Chapter Thirty-Six: Do Spider's Cry?

Peter couldn't find any evidence that Curt Connors had been present when his family was killed, and by the time he arrived back at his apartment in civilian attire, he was dreading the idea of telling Curt. How do you tell a man that his entire family, everyone he loved, was dead? There were bones to bury but there would be no open casket funerals. He'd never see them again. Not even in death.

Peter felt almost lucky that he had been able to say goodbye to the people he lost. He missed his Uncle Ben dearly, but he saw his body before the funeral and said that he was sorry. He was sorry for the fight that they'd had before Ben died. He was sorry for being indirectly responsible for his death. He was sorry for being a difficult son.

Peter's lip quaked and he had to steady himself on the doorframe.

He hadn't seen his parents after they died, but he'd been so young that he barely understood what had happened. Curt would understand. Curt would be horrified.

The floor was spinning. Bile rose in Peter's throat again...or was that a sob? He couldn't tell. It felt the same.

He'd seen Gwen when she died. He hadn't stayed at the funeral for long. One look at the body was all it took; her head was stitched together under the bright blonde hair. Her face was caked in makeup to try and hide the blue-tinged skin. She had a broken nail on her right index finger. She broke it while she was falling, clawing to find purchase on the brick pillars of the George Washington Bridge.

Peter couldn't breath. Not properly. It all came out in short, panicked gasps. He couldn't tell Curt. He didn't have the strength. He-

The door opened, and though Peter wanted to push himself away from the frame, he couldn't get his arm to move. Annabelle was on the other side, so close that he could see the golden rim that circled her irises. He'd never noticed it before. Ana's eyes had always been a bright but consistent green in his mind...now he realised that they had specks of brown too. Brown and green, like autumn peaking through the end of summer. He tried to focus on that instead of the bodies he'd just seen, but it was no use. He could see them everywhere, even reflected in her eyes.

"Peter?" Her voice barely reached him as he stumbled passed her and into the living room. She shut the door, but the quiet 'click' sounded like a scream to him. "Are you alright?"

"Y-Yeah..." He managed to reply with an even voice. "I'm fine."

Peter started, slowly, for his bedroom but something in his wonky stride must have worried Annabelle, because before he could make it halfway she was standing in front of him with both hands on his shoulders. "You don't look so well, was it a Spider-Man thing?"

"I told you..." Peter said weakly. "I'm not Spider-Man."

"Oh, right, well was it a 'fake' Spider-Man thing?"

Peter didn't bother to argue this time. It was clear that she didn't believe his cosplay story, and no matter how she indulged him, Peter knew that to keep denying it was only making him look guiltier. "Listen, I really don't wanna talk ab-"

She hugged him. It was sudden, but for Peter it all happened rather slowly. He considered dodging her outstretched arms, but he was too mentally drained to do anything but stand there and wait.

She was warm, and smelt like cookie dough. A comforting smell that reminded him of Sunday afternoons at Aunt May's. She always baked him cookies as 'preparation' for the week to come. They were Uncle Ben's favourite...she stopped making them after he died. May's were classic in design, round and riddled with melting chocolate chips. Peter wondered what Annabelle's would be like. Probably white macadamia and shaped like dinosaurs...

Peter tried to keep all of his attention on that scent, to force the nightmare that he had seen to the back of his head. It didn't work for long. Soon enough, images of those bodies flashed in front of his eyes. It blinded him. Suffocated him. Then, it took all of his strength.

He crumbled, but Annabelle held him up with more power than he ever thought she had possessed. Then he cried. He cried harder and longer than he had in years. Annabelle didn't rub his back like Mary Jane used to, she didn't kiss his forehead like Aunt May, she just stood there and waited, patiently, as he smeared her sweater with tears and snot.

Yeah, gross, but genuine sobbing was never like it was in the movies. There was a lot more whimpering, and cursing, and so much snot.

It went on like this for what felt like years. No matter how hard Peter cried, he felt like there was still more pent up in the back of his mind. Eventually it felt as if he had no more tears to shed. He was dehydrated, but still shaking in the aftermath of his sudden breakdown.

As if reading his mind, Anabelle lead him to the couch and sat him down gingerly, waiting for him to settle before saying, "I'll get you some water."

Peter wanted to thank her, but his throat felt sticky and swollen. Instead, he just nodded and tried not to think about how embarrassed he was.

When Annabelle returned she passed Peter the glass, which was actually a mug with Jerry Springer's face on it, and watched as he sculled the whole thing in less than two seconds. He looked like a dying man in a desert, water pooling from the sides of his mouth and running down his neck in his hurry to drink it. Peter's throat still felt scratchy afterwards, but much better than before.

"Is there anything I can do to help, Pete?" Annabelle asked in that sweet voice, and it made Peter want to cry all over again.

"No... I don't think so."

Annabelle sat beside him, the worried look on her face almost surpassing Aunt May...but not quite. "Do you want to talk about it? I read that saying things out loud can help put everything into perspective."

Peter didn't know where she'd read that, but vocalising the horror that he had witnessed seemed like the exact opposite of a good idea. Gritting his teeth, Peter let his gaze wander over to the coffee table. On its ancient top was a magazine with the headline 'Hexterminator still missing'. There was a picture, albeit a little blurry, of a masked woman with brown hair tied up in a bun. Her costume was bright green and purple, a weird clash of colours that would be impossible to hide in a stake-out.

She'd been missing for a while now, a few years at least, and it made Peter think about her family. Were they looking for her? Did they miss her? Did they know that she was a super? What did they do when they found out she was gone? How did they react?

Those questions rattled around in his brain, deafeningly loud, and reminding him of the painful truth. Martha and William Connors were dead. Curtis was nowhere to be found, and if he ever did show up, he was going to find out. Peter knew that he couldn't say all of this out loud without truly confirming that he was Spider-Man...but maybe he could just tell Annabelle a little. Enough, at least, to lessen the weight on his chest.

"You know the guy I work for?" Peter started, rubbing his palms together as if he were fighting off a chill.

"Yeah, Dr. Connors, right?"

"Well, his family they're..." Peter swallowed the bile rising him his throat as he continued, "missing."

Annabelle was quiet for a few moments, her eyes wide and mouth open in the throes of shock. She hadn't really known the man personally, but she'd seen his picture on a few of Peter's textbooks. He was a big name in the science community.

"That's terrible, I'm so sorry... Do you know where they were last seen? Maybe we could go looking-"

"I already have," Peter tried to keep his voice steady, "there's no sign of them."

Annabelle went quiet again. When Peter looked over at her, he saw conflict raging in her eyes. "Well, how about Curtis? We need to tell him about this, I could come with you if it's too difficult."

"He's missing too." This time, Peter sounded a little more certain. It was the first time since he returned home that he hadn't outright lied to her.

"Oh..." was all Annabelle could manage to say. There was only so many times that someone could say 'sorry' before it started sounding hollow. She reached her hand out, and it hovered over Peter's shoulder briefly before she tucked it back into her lap, unsure how to comfort him.

It didn't matter anyway. Peter was now much more concerned about Annabelle. She wore an expression that Peter honestly couldn't decipher, it was like sadness and terror and trauma all at once; like she was reliving something that she didn't dare vocalise.

Peter swiped at his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, collecting any lingering tears, then asked "are you alright?"

Annabelle immediately snapped out of her own thoughts and pushed the pain so far down that it disappeared even from her eyes, "yeah, sorry, just thinking. I'll ask around at work tomorrow and see if anyone's seen them. I mean, I doubt they'd ever eat at a greasy burger place but it's worth a shot."

Peter managed the quickest of smiles, grateful for the offer but knowing that it was in vain, "thanks, Belle."