Reckless
When Gwen finally does manage to get a hold of Peter, she dials his cell phone from MJ's, ducking into the empty stairwell of her friend's dorm. It rings five times before he answers.
"Uh … hello?" he says, less than politely.
"It's me."
"Gwen?" he asks, his tone changing completely, much to her gratification. "Isn't this Mary Jane's—"
"Yes," she says, "I can't call you from my phone anymore. Listen—"
"What happened?" he demands, talking over her before she can even finish a sentence. "With Johnson, I mean. I tried to stick around but there were just cops everywhere, Gwen, it was the weirdest thing—"
"I need to talk to you." Gwen hates this sudden paranoia, but she can't help but try to look at this from every possible angle, can't help but imagine every worst case scenario of them being tracked. She wracks her brain for an idea, and then says, "Meet me … meet me outside that greasy pizza place we like," because that's the best way she can think up to throw anyone listening to them way off their trail in this city.
She can almost hear Peter's hesitation. "Alright," he says after a moment. "Now?"
"Right now," she says, and then she hangs up the phone, afraid to incriminate MJ by spending any longer on the line with him. She ducks back into her friend's room and hands her the cell phone back, trying not to shrink under the full force of MJ's smirk.
"What was so important that you and lover boy couldn't bear to let me hear?" she says, batting her eyelids and fawning her hair.
"Ha ha," Gwen deadpans. She grabs her backpack from MJ's bed. "I actually have to go meet up with him now."
MJ groans. "Seriously? I've barely seen you at all this week, and you're picking that brainy loser over me?"
"We'll hang out soon. Get dinner or something," says Gwen offhandedly, knowing that the likelihood of that happening any time soon is slim at best. She misses MJ but the last thing she wants is to have an extra person to worry about when she's constantly looking over her shoulder as it is. She looks back at MJ on her way out the door, feeling a twinge of remorse at the dejected look on her face, remembering that Richard did just break up with her a week ago and Gwen hasn't exactly been the most supportive friend.
"Maybe at my family's apartment," Gwen clarifies, making the plans sound more concrete. With both Captain Johnson and Peter on high alert she figures her family's apartment is the safest place they can be.
MJ's scowl loosens a bit. "I miss your crazy brothers," she says, in that wistful way that kids without other siblings do. She shakes her hair out from under her sweater and when she reaches up to pull her hair into a ponytail Gwen's heart almost leaps into her throat.
"What the—" MJ snaps her hand back away from Gwen in confusion and alarm, and only then does Gwen realize that she has crossed the room and yanked her friend's hand up. "What are you doing?" MJ demands.
Gwen stands there, not sure whether she should feel foolish or afraid. "I put a—your hand, didn't I … " She doesn't want to say anything more, in case it is him, and the idea of it roots her to the floor with terror.
MJ continues to stare at her, her normally large, cherubic eyes starting to squint. Gwen can't move. It's an ordinary enough expression for MJ to make—she's seen her friend express this kind of confusion over a textbook or a presidential debate or anything that has ever come out of Gwen's mouth about OsCorp—but what if it isn't? What if this isn't MJ squinting because she's confused, but some strange man inhabiting a body just like hers, narrowing his eyes because he's getting ready to strike?
"Oh," MJ says, her voice light and casual and a complete contradiction to the thoughts screaming in Gwen's head. "You mean that heart you drew? It's on this hand. My left one."
Gwen feels like her knees might sink into the floor.
"It's washing off," MJ says, rubbing the skin of the back of her hand with her thumb. She looks up at Gwen, who still hasn't quite moved, unable to think of how to explain herself. "What's going on with you, anyway? You seem so jumpy."
Gwen pulls the same pen out of her backpack, trying to smile reassuringly. "I've just been studying late," she says. "Here, I'll redraw it—"
MJ pulls her hand away. "I have an audition," she explains.
Gwen is still holding the pen in mid-air, halfway to MJ. She feels her chest constricting with frustration. That man has held MJ's hand for far too long not to be able to imitate her, and as long as he is out there she can't ever be sure of MJ's identity, not unless she agrees to wear this stupid heart on her hand.
"For luck, then," says Gwen weakly, because she can't think of some other obvious way to mark MJ besides this.
MJ shakes her head. "No," she reiterates, because Gwen is moving closer to her. MJ's eyebrows furrow into a scowl, her nose wrinkling in confusion and annoyance. "Gwen—"
"Sorry," Gwen mumbles, putting the pen down. The heart still hasn't completely faded from MJ's hand at least, so she isn't going to worry about it for at least another day. She takes a step back from MJ, draws in a breath and tries to recover the situation by asking about the audition. Thankfully MJ perks up and gives her the details fast enough that Gwen can extract herself from MJ's dorm in enough time to meet Peter.
Once she hits the street the cold air slaps at her cheeks and she picks up the pace, knowing that with Peter's abilities he has probably long since been waiting for her at the pizza place. She skirts through intersections and dodges pedestrians, walking as quickly as she can without drawing too much attention to herself, always acutely aware of the many sets of eyes that could be watching her as she goes.
"Gwen!" Peter calls from across the street, raising an enthusiastic hand and being as unsubtle as a person can possibly be. She cringes, but he doesn't know any better. He looks at her in confusion, faltering a bit as she doesn't react the way he thought she would. She crosses the street quickly, grabs his arm and pulls him inside, making sure her mouth is stretched into a smile, that her posture is natural, that everything about her looks relaxed and normal as her blood seethes under her skin.
The door shuts behind them.
"What's going—"
"Hold on."
Peter clamps his mouth shut and she continues to lead him deeper into the pizza joint, finding a table in the back. He sits across from her, leaning in close, his eyes wide and waiting.
Gwen intends to be calm about this. She intends to whisper it in a low voice, to says it in a way that assures him that she has the situation under control, but what comes out instead is a strangled, breathy: "Captain Johnson knows."
Peter doesn't so much as flinch but she can see that he is frozen, staring at her. "What—what does Johnson know?"
Gwen squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, trying to reclaim some of her composure, and then faces him again. His knuckles are white against the table, his hands balled into tight fists. She waits for a moment, eyeing the other people in the bustling room, but nobody is paying them any attention.
"He knows that you're …" Gwen doesn't want to finish, doesn't want to say it, but the moment she raises her eyebrows he knows exactly what she means.
"No," says Peter, immediately. He shakes his head, then stops, staring at her as if he is waiting for her to take it back. She watches his expression shift, his jaw starting to drop, his eyebrows twisting into a scowl. "He can't possibly—I've never—I've been careful," he says, and then he's staring at the table, talking to himself, barely above a mumble. He looks up at her and says more emphatically this time, "I've been so careful."
Gwen looks at him in what she hopes is a reassuring manner. "I know you have. And there's a possibility he's bluffing, but in case he isn't … he knows we're involved. He's been having me followed."
Peter sinks his head into his hands, his elbows propped on the table. "Oh, God." He stays there for a moment, and as much as Gwen sympathizes with him she can't help but feel uncomfortable sitting here with him so obviously emoting—if anyone has managed to follow them here, the implications of Peter's gestures would be all too clear. Before she can touch his arm and try and shake him out of it, he looks up at her and says, "I'm so sorry, Gwen."
"It wasn't your fault I was being followed," she says, "it was the thing at OsCorp—the break in—they followed all of us." She digs at a patch of paint coming off the table. "It was just exceptionally terrible timing."
Peter isn't quite looking at her. She knows what has to happen, and so does he, but he still asks as if they don't already know the answer: "What are we going to do?"
Gwen lets herself sigh, just once, because if she doesn't let herself have at least that she's afraid she's going to suffocate from the disappointment. They can't see each other anymore. She's known it since the moment Johnson pulled her aside outside the facility, but it doesn't make it any more bearable, having to sit here and decide it now.
"I'm going to go to OsCorp. I'm going to find out what Connors meant in that note to me, and maybe—maybe something will work out," she says, and even she can detect the false hope in her voice.
"Gwen," he says, his voice quiet and controlled, and she knows what he's going to say before he says it.
"I can't leave the city now," Gwen says, her voice resigned, every bit the opposite from the first time she had this argument with him. "If I leave that's all the proof Johnson needs. And besides," she says, her mind already halfway back to OsCorp, "I need to be here. If we're ever going to have a chance at stopping this guy, I need to be at the lab."
"They can probably watch you there, too," Peter says darkly.
Gwen tries not to think too hard about strained conversations with Owen over two mutated, sense-defying rats in a cage, tucking her hair back behind her ear with a grim acceptance that Peter is probably right. She wonders why nobody has approached them by now. It's a miracle she and Owen aren't behind bars.
"I have to find my father. He'd have to know something about this," Peter says, and his voice is so earnest that Gwen feels like her heart is pushing against her ribcage. "Even if it was just the two of us, it'd have to be enough to take him down, wouldn't it?"
Gwen offers him a small nod because she doesn't want to say anything that will betray her uncertainty. "Well that's what we'll focus on today. I'll work on the formula. You try and find your father. We'll meet tonight, at the park by the East Library," she says, careful to keep her voice low.
"Right," says Peter, his jaw set. He looks at Gwen, considering her for a moment. "Maybe it's good that Johnson is following you. At least you'll be safe."
"The enemy of your enemy is decidedly not your friend, at least not in this case," Gwen reminds him as they get up from the table and a group of rowdy high school boys grab it out from under them. She slings her bag over her shoulder, holding it protectively to her chest, bracing herself for when they leave the relative safety of the pizza joint and hit the crowded street.
Peter walks a bit ahead of her and holds the door open. She looks down for a split second because there's a napkin stuck to her boot, and in the time it takes to look back up she sees the door about to slam into her and holds out her forearm to stop it from ramming into her. She turns her head to find Peter, about to rib him, but he isn't by the door where she expects him to be.
That's when she hears the familiar click-clack of handcuffs locking shut.
She turns her head toward the noise, to where Captain Johnson has Peter leaned over, handcuffed, and directed toward a police car. Peter looks at her with his mouth set in a grim line.
"What's going on?" Gwen demands. Johnson doesn't even look at her, and neither does Peter. She darts forward, pursuing them, grabbing Peter's arm and nearly knocking herself off balance when Johnson abruptly moves Peter out of her way.
"Don't," says Peter, his eyes trained on hers, pleading for her to let this go.
She can't. "You can't just arrest him," Gwen yells, stepping in front of the police car so that Johnson won't be able to open the door and push Peter inside. "You have no reason, you have no right—"
Johnson finally directs his attention at her, opening his mouth to no doubt say something stern, something harsh and upsetting that will prompt her to move, but Peter beats him to it.
"Gwen, don't," he says again. "Please."
She shakes her head, feeling tears pricking under her eyelids, feeling powerless and stupid and wishing all these people on the street weren't watching them. She wishes he would fight, she wishes he would even try to struggle, but he is compliant and accepting and all too ready to give up. She knows that he doesn't have a choice, but she hates that she can't help him, that he can't even help himself.
"This is bullshit!" Gwen screams, rushing forward. Before she can make it another foot forward she feels the sinking sensation of her feet lifting from the ground, and a pair of firm, well-trained arms around her midsection, holding her back. She knows better than to kick and thrash at a police officer, but it's instinct, she can't help herself, she has to fight. Without Peter to keep the imposter at bay, Gwen will never be safe, nobody in the city will be safe, and Spiderman will never be redeemed. "You can't do this!"
She looks up desperately, trying to find Peter, her vision haphazard from being spun around. She sees him take a step toward her, unintentionally using all of his strength, sending Johnson backwards and reeling to regain his balance.
Gwen sees the action and goes limp, letting the officer drop her to her feet. He will do anything to keep her safe. She can't do this here, because he doesn't know any better than to fight for her.
"Gwen—"
Johnson grabs Peter roughly by his wrists, all but dragging him into the car, Peter's lanky frame twisting like a pretzel to fit into the odd angle. She hears the thud of his head hitting the side of the car before Johnson shoves him in. Their eyes catch for the briefest of moments and Gwen feels a horrible, inexplicable tug in her stomach. She's afraid to look away from him, to look away from the tinted window where he must be staring back at her. As the car drives away with him in the backseat she finds herself rooted to the spot, feeling like the rest of the world is a vacuum around her, unimportant, silent, pressurizing the air.
The car turns the corner and disappears. Gwen hugs her arms to her chest, not even protesting as one of the officers ushers her into a car, tells her that he's taking her home. With Peter and Captain Johnson gone and the imposter on the loose, there's no place else she can go.
Her brothers are gone when the officer drops her off. Her mother meets them at the door, staring at Gwen, staring at the officer, not even bothering to ask for an explanation. The resignation on her face as she thanks the officer and steps aside to let Gwen in is all the indication Gwen needs—Captain Johnson is a liar. He has absolutely told her mother everything.
The door shuts with a muted click. Gwen stands there, her heart still hammering in her chest, her fingers tight at her sides in anticipation. A few painfully long seconds pass and still her mother doesn't say a word. She just stares, not quite looking at Gwen, as if she is looking past her—looking at Gwen and seeing something Gwen can't see or fathom herself.
"Mom," says Gwen, breaking the silence because she can't stand it anymore.
Her mother tilts her head in a sharp motion toward the other side of the room. She follows her mother's gaze and sees that she has laid something out on the couch—a red and blue piece of fabric that takes Gwen a little too long to recognize as one of Peter's masks.
Gwen feels her breath hitch in her throat. They've never been this stupid before. Her eyes well and widen in disbelief, furious with herself for letting this slide through the cracks, furious with her mother for going through her bedroom, furious at every moment in between that she could have remembered that he took his damn mask off the other night and kicked it under her bed, and prevented this from happening.
When she finally meets her mother's eyes, they are steeled and set, as if she has been waiting for this moment all day.
"Please," Gwen starts, not even knowing what she is asking for. Forgiveness, or her mother's silence, or the chance to pretend none of this ever happened and everything is fine. Gwen knows she deserves none of it.
Her mother's arms cross authoritatively. Her stare burns against Gwen's cheeks.
"You had better tell me everything."
HAPPY 2013! Promise this is still getting updated. I got a little, er. Sidetracked. You know when you want to write a neat little one shot and then BLAMMO it turns into forty pages of graphic violence and inappropriate content? Well. GUESS WHO JUST STARTED WATCHING MISFITS! I encourage all of you (EIGHTEEN AND OVER ONLY) to join me, Robert Sheehan is a nice Andrew Garfield replacement during this Andrew-less lull between his films. I haven't decided if I'm posting the Misfits story or not, but I can say that I will be working on this story more, what with all my free time I have in the magical fairy unicorn world of unemployment and regretting my decision to major in Psychology.
Now I'm going to go find some pants. Maybe it's just me, but today feels like a wearing pants kind of day.