Lying Heart
Chapter Five
When he wakes up in the morning, the wound on his shin where the robot grazed him isn't even near healed. It stings when he touches it. It occurs to him that he should have cleaned it last night, but he assumed that as always it would heal up on its own. He shoves his leg unceremoniously into the sink and washes it out, cringing. It's small, but deep. He gives it one last glance before taping some gauze to it haphazardly. It was probably for the best that he didn't want to go to school to be a doctor.
He walks down to breakfast early, to preempt Aunt May reading the paper, but she's already down there reading it, her mouth wide open.
"Morning," Peter says loudly. His voice is back, at the very least.
Aunt May startles in her seat. "Peter," she says. She looks him up and down the way she does all too often. He must have passed her test, because her shoulders slump a bit and she says, "I was going to make French toast."
"I'll get the coffee pot started," he offers.
Aunt May folds up the paper carefully. "You heard about the, uh. The robot thing?"
Peter nods. "Saw something about it on my computer this morning," he says. "Wild, huh?"
"Scary," Aunt May says. "I can't even imagine. Twenty six officers down. But did you know there were no civilian deaths?"
Peter looks up in surprise. "Really?"
Aunt May is smiling tiredly. "Apparently Spiderman swooped in and saved them all."
Peter doesn't smile. How can he, when there are twenty six good men dead?
"Good for him," he says, excusing himself from the table. He stumbles a little bit and almost knocks over his plate. "Woops," he says reflexively. It strikes him as a more than a little odd. He hasn't done much stumbling since the crazy superhuman powers kicked in. He doesn't think much more of it, though. "See you tonight."
"Don't forget your coat!"
SSSSSSSSSSS
Peter knows for sure something is off while he's boarding to school. For the life of him he can't seem to control the direction of the board. After several near misses with cars and other people on the street, he gives up and carries it. He ends up a few minutes late to school. His calculus teacher is not impressed.
He trips on his way to his desk.
"Not quite awake yet, Mr. Parker?" asks his teacher.
Peter blinks. "I'm late," he says stupidly. His tongue feels kind of spongy in his mouth. The class snickers and Peter looks around at their faces, of kids he's gone to school with ever since he can remember, and he wonders what on earth is so funny.
"I'm aware," his teacher says wryly. "Now can you please take your seat."
For a moment Peter just stands there. He can't remember where he's supposed to sit. Are the seats assigned in this class? Where does he normally sit?
"Mr. Parker," the teacher says warningly.
More snickers.
"I'm sorry," says Peter, sliding into an empty desk. Nobody says anything, so he figures it's okay to sit here. He would be more concerned with his faulty memory, but it suddenly occurs to him just how crazy mechanical pencils are. He clicks his a few times, watching the lead come out. Who even thought of this? He slides the lead back in and it crunches beneath his fingers, flicking in some other direction.
"Peter."
He looks up. His teacher is standing over his desk, inches away from him.
"Yeah?"
She furrows her brow at him. "Class finished two minutes ago."
"Oh." He should collect his books. He stares at his desk and sees that he never took any out in the first place.
"Are you feeling alright? Do you need to see the nurse?"
"I'm fine," Peter assures her. In fact, he's feeling pretty good. His muscles feel light and floaty. The colors seem brighter. He can see sunshine peeking in through the window. It's Christmas in three weeks. "I'm great," he says, smiling wide.
"Alright," she says, unconvinced. "Hurry before you're late to class again."
Peter grabs his backpack and his board and walks into the hallway. It's packed to the gills with other students. He grins and waves at people he recognizes and people he doesn't. He isn't quite sure where he's going. Is school out yet? Is he supposed to go to a class? The school is so huge. How is he supposed to check all the rooms to find the one he's supposed to be in?
"C'mon, man, you're so late for Spanish."
Someone tugs at his arm. He knows this person. "Okay," he says agreeably. Then he leans over to cough into his sleeve. He doesn't know how long he coughs for, but it seems like it goes on forever. He coughs and coughs and coughs, but it doesn't feel so bad, just kind of irritating, because now he can't really breathe or go anywhere.
"Jesus, man, what's wrong with you?" his friend asks, grabbing him by the shoulders.
"I just." Peter laughs. "I don't know."
"Go to the nurse," his friend commands, turning him around and pointing him in a different direction. "I'm late. I'll see you later."
Peter walks. At some point he finds outside. It's cold out, the sharp sting of a breeze hitting his face. He leans over and coughs again, coughs until his body doubles over, coughs until he's so dizzy that it feels like he's on an amusement park ride. He smiles. He hasn't been to Coney Island in forever. Maybe he'll go now.
He doesn't make it very far. The world is swaying. Maybe he's already at Coney Island. Maybe he'll just sit for awhile. He finds a nice brick wall and slumps there for a bit, breathing in, breathing out, waiting for Christmas.
He coughs again, and this time there's blood. Red on his green jacket. It practically is Christmas.
"Peter?"
His head's too heavy to look up, but that voice sounds like an angel, and he's fairly certain he must be dead.
"Peter. Oh, God."
Someone grabs his face and forces him to look up. It's Gwen. She looks very upset, but Peter grins sloppily at her. She looks so beautiful with the sunlight in her hair, and he tells her so, but she either doesn't hear or doesn't care.
"Can you get up?" she asks. She tries to yank him up by his arms and he laughs, and then coughs, and blood splatters onto his lap. "Peter, try and get up, we have to get to my car."
"I'm trying, I promise," he says, and between the two of them he manages to get back on his feet. "Is that a new necklace?" he asks. "It looks very nice on you."
"Yes," she says distractedly. "But focus, Peter. We're walking to my car."
"You have a car?"
"Yes. It's this way. Come on."
"God, you smell nice."
She doesn't say anything. Peter wonders if any of this is real. He wants to kiss her, but he knows better. Dream or reality, he's not allowed to cross that line, even though he can't remember why in the first place. He loves Gwen. More than anything in the world. She's smart, she's pretty, she's funny, she's—
"Right there, the blue one on the end. That's my car. I just need you to hold on until we get there," she says. "Can you do that?"
"I miss you," he says.
She grates her teeth. "Focus, Peter," she says again.
"Are you in love with Richard?"
"Peter, please, keep walking."
"It's okay if you are," Peter says. The car is getting closer. "You should be happy. I hate him. But you should be happy."
A small, begrudging laugh escapes Gwen, and Peter smiles. "You think I'm funny?" he asks, tickled.
They reach the car. "Here," she says, opening the door. "Get in the back."
Peter obeys. "Where are we going?"
"We aren't going anywhere," she says, sliding into the backseat with him. "Now show me where that thing shot you last night."
"What thing?"
"The robot," says Gwen impatiently. "It shot you last night, didn't it? That's where I've been all morning," she explains, and without asking, starts taking off his coat. "Trying to find the antidote. I know those lasers, they were developed at OsCorp and they're full of really dangerous chemical agents. An ordinary person would be dead by now."
Peter frowns. "Why are you taking off my shirt?"
"Tell me where it shot you and I won't have to," she snaps.
"I—" Peter wracks his brain, trying to understand what she's talking about. He closes his eyes, thinking, thinking, thinking.
"Peter!"
"What?"
She is snapping her fingers in front of his eyes. Did he fall asleep?
"We don't have a lot of time here," she says, sitting back. Her hand grazes his shin and he flinches, reeling away from her. She tears at the leg of his jeans, revealing the badly-wrapped wound from this morning, which is now surrounded by various shades of purple, yellow, and green. "Bingo," she says, and without wasting another second, jams a giant hypodermic needle into his leg.
He squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, all he sees is blackness. "Gwen?" he asks. His head feels so heavy. He shuts his eyes again.
"You'll be okay, Peter," he hears her saying. Her voice is shaking. "You're gonna be fine."
Updating earlier than I meant to-power's about to go out, RAGING storm outside (AGAIN! give me a break!), totally freaking out but it'll be fine, except totally freaking out and such. Anyway, thought I'd update before I was doomed. THANKS FOR REVIEWS, ALSO TREE JUST FELL OVER OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT, WHERE THE HELL IS SPIDERMAN WHEN YOU NEED HIM AHHHH.