Reckless
When Gwen walks into the kitchen the next morning, Captain Johnson is at the kitchen table in full uniform, and her mother is standing in a dress and full make-up, fretting by the sink. Gwen stares at the two of them blearily, her hair pulled up into a sloppy bun, thankful that she at least thought to put a bra on before wandering out at an hour she assumed she would be the only one awake.
"What's … are you here for breakfast?" asks Gwen, trying to sound mature and adult about this after her explosion the last time, but really, it's seven in the morning on a Friday and this is kind of uncalled for.
Captain Johnson shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, but her mother interrupts him and says, "Gwendolyn, Michael—Captain Johnson—has a few questions for you."
Gwen frowns. "For me?" she says, looking over at Captain Johnson for confirmation.
He nods solemnly. "Why don't you sit down," he says, in a way that tells her it isn't really a choice.
She pulls out one of their kitchen chairs and sits down, feeling uncomfortable and unprepared in her pajamas. She looks between Captain Johnson, who is staring at her intensely, and her mother, who will barely look at her at all, and says, "What's going on?"
Captain Johnson clears his throat. "I need you to be honest here, Gwendolyn. Can you do that for me?"
He asks it like he would have back when she was a little girl, back when she followed him around blindly—back when he seemed like a cool, younger uncle who sometimes snuck her a Snickers bar and not like the cryptic man at her kitchen table who is shacking up with her mom.
Gwen doesn't say anything, thinking the question is rhetorical, but Captain Johnson lowers his head and says, "Gwendolyn?"
"What is this about?" asks Gwen, although she is almost certain it has something to do with Spiderman.
Captain Johnson's stare is relentless. "I have reason to believe you know the identity of the masked vigilante known as Spiderman."
For a moment she just stares at him. She wonders how she is supposed to react. How would a person who didn't know the identity of Spiderman react? She isn't an actress, she isn't Mary Jane, she's no good at this.
So she laughs. Not on purpose, not as a strategic move, but because she is genuinely stricken and her body has run out of any alternative reactions.
"This isn't a joke," says Captain Johnson.
"I'm sorry," says Gwen, "it's just—no, I don't know who Spiderman is, why would you think I know that?"
Captain Johnson's eyes narrow. "The police have more information about Spiderman than the public is aware of," he tells her. "From observations of his vocal patterns and movements our forensics department has managed to narrow his age range from seventeen to twenty-two years. Your age."
"And out of all the twenty-year-olds in the city, you decided to come talk to me."
"Out of all the twenty-year-olds in the city who jumped a police barricade and risked gunfire to save Spiderman, yes, I've decided to come talk to you," says Captain Johnson, clearly not in the mood for suffering fools. "I've already paid your friend Owen Paisley a visit as well."
The hairs on the back of Gwen's neck prick uncomfortably. "Owen wouldn't know who he is, either," she says.
"Yes, that is what he claimed last night, and I believe him."
The implication of this statement is not lost on Gwen; he believes Owen, but he does not believe her.
She clears her throat and sits up straighter in her chair. "I'm afraid I can't help you. I know just as much as Owen does."
"Mr. Paisley tells me it was you who started running toward the scene when the pair of you saw the broadcast on the news," Captain Johnson asserts.
Gwen feels a flash of irritation toward Owen. She kept her mouth shut about what he did to Bonnie and Clyde, but he spouts off at the mouth about her the first chance he gets. She knows she can't blame him, he has no true idea of what's at stake here, but this doesn't lessen her annoyance in the slightest.
She looks at Captain Johnson and says clearly, "Yes, that's true. It was my idea."
"And you'd have me believe that you have no idea of the true identity of Spiderman?"
She shakes her head. "I really don't."
"You're not familiar with him in any way at all?"
Gwen's lips straighten into a harsh line. "No," she says. "What do you want from me? I don't know anything."
Captain Johnson sighs, looking resigned, and this is the first time in the conversation Gwen starts to feel nervous. Wordlessly, Captain Johnson pulls out his cell phone and opens a file, tilting the screen so she can see. In it is a grainy video taken above the main hallway of her old high school, with the Lizard on the screen about to deliver a blow to Spiderman. Gwen braces herself, knowing what she'll see before the blonde head reaches the screen and she watches a seventeen-year-old version of herself whack the Lizard in the head with a chair.
"Gwendolyn," her mother gasps. "Is that you?"
Gwen grits her teeth. "Yes."
"What were you—"
Her mother is silenced by what happens next, when Spiderman, on the screen, pulls her into an unmistakably intimate pose—I'm going to throw you out the window now, she remembers—and lingers just a bit too long before throwing her out to safety.
Captain Johnson shuts the video off. The room is eerily quiet.
"Do you care to explain?" asks Captain Johnson.
Gwen's hands are shaking. She shoves them into her lap. "That was almost three years ago."
"I'm well aware," says Captain Johnson. "Care to explain?"
Gwen feels the heat on her forehead threatening to collect into beads of sweat. She glances at her mother, who looks both earnest and afraid, as if she is counting on Gwen to have a reasonable explanation and anticipating her own disappointment when she doesn't. Gwen doesn't want to let her down, but more importantly, she doesn't want to let Peter down, or herself. If she has to find a lie, she will lie with everything she's got.
Hoping it doesn't look as disingenuous as it feels, Gwen buries her head in her hands and makes a dramatic noise that was meant to sound like a sob, but comes out like more of a squawk.
"I'm so embarrassed," she says, mangling her voice, careful to keep her face buried in her hands because yikes, this is harder than she thought it would be, and maybe MJ was better off not getting cast as Ophelia in the beginning of the semester.
"Gwen?" asks her mother, her voice sounding a little doubtful. Of course Gwen won't fool her mother, who knows better than anyone else what Gwen really looks like when she's upset, but it's not her mother she has to sell this story to.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Captain Johnson shift uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't understand," he says, trying to keep his voice authoritative.
Gwen sucks in a breath and tries not to cringe. "I just—I just have the biggest crush on Spiderman!" she exclaims.
Gwen can practically feel her mother's eyes rolling, but thankfully Captain Johnson's back is turned to her. Captain Johnson leans forward like he is going to say something, going to try and take control of the situation again, but Gwen won't let him, theatrically drawing in another breath and wailing, "He's just so—so dreamy and dangerous and I just think—I think if he just met me, if maybe he got to know me, we could—"
"That's quite enough," says Captain Johnson abruptly, clambering back up to his feet.
Gwen continues to sob into the palms of her hands, wishing he would leave faster, because this whole fake crying business is exhausting, and she has never felt more mortified in her entire life.
Her mother and Captain Johnson shuffle out of the kitchen. She hears their voices in the hallway, until they're far enough away that she knows that they must be at the foyer, and she lets her sobbing subside long enough to hear the front door shut behind Captain Johnson.
The apartment is silent. Gwen removes her sweaty palms from her cheeks and pushes her messy hair back through her fingers, trying to smooth it out. She hears her mother walk into the kitchen from behind her and freezes, determined not to look at her, because she's a little too proud of herself and afraid she won't be able to suppress a grin.
Her mother leans against the stove and takes a deep breath. "Gwendolyn … " she says after a few moments, the word loaded with exasperation and the promise of a lecture that will go well into the next half an hour.
Gwen looks up at her sheepishly. Her mother's face is as red as she imagines her own is, and Gwen takes a rare moment to appreciate just how alike the two of them are, not just in looks but in everything else. The stubbornness, the determination, the way they care too much for people they maybe shouldn't. Gwen has always liked to think that she is her father's daughter through and through, but every once in awhile when she and her mother butt heads, their similarities are impossible to deny.
Her mother takes another breath and Gwen braces herself.
"French toast or pancakes?"
Gwen blinks at her. She waits a few seconds, wondering if this is some sort of angle, some sort of creative way to start the inevitable argument, but her mother is rooting around in a drawer and producing a spatula.
"Uh," says Gwen. "French toast?"
Her mother nods and looks at her for a beat longer than she normally would, biting her bottom lip. "Go get your brothers," she says. And that's the end of that.
Gwen heads off to class full of French toast and a feeling of dread that she can't seem to shake—this isn't over, whatever Captain Johnson wants from her. She knows that she may have bought herself some time by catching him off guard like that, but Captain Johnson's a smart, calculating man, and he'll be back for more, she's sure.
She feels her phone buzzing in the palm of her hand, a number she doesn't recognize. "Hello?"
"Gwen Stacy?" asks a woman's voice.
"Um, yes."
"If you're still interested in speaking with Doctor Connors, he is out of quarantine and alert. Once he found out you called here he requested a meeting with you."
"Oh," says Gwen, because after the chaos of this morning she had all but pushed Connors out of her mind. Her phone buzzes again, and it says incoming call from Peter Parker. "I, uh, yes. I'll be over there," she says in a rush. "Is this afternoon alright?"
"This afternoon should be fine."
"Great, thanks," says Gwen, immediately pulling the phone away from her ear to end the call and switch to the other line. "Hello?"
"Hey," says Peter, sounding rigid and awkward. "Uh."
Gwen is about to ask why on earth he's calling, but then she hears someone's high-pitched, incredibly loud voice in the background yelling profanities and the sound of what Gwen suspects is a stuffed animal thunking on a dorm wall.
"Are you with MJ?"
Peter clears his throat. "I just—we were supposed to be working, and she got this text, and she's all … She's really mad. And you're a girl, so."
"I'm a girl, so … ?" asks Gwen, not sure if she's annoyed or amused by this call for help. On the one hand, he's talking to her for once, freely and willingly and without any weird subtext dominating the conversation. And on the other hand, he's calling her about another girl.
"I don't know, I just—I'd leave, I mean, but she's—jesus, she knocked over a lamp—"
"I'm right around the corner," says Gwen. She hangs up the phone, sticking it neatly into her pocket. MJ has only ever thrown a tantrum like this once before, right after the departure of boyfriend number one in high school, so it's really no mystery to Gwen that Richard must have broken things off for good this time.
Gwen braces herself for the next few hours ahead, knowing it will involve plenty of Richard-bashing and chick flick movie watching and junk food consumption, all things Gwen ordinarily wouldn't mind if she had even an hour to spare. She wonders how she'll get out of there to see Connors, what she could possibly say to excuse herself that's more important than comforting her friend after the end of an almost three year relationship.
Before she can think about it any further, she sees a very angry, determined redhead bobbing down the street, heading toward her.
"MJ?"
Her friend's head jerks toward her, her lips in a tight line. "I hate him!" she screams, not even bothering to close the distance between them first, causing people to look around in alarm. She stalks over to Gwen and says, "A text, Gwen, he broke up with me in a freaking text!"
Gwen winces. "I'm so sorry, MJ—"
MJ shakes her head. "Nope," she says, holding up a hand. "No, he'll be sorry, he will be, just you wait and see!"
"Where are you going?" asks Gwen, because MJ shows no signs of slowing down.
"The gym," says MJ, holding up her sneakers as she passes Gwen, and only then does Gwen look down and realize that MJ is still in slippers and pajama bottoms but looking as determined as ever. Gwen lets her go. She knows better than to try to reason with her friend when she's in this state, and she'll be ready whenever MJ wants to actually talk.
MJ is so short that she is swallowed up by the people on the sidewalk in no time. Gwen turns around and heads toward MJ's dorm, hoping that she'll catch Peter before he leaves, but as she reorients herself toward the building she nearly slams straight into him.
Peter dodges her awkwardly, his head ducked down. "Sorry, sorry—oh," says Peter, realizing it's her. "Hey."
Gwen tugs on the strap of her book bag. "Hey yourself," she says.
The two of them stand there for a moment, clogging up traffic on the busy sidewalk. Peter clears his throat. "Mary Jane is pretty mad."
"Yeah," says Gwen, raising her eyebrows, wondering why Peter is using her full name.
"I, uh, told her you were coming, but I guess she didn't hear me."
Gwen purses her lips. She doesn't want to talk about MJ with Peter, but right now it feels like they have nothing else to talk about, nothing that can be discussed on a city street full of people. "Do you have a minute?" she asks, not even sure what she wants from him.
He exhales loudly, considering the question. "Yeah, sure."
She walks over to a less crowded area and he follows her, until they find a place to stand where they're not right in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the fringes of Empire State's campus. He's fiddling with his phone, reluctant to look at her. She thinks about last night, how furious he seemed, and is surprised that he seems so composed and willing to talk to her now.
"Look," she says, hoping it will prompt him to put the phone down. It doesn't. She waits a few more moments, until she has his attention, and then he takes a little longer than necessary to put the phone back into his pocket. She purses her lips. "I know you're still mad at me about the Owen thing, but—"
"I'm not," says Peter. "I'm really not. I mean, I was, but I'm not anymore."
Gwen shakes her head. "Then why are you …" She's not really sure how to describe what he's doing now, not without sounding like a crazy person. If she calls him out on being distant, on avoiding her, then he will say a dozen things to convince her that she's wrong—tell her he's been busy, that she has misinterpreted things, that everything's fine and she is just overreacting. Or maybe he won't, but she doesn't want to take that risk, so she just lets the words hang there and hopes he'll acknowledge that he knows what she means.
"I think—I think you need some time to figure out what you want," says Peter, his voice barely above a mumble.
Gwen frowns. "What is that—what do you mean?"
"It's just—" Peter looks really uncomfortable, fiddling with the drawstrings of his sweatshirt and still not quite making eye contact. "What happened that night, I thought—well. I think you thought that I just showed up, just on a whim, but Gwen, I didn't. I've been—I was thinking about it for a long time. Like, a long time," he says, trying to smile a little bit to break the tension.
Gwen feels herself starting to blush, even though the moment is all wrong for it. For some reason these words feel like a relief to her, like a breath she has been holding for a long time without realizing it. To some degree she has been waiting to hear them ever since that night, waiting to hear some confirmation that he has pined for her over these past few years the way that she pined for him, that she hasn't wasted all this energy loving him and wishing for him and hating him for staying away.
Peter isn't finished, though, and she knows it, so she doesn't say anything.
"I know that—the next day was unexpected. And I'm still working on that. By the way. But that's not what I'm trying to say here." He swallows, and takes another second to choose his words. "It's just that—as soon as it happened—it's like it changed everything for you, like you really regretted what we did, and I just thought—"
"I didn't," says Gwen vehemently. "Of course I didn't. I just was so freaked out and afraid you were going to use it an excuse to leave again."
"I wasn't," says Peter. The words are quiet but firm. He finally looks at her, his eyes tentative, as if he is afraid he's saying too much. "You just—really didn't even give me a chance."
Gwen feels overwhelmed. There are horns honking and boots clacking and people breathing and everything is just so loud except for this tiny bubble around them, where she is staring up at him in disbelief, not able to follow, not able to understand.
"What about …" She shakes her head. She speaks slowly, carefully, aiming her words at the sidewalk. "The promise, Peter. What about the promise."
His fists are at his sides and his chin is set and everything about him looks tense. "I can't." Peter puts a hand to his forehead, kneading his eyebrows, wracked with the kind of guilt she is only just in these past few weeks trying to understand. "I don't know about you, but—I can't. I want to keep you safe, I want that more than anything, but it feels like we've been living like we're already dead."
Gwen literally feels weak at the knees. The idea of this—of a life free of the promise that has overshadowed their lives like a dark cloud for so long—it is everything she has craved, everything she has longed for and dreamed of and wanted since before she can even remember.
"I know," she says, the words coming out in a gasp. "I know." She feels it in the way her heart beats at the sound of his name, the way her stomach soars out of her throat at the sight of him, the way the world seems unbearably and amazingly bright and present and real when he so much as grazes her hand—it's like coming alive again, and she knows when he's gone there is no place and no person on this earth who can do the same to her.
"Gwen," says Peter, his arms extended like he might reach for her, then halting, as if something is holding him back.
She takes a step closer, making it easier on him like she always does. "Do you mean it?"
"Mean what?" he asks, his eyes dangerously close to hers, swimming in her line of vision.
Gwen breathes in. "Do you really think after all this time, after everything that's happened, you can really just let that promise go?"
Peter's chest seems to sink. "I wish ... " he says, letting the words hang there until neither of them are breathing. He shakes his head, just once. "Yes. I mean it." He's looking at her again now, his expression raw and honest and a little frightened. "I wanted so badly to keep it, to do right by you, by your father. But I can't stop—the way I think of you, all the time, every hour, every minute, and the last two years—were awful—"
"The worst," Gwen agrees, the words coming out as a choked laugh, because she's so relieved, so delirious, that she think she might just start to cry.
Peter shakes his head, as if he is finishing a conversation with himself and then turning to her to let her in. "Staying away from you is the hardest thing I've ever done," he says, "and I just—I'm not strong enough to do it anymore. It's you, it's always you, no matter where I go or what I'm doing, I just can't stop feeling the way I—the way I feel." His eyes are desperate and beautiful and perfect. "Do you think … do you think we could ever be like that again? The way we were before all of this happened?"
Gwen is leaning forward so close to him that she just about loses her footing, but she recovers quickly, grabbing his sweater for balance and lifting her face up to kiss him in one swift, seamless movement. The kiss is deep but brief, his question still lingering, waiting for her answer.
She lowers herself from her tiptoes, letting her heels touch the ground. "No," she says. "I don 't think we can ever be like that again." She sees Peter's expression start to shift, but before he can react, she pulls one of his hands, tugs his body back towards hers. "Let's just be … us. Let's not try to go back or get somewhere," she clarifies. "Let's just be us."
Peter's lips crack into a smile. "Yeah," he says. "Okay." He kisses her, a sweet little peck, and when he pulls away he's wearing a broad, goofy grin. "Just us, then."
And as they stand there on the sidewalk, all knees and elbows and jumping hearts, kissing as if they're the only two people in Manhattan, everything else disappears. The uncertainty, the suffering, the unresolved questions that should still be ringing in their ears—it doesn't matter, just us—he's the only thing in the world she needs.
Guys. I have one month left of college. Naturally I'm shattering any notions of my coolness or popularity by throwing a Spiderman-themed party the day the DVD gets released (FRIDAY!) and inviting a bunch of people who might have thought I was normal, but too late. I'm so excited. I'm going to cover the coffee table I got out of the dumpster with Spiderman wrapping paper, and I've got Spiderman plates and cups, plus Spiderman sheets to lay out on the floor in case anyone gets too drunk to go home. SO PREPARED. SO EXCITED. Wish I could invite all of you, but alas, we are on fanfiction, the awesome realm where we are all super awesome, but at the same time we don't exist.
Our show is getting better. The guy I like accidentally ran into me today and for the first time ever it wasn't my fault. I am full of cheese and cupcakes. LIFE IS GOOD.