Lying Heart
Peter rehearses what he's going to say to Gwen all morning, trying to think of something casual and maybe funny but above all not forced because he doesn't want her to think that he still feels unsure and awkward after their discussion the day before, even though he does. By the time he gets to school he has a few planned: a simple Hey, Gwen can't go wrong, and neither can a So, how about that reading last night?, even though Peter doesn't know if there was assigned reading, because he certainly didn't do it.
He forces himself to stop thinking about it. He will never be able to plan being normal in advance—this much he has learned about himself in his less-than-slick seventeen years. Besides, maybe she'll just say hi first, or do that little wave of hers, and the problem will be gone altogether.
Gwen isn't in class that day.
Peter scowls all through cinematography. Gwen never misses class. He checks his phone to see if she texted him, maybe with an excuse about how she needs the homework or just to flat out tell him she's absent, but there's nothing in his inbox.
He pulls out his phone to call her as soon as class is over, and it leads straight to her voicemail. He is so distracted wondering where she is that he doesn't even notice that he has let her voicemail run all the way to the beep, and that so far he has left a message with at least five seconds of dead air.
"Hey," he finally says, "you're not here today." He finds his locker and leans his head against it, trying to think of something more concrete to say so it sounds like he meant to leave a voicemail. "Text me or something," he decides on lamely.
By the time Peter finishes stashing his books away, most of the hall has cleared of other students and he knows he must be late to class, which is clear on the other side of the building. He throws his backpack over his shoulder, intending to pick up the pace.
"Hey, Parker."
Peter can't decide whether or not to turn around. If he keeps on walking he'll only look absurd—there is no pretending he didn't hear Richard, not with the hallways so quiet and his voice so commanding and clear. But if he does turn around he will have to face Richard, have to talk to him, and at a time when his anxiety over Gwen's absence is inexplicably growing by the hour, a chat with her ex-boyfriend is the last thing he needs.
He settles on just stopping mid-step. "Yeah?" he says without facing Richard.
Richard half-jogs to catch up with him. Peter doesn't even bother bracing himself; he knows Richard would never strike him in a school hallway, or probably anywhere else, if he hadn't been so drunk and angry that night. He reaches Peter's line of sight, forcing Peter to look at him, and not for the first time Peter can imagine him as the neat little puzzle piece that finalizes the pretty picture that could be Gwen's life: him in his pressed khakis, her in a simple but alluring dress, posed in front of some city suburb where he works a job in business and she works in a lab and they have intelligent, well-bred babies who are heirs to their grandparents' small fortunes and all learn to play the violin before age five.
Peter thought he would never stop hating Richard for everything he could offer Gwen, everything that Peter never could, but now that he is out of the picture it surprises Peter how easily that hatred dissipates. He has already forgiven Richard before he even opens his mouth to apologize.
"Hey," says Richard. "I just wanted to say—I'm not going to lie, I can't remember much about New Year's, but for everything I did, I really am sorry."
Peter nods. It feels like all he ever does these days is apologize or hear apologies. "It's really okay."
Richard smiles bitterly. "I beat the shit out of you, man."
Peter clears his throat. "I mean—not really," he says self-consciously, because he likes to think he'd be able to hold his own in a fight even without these abilities.
"I don't know what made me … I mean, I know I said some things to you, but I didn't really mean to, I wasn't going to actually beat you up. I just—I was drunk, it was stupid, I'd take it back if I could."
"Yeah. Well."
"So," Richard says. "I suppose it doesn't really matter anymore. With Gwen and all."
Peter looks away from Richard, his feet shuffling uncomfortably. "I heard."
"I'm not surprised," says Richard.
"It's—not like that," says Peter unnecessarily.
Richard just shakes his head, indicating that he doesn't want to hear anymore, which saves Peter a few painful seconds of trying to recover by elaborating on the situation. The two boys stand there in the hallway for a moment, listening to the bell ring, to the sounds of the last few stragglers shutting the doors to the classrooms.
"You're lucky," Richard says, staring down at his immaculate shoes. He looks up only briefly, just long enough to say, "Be good to her."
Peter nods and says, "I will."
On the way to the Daily Bugle's offices he swings by Gwen's apartment. Her mother answers the door and says of course Gwen isn't home, and didn't she tell him she was going to be spending the day leading a conference for international interns at OsCorp at a hotel in the city? Peter tells her no, Gwen didn't tell him that, and as he walks away, the weirder it sounds. He is about to turn to leave her doorstep, but something stops him.
"When did Gwen tell you about the conference?" he asks.
"This morning," says her mom. "She had to leave a message about it, I'm sure she mentioned it before, but I've just been so … disorganized lately."
Peter guiltily looks away from her, not wanting to witness Gwen's mother's grief, not wanting to remember her red-rimmed eyes and clothes that seem just a bit too wrinkled for a woman who casually serves branzino.
"Thanks," says Peter, now completely unable to shake the feeling that something is wrong. He checks his phone. Surely she would have texted him by now, even just to check in. She has never been the type to leave him hanging. Anxiously he tries to recall every detail of their less-than-successful attempt at talking the day before, but nothing about it struck him as so sensitive or offensive to warrant her disappearing and completely ignoring him.
He decides not to go to his internship, walking straight past the building. He can't focus right now.
"Hey. Hey, kid."
At first it doesn't occur to Peter that someone is talking to him, until he feels a rough hand on his shoulder. He looks up and sees Jameson, who has apparently decided to indulge in a cigar out on the street. Peter doesn't even bother to suppress his eye roll; he's in no mood.
"Where are those pictures I asked you for?"
Peter shoves his shoulder out of Jameson's grasp. "You didn't ask me for any pictures."
"Sure I did," Jameson barks, "I asked for those pictures of Spiderman conspiring with the robots."
"Spiderman's not—" Peter clamps his mouth shut and takes a breath. "You never asked me for those, you must have asked somebody else."
"No, I asked you, I'm sure of it, how many other scrawny little photographers are there in this city?"
Peter starts walking away. "I don't have time for this, I have somewhere to be."
"You better watch yourself, I could fire you faster than—"
"You never hired me," says Peter, "I'm not even on your payroll!"
Jameson scowls. "Sure you are, Perker, you practically robbed me last week."
"Parker."
"Listen, Perker, if I don't have some decent shots by this afternoon—"
Peter rummages through his backpack, grabs the hardcopies of the photos he touched up the night before, and practically shoves them at Jameson. "It's all I've got," says Peter, "and you better not use them until we negotiate a price. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got somewhere to be."
He doesn't. He doesn't have somewhere to be, and that's the most maddening part of Gwen's absence, because he has no idea where he should even start looking. Every major hotel in New York? There had to be at least twenty-five places downtown ritzy enough to host a bunch of international OsCorp interns.
It's pointless to start up a search. He calls her again before he descends into the subway. Hey, you've reached Gwen Stacy, I'm not available at the moment but—
Peter shuts the phone off with an unnecessarily hard tap of his finger and the screen cracks and the phone goes black.
He jams it back into his backpack. "Perfect."
The subway ride home seems longer than ever. Peter taps his foot, taps his fingers on his board, clenches his jaw. He shouldn't be so on edge, he knows it, but he can't quite look at anybody because he can't be troubled with even smiling politely at a stranger right now, he can't divide his attention any further than this.
When he finally gets home, his aunt's car isn't in the driveway. He is so distracted that he doesn't think anything of it. She could have gone to the grocery store, or maybe she had switched shifts with one of the younger girls at work again. He doesn't even feel the uncanny tingling of the hairs raising on the back of his neck until he twists his key into the door and realizes it hasn't been locked.
"Aunt May?" he calls. Maybe she took the car to the shop—it's an old clunker, anyway. He holds his breath, waiting for her to answer, his apprehension only mounting as he makes his way into the house.
He isn't alone. His feet lead him to the kitchen and when he flicks on the lights he sees none other than Fisher sitting at his kitchen table, his hands on his father's briefcase.
At first Peter is too stunned to move. His first reaction is to make sense of this—there are a number of reasons why Fisher would be sitting in his kitchen at five o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. Maybe he came to apologize again, maybe Aunt May let him in and left to pick up food for dinner, maybe—
Fisher's lips curl into a smirk and all of Peter's rationalizations fly out the window.
"It would be the son of Richard Parker, wouldn't it be?" says Fisher flippantly. "Playing Spiderman with his daddy's old tricks."
Peter can see all of his father's designs for the formula in Fisher's hands, the ones he himself found just months ago, the ones he was certain he destroyed. His feet fly toward the table and he reaches a hand out to snatch the papers away, but Fisher's reflexes are fast and his grip is painfully strong.
Peter wrenches his hand away. "Where is my aunt?" he demands through gritted teeth.
The placid expression on Fisher's face is both unnerving and infuriating. "It isn't your aunt I'd be worried about just now."
It takes him a second. Then the realization is unfathomable, his reaction physical and unavoidable. Fisher's smirk only deepens as he watches understanding dawn on Peter's face.
"Where is she?" He reaches out to pin Fisher, to throw his against the wall and keep him there, but Fisher grabs his hand again, too easily for anyone human. Peter struggles, shoves his other fist toward Fisher, and Fisher ducks easily. Peter screams in frustration, his blood boiling with a seizing terror and rage he never knew the human body was capable of enduring. He rips his hand out of the wall. "Where is she?"
Fisher pushes Peter off of him with ease and dusts off his shoulder where bits plaster stuck to him. "We're willing to cut you a deal," he says. "But only if we have your full cooperation."
There is no price Peter won't pay to get Gwen back. By the look on Fisher's face, this is something he already knows, something he is counting on.
"Take me to her," he says, keeping his fists at his sides. "I'll give you whatever you want."
Hehehehehe. The plot is obviously thickening. I'm getting close to writing the end bits now, it's kind of surreal.
To those of you who have expressed interest in my music beyond the infamous Andrew Garfield song, I put a link up on my profile to my music page. It's ridiculously girly and country and, well. Proceed with caution.
And thank you guys again for all the reviews :). It brightens up my very long work days which are ALMOST OVER! Can't wait for the semester to start. BOOKS AND LEARNING AND NO PROJECTILE VOMIT. It'll be like living in a dream ...