperate to see her dating again—if Peter Parker becomes a better option than no boy at all. Gwen can't help but smile a little bit.
"Maybe," says Gwen.
Dinner runs smoothly after that. Gwen's mother is in a much better mood, the boys are actually well behaved for once, and Gwen manages to leave her phone alone and keep her growing anxiety hidden for the entire meal, even when her mother says nobody can leave the table without trying her dessert, which is especially chewy and takes an absurdly long time to eat.
"Can we watch The Simpsons now?" her brother asks with a mouth full of the unidentifiable gooey substance.
Her mother's eyebrows crease slightly, either from the choice of entertainment or the less-than-polite method of asking, but she seems tired, so Gwen isn't all that surprised when she relents and says, "Sure."
Her two younger brothers both leap up for the television, while the oldest, Tyler, stays behind to help them with the clean-up. Her mother calls for the others to come back and put their dishes in the sink, something she never had to do before their father died, but they've already turned on the television. It has switched from whatever setting they put it on for video games to normal viewing, so for a moment the volume is
"Just moments ago, witnesses outside of this Bank of America on 116th watched what appeared to be Spiderman fighting himself—onlookers report that the masked vigilante was spotted attempting what would be his third robbery of the night, when yet another Spiderman swooped in and stopped the heist—"
One of her brothers switches the channel. Gwen and her mother very pointedly don't look at each other.
"Gwen's right, you know, Mom," says Tyler gently.
Both of their heads snap up at the sound of his voice. There is no trace of his trademark smirk or his customary antics. He is staring at their mother somberly, and Gwen doesn't need to ask to know that he has heard them arguing, not just tonight but last week as well. Gwen holds her breath, both aching with gratitude that there is someone on her side and wishing that Tyler wouldn't say another word.
Tyler looks so grown up, almost like a man. Gwen wonders why she didn't notice it happening all these years, but he has never looked more like their father when he opens his mouth and says, "Spiderman's a hero."
There is hardly a moment before her mother reacts, shaking her head. "Damn it." She throws her napkin down and is already visibly crying before she stalks out of the kitchen.
She and Tyler sit in the kitchen for a moment, listening to The Simpsons and the sound of their mother's bedroom door slamming. Gwen flinches. Tyler does not.
"Let's—let's clean up," says Gwen, the chair whining noisily as she pushes it back and stands up.
Her brother follows her lead and they collect all the dishes, stacking them up and taking them to the sink. She turns on the water and they wordlessly start scrubbing off all the grime and putting the plates in the dishwasher. They're on the last dish when Gwen finally breaks the silence.
"How did you—when did you—"
"It's kind of like you said," says Tyler, shrugging a little, in a good-hearted, naïve sort of way that just about breaks Gwen's heart. "I just know."
Sorry it took so long to update. I haven't been writing much because, well, the terrible pain in my jaw. Apparently one of my lower teeth was way more impacted than they thought and I've been in all kinds of agony with half a face that is as bruised and as wide as the moon. It was so bad my boss asked me to leave on Monday because she thought I'd frighten the children. I've pretty much been walking around with a baseball cap and not making eye contact with other humans for a week. My only solace is that today a small child at work said, "Miss Emma, you're pretty, you should be a butterfly with wings for Halloween."
I mean, at two years old it's hard for them to have standards, but it's better than "haha, you look like Monica on Friends when she wears the fat suit" (thanks, family) so I will take what I can get.
IN OTHER NEWS, my friend just got cast in Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark on BROADWAY! I am over the moon with excitement. I haven't seen the musical yet, and was kind of reluctant to buy tickets since they're kind of steep, but now obviously I'm going to New York and whatever time I don't spend in the theater will be spent crawling around Chelsea, looking for Andrew Garfield or his Black Audi whose license plate I may or may not have memorized.
Grwarrwrwar how my puffy, mutilated cheeks pine for that man.