Lying Heart

Peter would have stayed on the scene longer and tried to pry more information out of the man, but he is also aware that the wounds on his arm and leg are much deeper than the previous graze, and that he is essentially a ticking time bomb until he gets home to the antidote.

Gingerly, he jams one of the antidotes into his arm. He's not really sure if these things came with instructions, but he figured it there were some perilously specific way he had to do it, Gwen would have said something.

He can almost feel the antidote flooding like cold water through his veins. The edges of his vision go black, and for a moment he feels like he's dreaming—he can hear Gwen's voice saying, You'll be okay, Peter. You're gonna be fine, and he's certain that he's not delusional, that he's remembering something, maybe the last time she injected this stuff into him.

He eases himself back, leaning against his bed. The antidote has left a chill in his bones that he can't seem to shake. He's too tired to even shiver. He thinks of Gwen, which is the worst thing to do when he's this tired, because for the first time since the captain died he lets himself feel his sadness in full force.

It feels like there's a weight crushing his chest. How awful to think that just a few months ago everything was normal. Just a few months ago he was flirting with her bashfully in a hallway, sneaking pictures of her on courtyard benches, pretending to be lost in class so he could ask her what page they were supposed to be studying. At the time it had seemed painful to pine after her before he'd gotten the courage to ask her out, but he looks back on that old pain with a kind of nostalgia. He didn't know what pining was back then. He didn't understand it could be so, so much worse.

There's so much that he wants to tell her, to make her understand. But it's hopeless now. She has somebody else to tell her all the things she needs to hear. She doesn't need Peter anymore, which he should be grateful for. It should take away some of the pain of his decision, the guilt that has burdened him since that night the Lizard killed her father, but it doesn't.

Peter is too tired to keep his head up any longer. He thinks maybe he'll just sleep on the floor, because getting up on the mattress seems like too much effort, but he drags himself up there anyway. It might be nice to sleep. His head hits the pillow like a brick. He falls asleep with the unsettling image of Gwen and Richard holding hands that day at the minimart, except this time they aren't walking, so they never get any further away.

The next day is a Saturday. Aunt May asks him if he wants to go ice skating, and even though he'd rather stick his head in a toilet than actually get out of bed, he agrees to go with her. They bundle up, pull out their old ice skates and head for the door.

"Could we go to Rockefeller Center?" asks Aunt May. "I haven't been downtown in weeks, I haven't even seen the big tree yet."

"Sure," says Peter hesitantly. He supposes she hasn't read the paper for once and doesn't know about the attack the night before. He wonders if the rink is even open. It was probably the very least of his concerns while that thing was shooting at him left and right. But he doesn't want to spoil Aunt May's mood by telling her a giant robot attacked the city, especially now that he's fairly certain it's no longer a threat.

"I'm sure it will be crowded," she says, "but that's kind of the fun of it, isn't it?"

"Yeah," says Peter, hoping he sounds enthusiastic. Even the idea of Christmas approaching isn't quite enough to wake him up today.

They arrive at the rink, and to Peter's relief, it is open.

"Where is everyone?" Aunt May asks, frowning.

There's a newspaper on the ground, with a blurry picture of the robot flying above Times Square. "Um," says Peter, pointing at it.

Aunt May leans down to pick it up. "Oh, my," she says after a moment. "This happened last night?" She looks at Peter in alarm, does her usual once-over to make sure he's in tact, and then snaps her attention back to the paper. "I thought it was taken care of last week. Should we even be out right now?"

"I'm sure it's fine," Peter says firmly.

"How do you—?" She purses her lips, then carefully folds the paper before scanning for a recycling bin. "You really think we're fine to be out here, then?"

"Yeah, yeah," says Peter. "I mean, look, there's tons of people out, I'm sure it just scared off all the tourists."

They don't wait in line for more than five minutes, which is almost unheard of at this time of year. Peter makes a big show of being a gentleman and taking his aunt's hand and leading her on the ice. They do a few laps around the rink like that, joking and stumbling. Peter spins her a few times, deftly catching her with his newfound reflexes. She squeals, beaming with delight, and Peter thinks that maybe these silly moments on the ice are worth the ache he feels from those shots last night and then some.

Aunt May finishes laughing after a less than graceful maneuver and looks up toward the line of people entering the rink. "That's a pretty girl," she remarks.

"Huh?" Peter turns around. It's Gwen. He looks away before he can see Richard in tow. He doesn't want to wreck this fun memory with his aunt with the image of the two of them canoodling on the ice. "Oh, yeah," he says noncommittally.

"Doesn't she go to your school, Peter?"

"I guess," he says. He offers her his hand. "Wanna go around again?"

Aunt May smiles at him. "I think I'm ready for a cup of cocoa, aren't you?"

Peter looks toward the café beside the rink. He feels Gwen's stare on him but he refuses to meet her eye. "Sure," he says, skating over toward the exit once he's sure that Gwen is no longer at the mouth of it.

They take off their coats and settle in with their cocoa when Aunt May starts her inevitable prying. "Who is that girl, anyway?" she asks, trying to sound casual.

Peter takes an unnecessarily long sip of his drink. "Just some girl."

"She was staring at you an awful lot for just some girl," Aunt May says knowingly. "Tell me about her."

"Okay." Peter slouches in his seat. "There's just, uh. Not much to tell. She's just this girl," he says again, his throat tight.

"What's her name?" Aunt May asks patiently.

"Gwen," says Peter, maybe a little too fast. He tries again, making himself sound more nonchalant. "Gwen Stacy. She was in my biology class freshman year," he says, which isn't a lie, even if it doesn't so much as tap the surface of his relationship with her.

"Mmhmmm." The door chimes behind him, and Aunt May glances up to see who has walked in. "I think I'll excuse myself to use the lady's room," she says, with some sort of odd glint in her eyes that is suddenly making Peter uneasy.

He turns around and sees that it's Gwen who has entered, and her eyes are locked on him. "Really, Aunt May?" he says lowly. "Right now?"

"Be right back," she says with a merry wave.

Peter slouches even further into his seat, trying to look as unapproachable as possible, but he can feel her walking up anyway. Without asking for permission she slides a chair up to the little table he is sitting at. He looks up, just for a second to acknowledge her, but looks away just as fast and stares down at his drink.

"Hey," she says. "I'm glad you're okay."

Peter nods. "Thanks."

Gwen clears her throat. Peter still doesn't look up.

"I have an idea to propose, if you hear me out," she says loudly, as if she needs to make an extra effort to hold his attention.

Peter looks up at her sullenly. "Did you just leave Richard outside to propose this idea?" He knows it's a childish thing to say, but he had a rough night and between his frustration with the strange man and his whole situation with Gwen, he quite frankly doesn't care what he sounds like.

"What?" She squints at him for a second, confused. "No, no. I'm not here with Richard, I'm here with my brothers."

"Oh," says Peter, feeling foolish but somewhat pleased to know that Richard is nowhere in sight.

Gwen shakes her head, the barest of smirks on her face. "So listen," she says. "Why can't we just … be friends?"

Peter looks up at her questioningly. "Uh," he stammers. "What?"

"You know. You and me," she says slowly. "Why can't we just be friends?"

He purses his lips. "Aren't we?"

Her eyebrows rise so high into her bangs that they almost disappear. "No," she says. "We aren't."

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Look, Gwen …"

"No, no, no. You didn't hear me out," she interrupts, putting a finger up to halt him for extra measure. "It's just that it's different—from what my dad made you promise, whatever he said, because we're not, you know. Involved. Not if we're just friends."

"That's just—I'm sorry," Peter flounders. "It's still. It's the same as being involved, Gwen, it's the same thing—"

"No, it's not," Gwen protests. She's getting flustered, he can tell by the way she keeps pushing her hair back, knocking her headband askew. "Because I'm with Richard, so it's not like we're, you know, involved. It's different now. It's not the kind of involved my dad was thinking of, I'm sure it's not, so please, Peter, think about it. Let's just be friends again."

"Again?" Peter asks, incredulous. "Gwen, we were never friends in the first place, it was—involved," he says, putting a tone of mockery on her choice of the word, "right from the start."

"Peter," she says, starting to rally, but he cuts her off.

"Wait a minute, here, would you?" he demands. "You're asking me to be your friend, so I can watch you and Richard walk around like the perfect golden couple that you are and just sit on the sidelines twiddling my thumbs?"

"Hey," says Gwen, her cheeks turning bright red, "whose fault is that?"

"Mine!" Peter snaps. "It's all my fault, isn't it? Let's all just blame Peter for everything, I'm sure you and Richard just have a ball talking about how terrible I am while you're not sucking each other's faces—"

"Forget it," Gwen seethes. "Forget I said anything, it was a stupid idea." She collects her purse and starts walking out the door.

"You're right," Peter says stupidly, because he wants the last word. "It was stupid! It was the most stupid of all—the stupidest —"

The door shuts behind her with a crash before he can finish the rest of his poorly-planned comeback. He slams his hand down on the table so hard that he accidentally crushes the napkin holder. He looks up and the sole worker behind the coffee counter is gaping at him in shock.

"What?" Peter snaps.

The guy looks away and pretends to scrub the counter intently. Just then Aunt May comes out of the bathroom. She looks at the table, looks at the crushed napkin holder, looks at Peter.

He hangs his head, not quite ready to feel his shame in full force. "Can we just … can we just go home?"

Thanks again for the reviews, guys. They please me so much that I can overlook the fact that most of you want Andrew as much as I do, which means that inevitably we will all have to fight each other to the death, but for now ... for now, we can all be friends.

Unlike Gwen and Peter. Teenage angst angst angst.