AN/Summary/Quote Line for this chapter: There is a mask we all wear, but not everyone's can be physical.
IMPORTANT NOTE: Just so you guys know, my updates will usually be once a week or less unless I have a health complication. I am struggling with a lot of health problems right now and will always try to get my chapters out in under two weeks at the latest. Sorry about the wait for this one, but I've been out of school all week for sickness and haven't really felt good enough to finish the editing until tonight! Another one is coming real soon as I have it fully written but it's unedited so it might take me a day to post it.
(Anyone who's not a huge fan of the English language or hates English class, don't read on for fear of cursing you with my nerdiness.)
If anyone's read Orwell's 'Politics and the English Language', you'll know that I follow about zero of his 'rules of writing', lol, sorry about my title for the chapter Georgie-poo. Not to say he's wrong, as I use his 'rules' for all my graded essay writing, but it's funny to reread it and compare it to my works of fiction. Though, I'll always recommend Ralph Waldo Emerson over George Orwell when it comes to essay writing - especially 'The Method of Nature' as that's an excellent read. But, if you haven't read George Orwell's 'Shooting an Elephant', you must do that now. I feel like that should be a requirement for all high school students, but who am I to say?
It is full to the brim
This universe is bursting with light
How can it sit upon our shoulders and not break our backs?
Who carries the most galaxies upon their neck?
There was a giddiness lighting up his veins. His leg bounced and his mouth was pressed into a thin line as he tried to suppress a delighted smile.
He reached to his phone in an act to quell his twiddling thumbs and glanced at the date on the screen blaring obnoxiously bright with his heightened senses.
Saturday, September 21.
He was officially allowed to be Spider-Man again.
And sure, he wasn't allowed to leave the house until 3 – monitoring from Mr. Stark included – but still.
(He was free to breathe again. Free to chase after birds in the sky again.
Free to fly away from this hell of small-dimensions and tight walls.)
He was in his room – door locked, he wasn't stupid – watching the clock and waiting for the infuriatingly long five minutes before 3 p.m. to be over.
He had an alarm set and everything.
There was a trilling noise from his phone and he looked down and groaned – Aunt May was calling.
Picking up the device with twitching hands, Peter's face twisted into a grimace.
"Hey, Aunt May," he greeted, his voice wary and tight, "how's it going?"
"If you step one toe out of line, you're done," Aunt May lectured and Peter winced at the lack of greeting and harsh tone, "no second chances and no buffer room. If you're one minute late, you'll be sitting on your butt in your room for two more weeks. You call every hour and if I hear you ran out of web fluid without backup, you're out."
Groaning, Peter nodded although May couldn't see.
"Yep, you told me," he breathed, a little exasperated and on edge from the interruption, "don't worry, May. I'll be fine."
He heard a heavy sigh and May started again, her tone softer.
"I know, sweetie, I'm just worried. It's hard seeing you run around New York and –"she made a noise of distress, "I just don't want you to get hurt."
The alarm rang and Peter fumbled to turn it off as the shrill tone clamored in his ears.
"Yeah, yeah," he managed, raising his voice so she could hear him better, "I get it."
"I know you do," she acknowledged, not seeming to react to the additional sound, "but you also left me waiting for ten hours last time and I don't think I can handle that again."
A wave of guilt he had been holding back through sheer willpower hit him like a tsunami.
"Yeah, I did," he choked, his good mood deteriorating rapidly.
He looked to his lap and picked at the divots in his suit morosely. What he wouldn't give to go back in time and just communicate with his aunt a little better.
"It's alright, kiddo, just don't do it again. I've got to get back to work, but I just wanted to check in," she replied, "I hope you have a good day and good luck out there, Pete. Know that, no matter what, I'm proud of you."
A reluctant swell of pride surfaced in his chest and he smiled despite himself.
"Yeah?" he asked, feeling remarkably like a child searching for praise.
"Yeah," she answered, soft and genuine.
"Love you, May."
"Love you too, kiddo."
After setting his phone on the table beside his bed, he slid his mask on and shimmied awkwardly out the window. Stopping on the ledge, he breathed in deeply and thanked his mentor mentally for the sensory dampeners built into the mask as the polluted air of the city reached his nose. The air stunk terribly and he didn't want to imagine how it would smell if he was using the full extent of his senses.
Barring the terrible odors, the fresh air still made his lips curl into a soft smile. He pushed off his windowsill and slammed it shut behind him, scurrying away from it in a hope that anyone looking wouldn't see which window he exited from.
(He really needed a better system for leaving his apartment.)
He scaled the wall quickly, stopping on the roof where he leapt into the air with a cry of exuberance.
Flinging a hand out to catch himself on a web, he swung upwards in a graceful arc. His fingertips reached skywards as if they could skim the clouds and he closed his eyes at the highest point of his swing. Releasing his web, he let himself free fall.
The shift of air on his spandex hugged him in a cool caress as he spiraled back down towards the sidewalk below. He fell until his Spidey-sense began to hum and only then did he crack open his eyes to glance at the next spot he needed to aim his web-shooters at.
Skimming the ground, he dragged himself up and sped around a building corner. His feet slammed against the skyscraper as he ran with bounding strides on the windows covering the structure.
"Karen, have you got any crime for me?" he shouted to try to make up for the loud wind in his ears.
"Yes, Peter. If you turn right two blocks from here, there is a disturbance at a bank consisting of an in-progress robbery. Police have been dispatched and are en route, presently. Mapping a course for you now," she replied sweetly.
"Thanks, Karen," he hollered.
Flipping forward, he twisted in midair to head towards the path set up on his mask's HUD.
It didn't take him more than a minute to reach the bank and, once he did, he almost groaned at the cliché-ness of the situation. He would have had it not been such a serious and delicate situation.
As it was, he settled for a heavy sigh and planned the best way to intervene whilst also avoiding civilian casualties or injuries.
"Coming through," he yelled, vaulting over squad cars and curious pedestrians alike.
Gasps went through the crowd and fingers pointed up at him from the people on the ground as he soared over people's heads with a jaunty wave.
He landed on the roof of the bank with a soft thud and crawled swiftly and quietly inside the building as adrenaline pumped through his veins. He remained as flat as he could on the ceiling, trying to avoid any of the robbers from spotting him.
In the middle of the room stood a masked thief holding a gun to a middle-aged man's head. The hostage was shaking with his palms raised in supplication as he sat stiffly on his knees. Two other criminals were guarding the front room of the bank and the rest of the customers and workers sat nervously on the edges of the rooms, eyeing the guns with trepidation.
Peter slunk to the middle of the room and shot his webs out quickly to detain the weapons aimed at the civilians. The perpetrators gaped in shock as he webbed their guns to the ground and he used their inaction to his advantage as he restrained them against the ground with more webs. He made sure to cover their mouths so they couldn't alert the criminals he was sure were working in the back of the bank.
Making a 'shh'-ing motion with his hand he winked at the awestruck citizens and shooed them out of the front of the building, checking behind him to make sure none of the remaining robbers were coming up behind him. They whispered both excitedly and relieved under their breaths and he tried not to get too annoyed at their lack of recognition of the danger still behind them.
Once the hostages had made it out safely, he flipped back onto the ceiling and began to sneak to the back of the bank. The whole scenario and setting were like something out of an action movie and he felt a little bit strange being in the middle of it all.
Sometimes, it was hard to remember just how different he was now from the asthmatic boy he had been years ago. Sometimes, it was hard to accept just how much had changed.
It felt a little melancholy to think like that, but it was better to feel sad than to not feel anything at all.
(That's what he told himself, anyway.)
He turned the last corner and his breath left him in a great gust of wind as he saw silver hair peek out of the mask of one of the bank robbers. He tried not to let it make him feel inferior and small and like he wasn't fit to be a hero, but it was hard not to when the evidence of his panic lied in the swift crests of his chest against his suit.
(It's not Skip, it's not Skip, it's not Skip, he tried to tell himself but a torturous part of him asked, 'how do you know?'
And to that, he didn't truly have an answer.)
He clenched his eyes shut and turned away for a moment before turning back and jumping to the ground.
"Having some trouble there?" he called as he sauntered up to the startled crooks struggling to open the safe door, dutifully ignoring the white-haired man's defining trait and his own distress at his appearance.
The 3 men whirled around and, even through the masks, Peter could see their eyes grow panicked at his appearance.
"You know, I'm pretty sure this one's a push door, not a pull, but I can't be certain," he joked and then swerved quickly as one of the men shot off a bullet.
"Hey! Hey!" he gasped dramatically, "that's dangerous! Watch where you're pointing that thing!"
He deemed the spindly man who shot at him 'trigger-happy' in his brain and took a sort of perverted pleasure in naming the one who had Skip's hair, 'creep'. The last man was bulky and large and he aptly named him 'muscles'.
'Muscles' turned around and continued his work of getting the safe open, seemingly indifferent to Spider-Man's presence or trusting his companions to protect him. Peter was amused at his lack of reaction while the other 2 seemed scared shitless of him.
'Trigger-happy' made a move to shoot his gun again and Peter retaliated by flinging out his wrists and webbing both his and 'creep's' guns to the floor. 'Creep' ran at him with a sloppy punch and Peter responded by moving his head to the side and tying him up against the wall with his web-shooters.
The lanky man's knees shook and he seemed to want to run but the corner behind him prevented any escape so he just stared with terrified eyes at Peter as he was restrained as well.
"I wanna feel sorry, man, but I just can't. I mean, robbing a bank in broad daylight? Without the proper tools to get a safe open?" he tsk-ed and shook his head, turning to deal with the last offender, "that's just asking to get arrested."
'Muscles' looked up again with an apathy in his eyes that Peter was strangely envious of as he cracked his knuckles threateningly.
"Dude, I don't know if you've heard, but," he gestured to his arms as he struck a pose, "I've got super strength so, that's not really that intimidating."
The man's response was to grab and cock his gun, firing at him with a menacing stare. Peter frowned as he dodged the shot.
"No habla inglés?" he questioned, dancing around 'muscles' bullets before he stuck the man's gun to the ground as well.
The man growled and swung a much more well-coordinated punch in his direction that Peter caught easily.
"Are you just the quiet type or do you not understand a word I'm saying?" he asked, pausing the fight briefly as he moved the man's fist to the side to stare him head-on.
"Man, give me something here," he whined, "You're, like, the walking – not-talking – cliché of stupid, dumb henchman."
The 'stupid, dumb henchman' didn't deem that worthy of a response and Peter sighed exasperatedly at his stubbornness. Flinging the man over his shoulder, he pinned him to the ground and checked the safe door for bombs.
(Yes, bombs. People actually used bombs to open them sometimes and no, Peter was not kidding.)
After seeing that the coast was clear, he went to the front desk and ripped a piece of paper off a notepad to scribble a letter to the police on. Pinning it to 'muscles' forehead – who was still seeming strangely apathetic about his position – he stepped back to survey his work.
Nodding in satisfaction, he crawled out of the first window he came across and swung away, whooping and hollering to the heavens that he was there – that he was someone that mattered – and trying to ignore that the only time he felt safe was behind a mask.
(What made Spider-Man so different than Peter Parker that fear could be exhaled on a breath and terror never truly took root in his veins? What changed between the spandex and the skin that made him so very different?
What made it easier to live without woes in a costumed suit rather than his own skin?)
Peter flopped onto his bed and grinned excitedly into the pillow. He was exhausted and he had a few bruises, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.
In fact, he slightly relished in the minuscule discomfort of his sore limbs shifting against the bedsheets. Rolling over onto his back, he released his suit until it hung loosely off his limbs like a onesie. He slid it off his body in one smooth motion and jumped off the bed to shimmy into pajamas.
A sudden knock on the door had him frantically kick the incriminating suit to a dark corner under his bed. He quickly jumped back onto the bed, sitting upright and warily staring at the door.
"Yes," he called, hoping it was Aunt May.
"Hey, Pete," the blessedly soft voice of his aunt called, "can I come in?"
"Yeah," he called back, lying down again on his stomach and exhaling a breath of relief.
The door creaked open and he beamed up at his aunt dopily from the bed. She smiled back affectionately and sat on the bed beside him, closing the door behind her.
"So, how was it?" she asked, her hand reaching to play gently with his curls but pausing at his significant wince.
She gave him a long look but he just shrugged bashfully at her and tried to quell his panic at her penetrating stare.
"It was fine," he said and she gave him a dull glare.
(He didn't pretend that that didn't hurt – that he wasn't swimming through guilt-riddled waters just to breathe – but he masked it.
He didn't pretend that that didn't hurt, because he couldn't really hide from himself all that well – no matter how hard he tried – but he could always pretend to others.
He was so good at wearing masks – he wore one for a reason.)
"Oh, really?" she asked, her voice tinged with sarcasm.
"Yeah, really," he said, raising his eyebrows emphatically.
"Fine, fine. I'll leave it," she responded with her hands held up defensively
"I'm glad you're okay," she continued quietly, "any issues?"
"No, not at all," he answered, meeting her skeptical eyes with his serious ones.
She smiled back and leaned in to kiss his forehead and his entire body tensed so as not to flinch at the action. As soon as she pulled away he rolled onto his back to put some distance between them and gave her a guarded smile which she returned with an amused eyebrow raise.
"That's good," she conceded, cautiously, and he nodded.
He had always been a tactile person, but something about touch, recently, had made him want to scrub his skin off until it bled. It felt like a thousand insects scuttling uncomfortably under his skin and his spine went ramrod straight in response to any movement that happened close to him.
The only thing that helped was the suit, it seemed, as he noticed that in being Spider-Man, he had yet to feel that familiar panic at physical interaction. Perhaps it was because the touch he encountered in his suit was often more violent in nature as compared to the soft, soft, soft touch of naked hands on his body that made his skin crawl. Perhaps it was because it lacked any affection at all and the absence of familiarity gave him an illusion of safety.
(Perhaps being Spider-Man truly did give him some sort of an identity disorder.)
"I brought home some Pizza tonight as a celebration for your first day back. You good with that?" she asked, tilting her head to the side and letting her hair fall over her shoulder.
He nodded, "yeah, I'm good with that."
Giving him one last loving look, his Aunt stood and left him to rest.
"I love you, kiddo," she called out, turning to blow him a kiss.
"Love you too, May," he mumbled and stuffed his face back into the pillow to hide his pleased blush.
(When Peter was 16-years-old, he went to sleep with kind hands on his mind and dreamt of a love that he had almost forgotten.)