AN: Mahdkjwnedwuef. You guys are amazing. Like seriously, I was not expecting the responses I've been given.
DO. NOT. GIVE. ME. SPOILERS. FOR. TASM 2. If you do, I will hunt you down and peel off your toenails with a rusty spoon.
With that being said, enjoy. :)
Chapter 3
Peter's legs pump frantically, sneakered feet pounding the sidewalk as he sprints, a horrible sense of dread unfurling in his chest.
No, no, no, he thinks, but it's hard to string his consciousness together. His thoughts are fragmented and awkwardly jointed, and the frantic heartbeat thumping in his ears effectively throws off his usually agile mind. The ground heaves under his feet, vertigo nearly unbalancing him.
This can't be happening.
He drops to his knees. Uncle Ben lies at his feet, a spreading red stain soaking the fabric of his jacket. Peter rips his eyes off the pained face of his uncle, looks up fleetingly, and sees the back of the robber disappear into the car-into Uncle Ben's car, motor still humming pleasantly.
"Somebody, help!" He screams. The tires spin out and squeal as the thief makes a getaway. The emotions surge back and forth wildly, fluctuating between a deep chasm of unspeakable anger and an endless horizon of horrified shame.
No one steps forward to help, even though Peter sees their blurred, ominous faces observing quietly from a safe distance. Condemning. Forming an impenetrable ring around him - he can't get out - please let him out-
Uncle Ben gasps for breath past the liquid in his lungs, making awful choking noises. Peter's hands are soaked in blood from where they are pressed firmly, as shaky as they are, against the gushing bullet wound. He elevates him to alleviate the pressure from his lungs and a tide of red sloshes past Ben's lips.
"Help," Peter sobs pleadingly, half-screaming as he jerks his head around wildly, reduced to tears by his own uselessness and guilt. A simple bullet and suddenly he is no longer a budding man with incredible powers, but a gangly boy helplessly watching his father figure die.
Again, no one steps forward. He's alone. The crowd squeezes tighter, a background tone of reproachful murmuring swelling in his ears. Why won't they help?! He can't do this on his own!
"Help me, p-please. HELP - I - I CAN'T-"
It's his fault. It's all his fault-
Peter wakes up to the shrill scream of his alarm clock and accidentally smashes it with an errant fist sent flying from his abrupt departure from the nightmare.
Today is January 12th, at 5:57 a.m. Peter has amassed a total of two and a half hours sleep.
For a moment, he stays still, sunken protectively into a shell of warm blankets. Dawn is just breaking softly over the crisp outline of the city outside his house, soft gray light seeping in through the window. The air is cool on his face. He reaches upwards and his fingers slide across dried tear tracks painting his skin. Feeling the residue left behind makes him think about his nightmare-the one he's had at least twice a week ever since Ben's murder-and then he worsens it by trying to divert his attention, forcing himself to anticipate the challenges of his upcoming day instead.
And for a long moment, they seem insurmountable. Peter wants to roll over, hide his face from the world, and never wake up again. Something feels different about today, something most definitely a bit not good. Peter knows it by the light tingle skittering up and down the back of his neck, a silent warning to keep his guard raised. His warning sense hums lowly at the base of his skull.
The alarm clock, amazingly, emits another round of chimes from its hazardous position on the floor. He must have hit the snooze button by mistake.
Peter lifts himself onto his elbows, sniffing away congestion. The watery light bathing the bedroom illuminates the machine's condition. It's cracked and bent and the light flickers weakly. Its top right corner is twisted beyond repair from where his wild fist had clipped its side. He sighs deeply, his breath temporarily warming the blanket cocoon, and throws off the layers, pushing himself to the bathroom before he can really pursue his earlier idea of fleeing the day.
The tingling worsens as the day passes.
By History, Peter is more distracted and ruffled than he's been in months. His sixth sense-his spider sense, as he calls it in his mind-has been quietly rattling in the back of his head all day, aggravated enough to the point where it frenzies whenever he almost trips or even when one of his many bullies sends him a pointed, condescending glance.
Gwen, bless her heart, notices. She sits next to him at lunch (Peter tries to ignore the shameless gawking from other students as "Puny Parker" sits next to one of the most beautiful girls in the entire school) and roots around in her perfectly organized bookbag for a second.
Peter smiles and drinks in the picture she makes. Today, she's wearing leggings underneath a modest skirt and a flattering blue sweater. She looks pretty.
Well, she always looks pretty, but especially so today. A nervous butterfly flips in his stomach. Should he tell her that? They're boyfriend and girlfriend now, so isn't that what you're supposed to do? He wouldn't know. He's never, well, never had a girl interested in him before.
But before he can tell her, she straightens, a white bottle of Advil in tow, and he feels a bit guilty at missing his chance. "Here," she says, shaking two of the pills into his hands. "I don't know if it will help, but it's worth a try."
He gives her a puzzled look as he downs the red pills with a gulp of milk from his carton. "You always tow around Advil in your bookbag?"
She blushes madly. "Well, uh, a girl sometimes needs Advil…"
He stares, uncomprehending. The blush spreads. "You know," she continues awkwardly, "um, once a month or so."
"Oh!" He says, and then, in a more strangled pitch, "Oh."
They last a second before they burst into laughter and Gwen gives him a punishing smack on his bicep with her lunch bag. "Shut up!"
"You're laughing too," he points out as he dodges another half-hearted hit, inching away down the bench. She grins and shakes her head, exasperated.
"You're coming over for dinner tonight, right?" She asks, skillfully diverting the subject, smoothing her skirt and hair. Peter deems it safe and eases back into his spot next to her, hyper-aware of her warmth radiating across the small distance between them.
How can she make his heart beat so fast without even meaning to?
"I don't know," he sighs, slumping. "Maybe. Depends on Aunt May. She's still ticked off at me for coming home at like, twelve forty the other night." His airy thoughts twist into darker waters as he moodily recalls the guilt of slipping into the house and seeing her waiting for him in the living room chair, lined face shuttered closed in anger and anxiety.
"What happened?" Gwen asks, concerned. The bell rings before Peter can answer, and they lose themselves in the outpour of students from the cafeteria.
"I just… I've been having these blackouts lately," he picks up the conversation again in the halls, stuttering absently as he carefully phrases his sentence in the way least likely to invoke fear on his behalf. At her alarmed look, he hurries on, "It's nothing serious-I mean like, like, I haven't woken up in a ditch or anything like that."
Nope, just in a web. Peter hears the voice clear as day, as if someone had leaned over his shoulder and laughed it right in his ear. He jumps slightly, doing a 360.
"Peter?" Gwen prods gently. Peter shoves the confusion aside and focuses his attention once more on her.
"And, well, there's been a new development, with my, uh, you know," he lowers his voice conspiratorially, "condition."
She stops, pulls him to the side of the hallway so that the student traffic can flow smoothly past them. "It sounds like a sickness when you say it like that," she mutters, biting her lower lip.
Insecurity rears its ugly head. Peter's accustomed to being ahead of his classes and knowing more than the average person. And not knowing anything about what's happening to him leaves him feeling like a piece of driftwood flinging about in a raging sea. "But what if it is?" He presses despairingly. "You saw what happened to Dr. Connors! This stuff has never been documented before-what if, what if the bite is still working in me? What if I'm still changing?"
He's not bringing this up to scare her. But the fact of the matter is that he possibly presents a danger to her safety. And Gwen getting hurt, or God forbid, getting killed, is something that he quietly suspects he wouldn't be able to endure. So if something's going on in him, if he starts to lose himself, he needs her to be alert and ready to recognize the signs and get out.
She molds a compassionate hand around his jaw, both comforting him and holding him in place. "Then we'll get through it," she says determinedly. "You and me, and your Aunt, if you ever tell her." Here she gives him an expectant look. He smiles sheepishly. "Peter, I've still got my job at Oscorp. If it's bothering you so much, I can probably get you into the building and one of the microscope rooms. Maybe we can take a look at your blood then, see what's happening."
Man, does he love a woman with a plan.
"Thanks Gwen," he says, voice as warm as humanly possible. "I wish I could tell you how much this means to me."
He appreciates her. And he knows it's the cliche teenager romance thing to say, that he loves her so much, but he thinks that there must be some actual depth to it, because no one has ever looked at him the same way Gwen does, or recognized both Peter and his intelligence and been able to appreciate and keep up with both.
He just wishes he knew how to tell her this.
The Advil takes the edge off of the headache induced by his ringing spider sense, but it can't shake the quiet fluctuating buzz.
It peaks in the last block of the day. Peter's sitting with his chin propped on one hand, foot tapping as he half-heartedly puts effort into his worksheet. The problems are pathetically easy. Peter barely has to glance at them. Instead, he focuses his attention on the wild fly buzzing frantically around the room's brightly lit ceiling, trying to ignore his classmates' jealous, exasperated glances at his completed work.
"Peter?"
He listlessly tips his head, responding to his irritated math teacher with a wordless quirk of his eyebrows.
Mr. Maddigus gestures to Peter's paper. "Focus on your classwork, please."
"Oh, I, um, I'm done," Peter says, fumbling with the sheet to hold it up so that his teacher can see he hasn't been slacking.
"Really," Mr. Maddigus drawls sardonically. "All thirty seven problems? In eight minutes?"
"Yes sir," Peter says, cheeks coloring in embarrassment. Mr. Maddigus has disliked him ever since Peter corrected one of his problems on his test early in the year. He likes to make jokes at Peter's expense, the kind that anyone who was searching could see the cruel intent, but seemed just like a funny witticism to the rest of the class. Peter hates teachers like him, but no matter what he felt, he always made sure to treat them with respect.
(Usually. There was that one time in ninth grade when he configured his homeroom teacher's computer to play "Don't Cha" by the Pussycat Dolls every time he opened his laptop. Peter has no regrets.)
"Well, maybe you can use your paper as an answer sheet for the rest of the class?" Mr. Maddigus says, waving his own paper back and forth.
Peter ducks his head apologetically, figuring it would be better to just avoid conflict, but the next second, something in his brain just goes snap, and suddenly, compelled by something he can't identify, he abruptly pushes his chair back and stands, drawing the rest of the class's wandering attention.
"Yeah," his mouth says, but it's not Peter saying it. But he can feel the emotions of disdain and mischeivous sarcasm, even though they are distinct from his own of confusion and panic. "We all know mine would probably have less errors than yours."
Even if it's not one of Peter's more creative comebacks, the class explodes into laughter, and even Flash (who, although he treats Peter significantly better now, still maintains distance) lets out a few surprised guffaws that puny Peter Parker just stood up and sassed a teacher.
Even Mr. Maddigus looks flabbergasted.
My work here is done, the voice says, this time firmly contained within Peter's own head, and it sounds just like Peter, but more confident, more self-assured, like when he's in costume-
'What. The. Heck.' Peter thinks, dazed, wincing as Mr. Maddigus' face tightens in anger and irritation and he signals for Peter to follow him out into the hallway.
Mm, so antsy, the voice chides laughingly as Mr. Maddigus chews him out in the hallway (being sure to leave the door open just a crack so that the rest of the class can comfortably hear the tirade, of course.) Peter winces at the return of the mental speaker, and Mr. Maddigus' seems to take that as a sign that Peter has been showed his proper place. Really, Peter hadn't heard any of his rant.
'Who are you!? WHAT are you?' He tentatively asks in the formerly safe silence of his mind, feeling silly and scared on a whole new level.
The voice laughs, and Peter, to a kindling sense of dread curdling in his stomach, knows the sound. How can he not, when it's the same laugh he uses when taking on thugs and baddies?
One is the loneliest spider, that you'll ever get~! The voice sings, chuckles subsiding. Goosebumps fly up and down Peter's arms from the glaring similarity in their voices. It's almost like listening to a recording of himself.
Mr. Maddigus enters the classroom once again, obviously expecting Peter to follow him, but instead, the teenager finds himself stumbling quickly down the empty hallway, just wanting to get away and think.
Buuuuuuut I'm here to solve all that, the voice says, in reference to his short snippet of song that he has just finished. Peter's hand finds its way up to his temple, and then his hair, working the fingers into the unruly brown strands and yanking as if to pull out the voice through his scalp.
'This can't be happening. This can't be happening,' He repeats softly in his mind, a calming mantra, trying not to hyperventilate.
Calm down there, buddy.
Peter jerks spastically at the voice. "Shut up," he hisses, more out of fear than bravery. He can't focus when the voice - when his voice - interrupts him at every little turn like the commentator for some football game.
Oh, come on, and Peter feels the tide of emotions alien to him roll through his chest like a physical wave. He's amused. And slightly worried… for himself? This is so confusing. You know who I am. Don't make me say it.
'I'm not saying anything! That would only acknowledge that you - whatever you are - are real!' Peter argues passionately, and then realizes his mistake only a second later as he's walking through the front doors of the school, having simply faked an excuse slip to leave for the security guard. Even after the LIzard incident, Midtown High has never had the best security personnel.
Can't argue with what isn't there, Petey, the voice murmurs. Peter feels it fold itself up and tuck away in his brain, like a little tingly sense of movement in his mind. I'll be here waiting when we patrol.
Fifteen minutes later, he begins pulling on the suit, and experiences another one of his blackouts before he can even finish tucking the mask under his chin.
Dinner that night at the Stacey's is an awkward affair.
Peter makes an effort to dress up this time, unlike the last ill-fated occasion. He wears his nicest shirt-it's a little thin and worn but he makes do-and some dress pants and only slightly scuffed black shoes. Gwen's family are most definitely on the very high end of middle class, maybe even lower-upper class? He wants to make a good impression. There's nothing quite as depressing as having to have the eleven year old brother of your girlfriend have to help you cut your fish correctly.
Mrs. Stacey seems very brittle and not all there. Of course, she smiles at all of Peter's jokes and compliments him on his manners, but she moves very robotically and almost as if a daze. Seeing Gwen's mother in so much pain is so difficult that Peter feels like he's drowning in guilt. The food, though elegantly and deliciously prepared, tastes like ash in his mouth.
It's his fault that her father is dead. It really is.
Gwen's brothers are hollow masks of the energetic goofballs they once were. Their eyes are puffy and red, and they barely engage in conversation. By the time the night is over, Peter feels so ashamed of himself that he nearly runs to front door after he pops his "Aunt May's curfew" trump card. He can tell that Gwen is slightly upset at this, and he swears to talk to her about it tomorrow and apologize, but right then the atmosphere is so mournful and heavy that he almost finds it hard to breathe.
He can't. He can't just sit in a room full of people whose lives have been shattered by his own stupidity and eat dinner and laugh. And they don't even know that their beloved father and husband's murderer is dining with them.
Peter makes a mechanical grocery store run for Aunt May on his way home. He's short five cents of the total purchase (the flashbacks of Uncle Ben begin and really Peter's spider sense is nearly throbbing at this point) but the nice cashier waives the distance away.
He arrives at home twenty minutes before curfew, arms laden with plastic bags. Aunt May greets him in the kitchen and gives him a slice of her unbeatable lemon pie and Peter puts the groceries away while she hobbles up to bed.
His headache is so bad he can barely think. Several times as he's lifelessly washing up the last of dinner dishes left over from the night before, he thinks he hears a voice in his mind; just a snippet or single word spoken so fast that he can't quite catch it.
He listens through the thin walls as Aunt May settles herself into her blankets. Into a bed that's much too big for a single person because Uncle Ben is dead, dead and never coming back, and it's all Peter's fault…
He drops the half-rinsed plate in the sink and barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up.
When the painful contractions of his stomach muscles have finished, he rests his forehead on the cool edge of the toilet and whimpers, digging his fingertips into his arms. There are flashes behind his eyes, rounds of vertigo quietly throwing off his balance every so often, and sweat dampens his shirt and sticks it to his lower back.
What's happening to him?
AN: Aaah, angst. It's been so long. :')
I did warn you all about dissociative disorder. Don't try and tell me I didn't. I'm going to try to introduce it gradually, so it's not just like, BAM, you've got your alternate persona's voice in your head!
I LOVE WRITING PETER'S SURVIVAL/GUILT COMPLEX. It is so fun to write. I love how stressed it is in the newer comics as well. Just, ahdnwdeo. Character development! *squee*
Apologies if the hyphens are not right. My laptop has been screwing them up lately and condensing them into little dashes.