Disclaimer: I own nothing.
- 1:40pm, Wednesday, 30 September 2009 -
Peter was getting anxious.
Oh, this wasn't new; He was an anxious person. A 'worrywart' Aunt May called him. Peter worried about everything to the weather, if his glasses were perfectly straight (he measured them twice a week just to be sure), how much time he realistically had to use the bathroom in between classes (it was never enough) and whether he looked as awkward as he always felt (he did).
There were very few moments or people around which Peter could say he could let his guard down. Eddie happened to be one of them. But Eddie wasn't here right now, and that in itself was the problem.
For exactly the sixth time in as many minutes, Peter tucked in his shoulders and checked his messages.
Nothing.
For exactly the eleventh time that day, he tapped out a message.
I need to know if you're okay. Please reply.
He waited a moment, just in case.
For exactly the seventh time there was nothing.
Peter sighed heavily, shoulders still hunched over the desktop and feet tapping erratically. An unpleasant thought came to mind then and his thumbs moved as if to validate it.
I'm sorry that I forgot my ID again, please don't be mad at me.
Before he could hit send his phone vibrated, another message splaying itself over the top of his screen.
He's fine. Don't make me confiscate ur phone, Petey
He bit back a groan.
Straighten ur shoulders too, u look like a friggin turtle
He slowly surveyed the narrow cliffs of his shoulders from either side. Maybe he did. Straightening his them, he forced himself to lean back in his swivel chair. Another vibration.
Inhale then exhale. Inhale then exhale
His frustration briefly overcame his anxiety, and it reflected in his response.
I know how to breathe. I don't need you to tell me how!
The response was immediate.
Ur cute. Inhale then exhale
Peter inhaled through his nose sharply, then exhaled as loudly as he could for dramatic effect. He repeated this multiple times, waiting for his phone to vibrate again. It didn't. Chancing a look across the rows of computers, he found the unimpressed gaze he'd been searching for was already locked onto him, her head resting on a hand. Her mouth mimed the question, "Really?"
She picked up her phone, and with a level of spatial awareness only a teenage girl could possess, typed without once glancing at the screen.
Really.
Ur an ass
Peter's own response struck him nearly instantly, so he hit send before he could second-guess himself.
I thought I was cute?
He pretended to do something -literally anything- on his phone to avoid looking at her reaction. He could hear his own heart like a gong in his chest and it took all of his limited willpower not to let it show. With how well she could read him, it probably still did.
When his phone vibrated only seconds later, Peter felt like hours had passed.
U can be both ;)
A spike of relief and joy flooded Peter in an instant, and he fought himself not to visibly react or smile.
His joy was short-lived, as a withered hand reached around his shoulders and snatched his phone. A sing-songy voice declared his mistake.
"You know the rules, Mr. Parker."
He definitely didn't sputter in his response.
"B-but Mr. Cornell, I was just ch-checking the weath-"
"High of fifty-nine, low of fifty. Overcast as of 2pm."
" Well, uh, thanks, I-"
"You'll have it back at the end of the period, Mr. Parker, thank you." And he was gone.
Peter slumped in his seat. Glancing up, he saw Gwen's laugh past the hand covering her mouth. He blushed and put his head back down. Yet, despite his phoneless-ness, Peter felt more joy than he did embarrassment.
She'd flirted back. She'd actually flirted back.
This was not a drill. Not a test. Not a figment of his overactive imagination. Not some cosmological coincidence so far out of his range of control that the only possible consideration as to why it had happened must be god's good grace-Peter had successfully flirted -and been flirted back- with his longtime friend and crush.
This was momentous! He had to tell someone! He…He'd had his phone taken.
The anxiety Peter had briefly put away came back out of its hiding spot.
Eddie hadn't shown up today, according to Principal Davis. Nobody had answered when they'd called the landline or his cellphone, either. But they said they'd keep trying, and that was about all Peter could ask for.
It didn't make him feel any better, though.
When Eddie had brought him the ID yesterday, the older boy had looked upset. Considering the kind of day they'd both had, both of them had reason to be a bit frazzled. But Eddie looked more than frazzled; he'd looked disturbed. His hands had been clammy and sweaty, and he'd stammered. Eddie wasn't the type of guy who tripped over his own words; Peter was. Something was wrong.
What was Peter supposed to do? He'd never been to Eddie's apartment; only Uncle Ben and Mr. Stacy had.
Admittedly, he could borrow the address from the district server. Despite the President having declared cyber security a "national security priority" in May, most public-school districts, even NYCPS, hadn't updated much of their security. Even if they had, Peter doubted they could've done much to keep him out if he'd really wanted in. But Peter considered himself an ethical hacker.
Helping a friend in need is always ethical, but was hacking a public database to help said friend ethical?
Maybe he was overreacting. Gwen would probably agree.
Maybe Eddie just had a really bad night to go with his day and Peter's constant forgetfulness just made it worse. Maybe he just didn't want to talk to him. He could give him some space.
Or maybe he was sick. The flu was going around now, wasn't it?
Or, maybe, just maybe, something was wrong. Maybe that old gang had caught up with him on the way home, and he-
Helping a friend in need is always ethical.
Peter pulled his massive backpack into his lap, reached down and pulled his laptop halfway out. A ball of paper flew by his head, landing on the floor behind him. He glanced back at the paper on the floor, then to the one who threw it, only for another paper ball to fly by his opposite shoulder. Then a third.
Blue eyes locked across the double table. Gwen cupped her left hand in front of her mouth, right hand cocked to throw another ball.
She whisper-yelled,"What are you doing?!"
He mouthed back, in awe. "How terrible is your aim?"
Peter remained still and a fourth paper ball flew angrily by his right shoulder, falling harmlessly but aggressively to the library floor.
"Put your flippin laptop away!"
She didn't even know what he was going to do with it.
"The man is probably fine! Do not email him!"
She thought he was going to email Eddie? Peter tried not to laugh. Eddie wasn't the type of guy to answer an email. Or probably even have one.
Peter whispered back, "I'm not going to email him! I'm-"
A withered hand swung around Peter's shoulder and snatched his laptop.
"And again, you know the rules, Mr. Parker. No unapproved personal devices during Computer Lab."
"M-Mr. Cornell, ha, y-you know H1N1 is a pandemic right now, a-and I just wanted to see-"
"Do you have it?"
"W-well, erm, no-"
"It's no laughing matter, Mr. Parker. Ten have died from it thus far and a further ninety-six have been hospitalized."
"Uh, w-wow, that's, very sad-"
"Yes, very sad."
…
"…End of the period, Mr. Parker." And he was gone again.
Peter slumped back in his seat, refusing to look at a smile he knew could be nothing other than smug. He took a glance at the time displayed on the desktop in front of him. He still had eleven minutes before AP Seminar was over. If he didn't do something to occupy himself right now, he'd be an anxious mess soon.
Peter logged off of the desktop in front of him, grabbed his backpack and left his seat. Turning down the aisle of computers, he circled back around to the opposing side and planted himself in the swivel chair next to Her Smugness. She was typing lazily but quickly into an open Excel sheet, the majority of her smug aura shifting towards Peter as he sat down.
He got a word in before she could. "I'm sitting here because I have nothing better to do."
"Better nothing than texting or emailing Edboy for the thousandth time."
"I wasn't emailing him! That would be…I dunno, desperate."
Gwen's eyebrow furrowed, her fingers slowing down but never fully stopping typing. "So, the other nine hundred ninety-nine times were just professional courtesy?"
"Gwen, I only texted him six times, and I wasn't going to email him. He probably doesn't even have an email."
"Six times is a lot, Petey."
"It's n-not that, much…"
"Mmhm."
Six times was a lot, and he knew it. But Peter couldn't help it. His anxiety often led him to overthink things, push too hard or not enough. It was so difficult to know what to say or do when your mind told you every conclusion was the worst possible.
"You're a good friend, Peter."
A delicate hand placed itself on his forearm. Gwen had stopped typing, and her body was fully turned to look at him, now. Her lips were pursed, and the furrowing of her brow told Peter she was choosing her next words very carefully.
Despite the obvious seriousness of the moment, Peter couldn't help but admire just how attractive she was. Even when Gwen was scolding him, teasing him or just giving him a hard time he found it so incredibly difficult to take his eyes off of her. She made everything look personalized, like it was made to be done her way. Like no one could ever do it the way she did it; could never make it look so effortless. She could be chewing gum and it'd be the most interesting thing in the world to him.
How the hell did someone make data entry look good?
He forced himself to pay her his full attention, to give this moment and her words the levity they deserved.
"You care about your friends so much, and I really, really love that about you. I know that I could trust you with anything, but what I really want to be able to trust you with is you."
Peter hoped his confusion shone through on his face.
"We all try to be there for each other, cause its what friends do. But Eddie is going through a tough time right now, and not just with the whole Flash thing. I'm…not an expert, but I think what would help him be okay is knowing that you'll be okay without him. That he can do what he needs to do to be okay, to stay out of trouble, and you'll be okay in the meantime. Does that make sense?"
It did. He nodded slowly.
"And I'll always be there to help you stay on track. Even if that means confiscating your phone."
A smile touched at his lips. "Or throwing paper at the floor."
Gwen's caring smile morphed into a faux grimace, "I threw those at you."
"Based on their trajectory, I can't say I believe you."
"Go frick yourself, Petey."
- 4:30pm -
"Well, Dr. Connors, we'd like to say that your findings thus far have been excellent."
Research took a very, very long time assuming the study yields usable information. For some, it may be an average of 15-17 years before the results of a study can be seen on store shelves or in the outgoing storage of your local pharmacy.
"Given your budget and time constraints, and that…unfortunate incident with former staff, we are impressed with your turnaround time-"
Research required trial and retrial, categorization and re-categorization. What you find may have been highly effective in one trial is completely useless in another, requiring a third trial to further isolate variables. Or a fourth, fifth and on into infinity.
Peter believed in the scientific method despite its imperfections. He believed wholeheartedly that processes that progressed knowledge; that gave a greater understanding of the world and universe around them, were necessary. Organization was necessary. Collaboration and teamwork were necessary.
Each and every study yielded a result. Each and every result was reviewed and set in data form to be sent off to be peer reviewed and replicated. Scientific minds checking and correcting each other objectively.
But all these people in suits weren't scientists. So why should they get the final word?
"-but again, this won't be enough to justify your budgetary projections for the upcoming year."
"With all due respect gentleman, we've generated results in a fifth of the time, operating with only sixty percent staff capacity."
"And we're duly impressed, Dr. Connors. You've done incredible work with what you were given."
"And we could do more if-"
"We can't give you more. Our resources are divided enough as it is, and we cannot afford to allocate any more funding to this project of yours, no matter how fruitful."
A pause hung before the verdict.
"E Sector's budget will remain the same for the upcoming year."
Dr. Connors' head finally fell, his resignation clear in his posture.
Silence reigned over the board room as the suits assembled on the other side of the long table from Dr. Connors began to file out. High up as they were, not even the unending noise of New York traffic could penetrate the quiet.
As the door closed behind the last suit, the silence broke.
Connors' voice cracked as he spoke, "Norman, I'm begging you. It-it'll be, it'll be too late if things continue as-is, I won't- Billy will be too old-"
"I'm sorry, Curt. I wish I could help."
Dr. Connors took a deep breath, exhaling shakily as he stood. He turned quietly and left the way the suits had moments before.
Peter, sat next to Gwen and Conrad at the back of the glass meeting room, looked down to see Gwen's painted nails digging and clawing into the thigh of her jeans. Her jaw was locked, eyes narrowed and upper body stiff.
She was pissed.
Norman watched Dr. Connors' go then turned his attention to the three of them, his gaze lingering on Peter for just a bit longer than the other two.
"I'm sorry you had to see that. Curt is a good man, he's just…well, he's just passionate about his work. We all are."
As he stood, they did the same, though Gwen did so slower than Peter or Conrad. Norman held out a hand to Conrad first, the most senior.
"You've all done exceptionally. I anticipate great work from each of you going forward. Thank you- for your contributions to this company and this team."
He shook Peter's hand next, the squeeze almost painful to the 15-year-old.
When Norman held out his hand for Gwen to shake, it hung. Blue eyes gazing hatefully into brown, she exhaled sharply and made for the exit.
Conrad was quick to speak up, "I'm so sorry, sir, she-"
Norman held up a ring-covered hand placatingly, "It's nothing. I understand things didn't exactly go to plan today and emotions are high," he smiled at each of them. "Have a little patience, gentleman: good things are coming."
His part said, Norman ushered Conrad and Peter out of the room.
They took their time making it to the elevator, Conrad stopping to speak to other Oscorp staff that Peter didn't know.
All the elevators ascending Oscorp Tower were fully glass, top to bottom. Outside of the lab floors, private offices or meeting rooms like the one they'd just left everything was transparent. It was beautiful to see during the daytime and at sunset. But the sky was gloomy today, like it'd known the news before they had.
The beauty of refracted light and engineered grandeur was absent, leaving only the eerie awkwardness of eyes everywhere.
It was as they reached the elevator that Peter chanced a look at his phone.
Still nothing from Eddie. He was trying so hard not to be worried, but it was difficult. He'd give him the night and call him again in the morning.
The elevator began their long descent from the 104th floor to the 35th. Despite the ever-present feeling of being watched, Peter asked what was on his mind.
"Conrad. Why did Gwen and Dr. Connors take it so hard? I know the budget is important, but…we've got plenty of time, don't we?"
Conrad took a second to speak, exhaling out of his nose. "You know how Connors lost his arm?"
"Well, I've asked about it, but…no, he never told me."
Conrad's eyes briefly scanned the slowly changing floors around them. He turned to Peter, "You don't repeat what I'm about to tell you. Got it? You didn't hear it from me."
"Uh, y-yeah. Of course. I mean, if that's private, uh, you don't really have to tell me…."
"No, no, you've been with us for over a year, it's 'bout time you heard it."
"Alright…"
"Connors was an alcoholic, and not the happy kind."
Was there a happy kind? He'd never have pinned Dr. Connors for an alcoholic. Thoughts of his uncle's struggles with alcoholism came to Peter's mind. "I'm…sorry. I know a little of what that's like to deal with. How long has he been s-sober?"
"Five years, give or take."
"T-That's great! I'm really happy for him," the pressing question came back to mind. "But what does that have to do with his arm?"
"He lost it in a car accident. He and his family were living in Florida then. It's where I met 'em."
He'd mentioned that before in conversation. Conrad had been working for a research non-profit in Palm Beach prior to Oscorp. He'd come at Dr. Connors' behest.
"He'd had more than a few before getting on the road, so he swerved into oncoming traffic. His family was in the car during the crash. Martha came out with just a concussion, but Curt and Billy, well…"
"What happened to Billy?"
"He lost both his legs. They were crushed."
Peter didn't have any time to respond before the elevator stopped on the 57th floor. A short, portly man in a lab coat not dissimilar to the one Peter and Conrad were wearing made his way on, pressing the button for the 22nd floor.
The man began whistling as Peter retreated into his thoughts.
No wonder Dr. Connors had been so upset in the meeting room. Peter had assumed upon meeting him and seeing his condition that Dr. Connors had been so gung-ho about this project so that he could grow his missing arm back. On some level, Peter had always known it was personal. How couldn't it be? He'd had no idea just how personal it was, though.
He'd been at it for five whole years and had only just made noticeable progress this past June. All while battling alcoholism. That was tough.
Going forward, Peter would push himself a bit harder. It was the least he could do for-
"35th floor, huh? You must be that Parker kid."
Peter wasn't at all prepared for a conversation right now. "Whu-huh?"
"I said 'you must be that Parker kid'. Everyone's heard about you. They say you're a shoo-in for the Nobel."
He blushed in flattered embarrassment, "Uh, thanks."
"Got any big dreams yet, Big Shot?"
"Ah, no."
"Life projects?"
"Erm, no."
A pregnant pause held over the elevator.
"You're really awkward, kid."
Peter heard Conrad snort. Now it was just regular embarrassment, "…Yeah..."
The elevator dinged their arrival on the 35th floor. He stepped off into the lobby quickly, Conrad following behind leisurely. Peter sighed audibly just after the elevator doors shut.
Conrad put a hand on his shoulder consolingly, "Don't mind what he said, kid. You're what, sixteen?"
"I just turned fifteen."
"Even better. Keep your head up and you'll be fine." Conrad walked ahead and slid his keycard through the digital sensor. He held open the door as Peter passed through, "Just…try to be more talkative, yeah?"
"E-easier said than done."
"You don't seem to have any trouble talking to Gwendolyn." He was smirking.
Peter's blush returned in full force, "W-we've known each other a long time. We're good friends."
Conrad laughed and gave Peter a knowing look as they walked down the narrow green hallway between labs. "Looks to me like you'd prefer to be more than just good friends."
Peter's shoulders were hunching, he just knew it. "I-is it that obvious?"
"I say go for it, man. Couldn't hurt."
"I d-don't think I'm r-really her type…"
They stopped in front of the closed door to Connors' office.
"And what's her type?"
"I don't, uh, don't really know, but probably not me…"
Conrad leaned against the grained wooden door, knocking on it twice. "Kid, you've gotta have more confidence. Trust me, if she wasn't into you, you'd know. I see the way you look at her, and it ain't all too different from how she looks at you."
Joyous hope blossomed in Peter's chest and lit up his face as a come in! resounded from behind the closed door. Conrad turned to Peter with a wistful smile as he opened the door.
"Remind me later to tell you how I met my wife."
Peter followed Conrad into Dr. Connors' office to be greeted with the sight of Dr. Connors slumped in his plush leather chair. His shoulders were limp, and his posture was hunched, compressing his frame and making him appear smaller than he was. A shot glass with just a smidge of liquid in it sat on his desk. Gwen stood in the corner to the right of the office door, pouring the remainder of a bottle of bourbon down the sink built into the cabinetry.
Dr. Connors opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, attempting to speak to her, but the severity of her scowl kept him silent. His gaze was somewhat unfocused.
Conrad's disappointed baritone replaced the strained silence, "I know things didn't go the way you planned them, but…" he trailed off.
"But what?" Connors was angry now, "But what, Conrad? You saw it: the indifference, the goddamned apathy."
"It wasn't apathy, Curt. That Norman let you lead this project is proof enough of that. He cares, he just doesn't care like you do-"
"And why should he?" Connors' laugh was humorless. "We've only been friends for, what, twenty years?"
"That's not fair and you know it. Norman already gave you more than anyone else would've, he-"
"You know what? I'm not in the mood for this." The doctor scowled, "I'm not in the mood for you."
Conrad looked as if he was going to say something, then he stopped. He sighed deeply, then turned to both Peter and Gwen. "Why don't you kids take the rest of the week off, huh?" He smiled parentally, "Come back on Monday and we'll start fresh; cooler heads prevail and all."
Dr. Connors took exception to that. "They're not your employees, Conrad. You don't have the authority."
"Curt, let it be. We don't need to do this in front of the kids."
"And yet here you are, undermining my authority right in front of them."
"Nobody is undermining your authority. I'm trying to play nice, Curt. Don't push me."
A scornful look overtook Connors' face then, "Maybe you'd rather 'play nice' in the unemployment line, then? Would that have made Josephine proud?"
Conrad stepped forward, snatching the shot glass in a hand and pitching it straight into the wall behind Dr. Connors. Conrad spoke more angrily than Peter had ever seen him.
"A man who has neither the patience to be understanding nor the self-control to remain sober in front of teenagers does not have the authority to call the shots. You forfeited that right the second that liquor touched your throat."
He stepped back, looking back to both Peter and Gwen, "I'll see you two on Monday."
Peter spoke up then, "A-are you sure, Conrad?"
"Very sure, kid. Enjoy your long weekend."
Before he could say anything else, Gwen grabbed him by his wrist and pulled him out the office door. Even as they walked further and further down the hallway, Peter could still hear Conrad.
"And another thing: if you ever even utter her goddamn name again without my express permission, you'll have a broken jaw to go with your gimp arm, you sonuvabitch-"
- 6:40pm -
Gwen wasn't upset very often.
In fact, Peter could only recall two times that she'd been visibly upset for any length of time. She was resilient that way; able to bounce back from most anything. Really, she was what held he and Eddie together on the bad days.
But clearly this week was determined to be shitty for all three of them.
And Peter didn't know what do.
Somehow, he'd convinced her to let him treat her to dinner. So, here they sat in the busy booth at Gino's after a traffic jam and a wait for a booth.
She hadn't stopped since they'd sat down.
"-would he think it's okay to just undo years of progress? Hit control Z and all the work you've done, gone. And to speak to Conrad like that? Your friend? I don't get it. I could never get it- in fact, it's beyond my comprehension-"
Peter was caught. She'd been the one to catch Dr. Connors in the act, so it was understandable that she'd be angry. But he didn't like seeing her upset. Maybe he should do something about this.
"-nd how Osborn thinks it's okay to screw his friends over like that? Unbelievable. iM sORrY cUrT, I WiSh I cOuLD heLP."
Wow. Okay. He had to do something about this.
"Gwen."
"And I wish I could help remove your front teeth, Normy."
"Gwen!"
"Who even names their child Norman? What an ugly ass-"
"GWEN!"
The occupants of the restaurant snapped their gazes toward him just then, at least two dozen eyes staring at Peter from across the dining room. His dinner partner was staring too.
Peter's face burned redder than he thought he'd ever felt. He did everything he could to ignore them, willing their attention back to their meals with a rod-stiff back and eyes locked on his half-eaten chicken parm.
He thought back to the science fairs, where dozens of eyes would stare him down while he presented. The coping method Ben taught him roared to life.
"W-w-what b-brand of und-underwear do scientists w-wear?"
"…"
"K-Kelvin Klein."
Silence greeted him from across the table. He wasn't deterred.
"I f-found a wooden shoe in my t-toilet today."
"…"
"It was c-clogged."
Peter knew he heard a snort just then. He was making progress.
"What do you call a wizard who's b-bad at football?"
"Peter…" Almost there.
"Fumble-dore."
"That was awful." She'd laughed through her lips at that.
He could do better.
"Wanna hear an 18 joke?"
She sighed, "Peter, this isn't the place for-"
"Nineteen."
She failed to hide her laugh, only managing to catch the tail end by clamping her hand over her mouth. Gwen slumped in the booth, her torso folding over the table as if in pain. She pulled herself together over the course of the next minute or so, leaning forward over the table slightly.
The smile she directed his way was blinding, and Peter momentarily forgot to breathe.
"You are so annoying."
Remembering he needed oxygen to live, he muttered breathlessly, "It's one of my many gifts."
Gwen's smile slowly fell as her freckled cheek came to rest on her hand. Peter was sad to see it go. "Life is really complicated, isn't it?"
"And to think," Peter added, "we aren't even adults yet."
"I refuse to believe this can get any more stressful."
"You refuse, huh?"
"I refuse."
"We'll see how long that lasts." He took a bite of his chicken. Gino did a great job with the melted cheese and tomato sauce.
"I mean…between Edboy, Connors, AP classes, work at Oscorp, and you know, all this hullabaloo that comes with being a teenager. Like, how could anything be more stressful than that?" At last, Gwen took the time to address her forgotten lasagna.
She brutishly dug her fork into the entree, skewering a piece and downing it with a distinct lack of feminine grace.
Gwen frowned, "It's lukewarm."
He couldn't help but tease her, "Maybe try monologuing after you've finished your food?"
"Don't patronize me, Petey."
"I'm not patronizing you; I'm just teasing you." He drank from his water. "And if you think our lives are stressful, you should talk to Uncle Ben. He thinks we're living on easy street."
"Ben is so fracking biased. He thinks everyone's life is easier than his."
Peter did his best Boston accent, "Hey kid, you try going bald at twenty-two and tellin' me ya life's all sunshine and handjobs. You had it easy."
Gwen laughed mid-bite, stopping to swallow before she responded. "That is so accurate."
"You should see Ben and Eddie get into it. Their 'who had it worse' contests are hilarious."
"Speaking of Edboy…" She began, "I haven't seen you checking your phone that much since we talked. I'm proud of you, Petey." She'd been watching him?
Peter flushed a bit at her praise. "T-thanks. I've been trying to keep my mind off it, for the most part. I s-still checked it a few times, though." He pulled his phone from his pocket just then.
To his surprise, he'd actually gotten a text back from Eddie. The message was received at 5:10, around the time they'd been waiting for their booth.
Hey. Sorry. Todays been a day. Fill you in soon.
Just knowing that he was okay enough to respond took a massive weight off of Peter's shoulders. He audibly sighed in relief, leaning back in the poorly padded seat of the booth. Peter closed his eyes and took a second to let the calm run through him.
"That looked like good news. Which, ya know, means I was right~" Oh, no. Her Smugness was back.
He spoke without opening his eyes. "Don't let it go to your head."
"Gracious Gwen has delivered once again!"
"You can stop now."
"Oh-So Gallant Gwen has never been wrong."
"That is objectively untrue."
He opened his eyes. She was sweeping her hair behind her shoulders and pursing her lips.
"Gregarious Gwen blessed you with her wisdom and you can't even admit it." She straightened her back and sat upright -like she ever did that.
"More like Grandiloquent Gwen, but sure, you were right."
"Not good enough. Genteel Gwen demands more than a meager 'you were right.' Thank her for her boundless moral wisdom and impeccable prophetic power."
"That wasn't even alliterative," He protested. "You just ran out of adjectives."
"Peter. Say it."
He grumbled under his breath, low enough that she couldn't hear it.
"Loud enough for me to actually hear it!"
Oh, dear god, she wasn't going to stop. "Thank you for your debatable wisdom and dubious prophetic ability. Is that good enough for Garrulous Gwen?"
She crossed her arms and looked off through the window, as if contemplating his very worth. She turned back to him and shrugged her shoulders as delicately as she could -which wasn't very.
"Generous Gwen has found your admission to be of passing worth. You're advised to do better in the future."
He grimaced. "Noted."
Freckled hands clasped together, then the right reached out, palm up and fingers spread and wiggling. "Now gimme. I wanna read what he said."
Peter pulled his phone away toward the window but turned it so she could see the screen. "It wasn't even three full sentences, maybe two."
"Todays been a day. See? He's okay, not dead in a ditch somewhere. He even forgot the apostrophe."
"I think I should call him."
"Petey, he just confirmed that he was okay. We'll see him tomorrow."
"Yeah, well, after what Galling Gwen just put me through, I'd like to at least try."
"I didn't put you through anything-" She interrupted herself with an eye roll, "Whatever. Screw it, call him."
Peter hit Call on Eddie's iPhone contact and it began dialing. As it dialed, Gwen left her seat and slid into the booth next to Peter. He blushed as she grabbed the phone and put it on speaker phone, volume low enough so that she had to sit close enough to lean on Peter just to hear the speaker.
Peter liked the bodily contact. He liked it a lot.
To both of their immense surprise, Eddie answered.
"H-hello?" He sounded out of breath. There was a lot of wind.
"Eddie! Geez, uh, can you hear me?"
"Pete? Oh, hey, bud. Ah, now's not a good time, can I call you back?"
Gwen interjected then, "No, you cannot. You can explain what and where you've been, buster."
"I don't talk to feds, put Pete back on the phone. "The loud sound of shoes running on gravel could be heard in the background. Gwen's eyes visibly narrowed.
"I can still hear you, Eddie. I'm right here."
"So, you're just putting people on speaker without telling them. That's hella rude-OHSHIT!" Loud noise filled the phone speaker then. The sound of shoes on gravel returned.
"Edboy, where are you?" Gwen spoke slowly and deliberately, with an authoritative tone that lent to years of wrangling younger siblings.
She used that tone with Eddie sometimes. Peter often prayed she didn't see him the same way.
"I'm just out for a jog near the apartment. Practice was rough today, I'm all-ugh, tight and shit. Just doing some, uh, cooldowns. I'm just getting home now, so I'll have to talk to you guys later, okay?"
"Why didn't you show up for school?"
"I didn't feel good."
A brief silence overtook them, only the muffled sound of the wind through the phone was audible. "Listen, like I told Pete, today's been-"
"Where are you right now, Eddie?" There was an accusation in her tone.
"I'm," Eddie paused. "I'm just getting home now."
"Goodnight, Edward."
Wait, this was the first time they'd spoken to Eddie all day! Why was she hanging up?!
"…Goodnight."
The call ended with a delicate forefinger placing itself over the red button. Gwen said nothing afterward, looking past Peter out the window, brow furrowed.
"Well, at least we know that he's alive. That's a relief." Peter was attempting to placate a situation he had no idea about.
She was scowling at the phone -which she had yet to give back- like it'd said something foul. Peter opened his mouth to call attention to it, but she was also pressed against him. It was more than likely that she'd move if he tried to get his phone back.
So, he kept his damn mouth shut.
Slender hands slide across the screen, opening Safari and, typing faster he could hope to keep up with, made a search. A second passed as the page loaded. Her scowl deepened as she read its contents.
Abruptly, Gwen began to slide out from the booth. As she gathered her things, she put two twenties down. "We're going, Petey. Come on."
"Wha-why? Y-you haven't even finished your food yet!" And he was supposed to be treating her!
"I'm full already, can you just come on already?"
"I-I'm coming, sorry."
As they got in the van, Peter couldn't tell whether his stomach was rumbling from hunger or anxiety.
When they'd sat down in the van, Gwen had gone into the address log and started scrolling down, down, down down down until she'd tapped an address labeled for 71st Rd in Forest Hills.
Peter had no doubts in his mind that Gwen was upset about something. He didn't realize just how upset she must be until they'd been well onto 495, passing Belmont Island and stopped at a toll booth.
Gwen never paid for toll booths.
He'd spent the entirety of their time in line to the booth thinking about how to approach it. But it was only after she'd wordlessly pulled her change from the machine and pulled off that Peter found the courage to ask.
The blonde took the freckled hand that wasn't on the wheel into his own. Gwen jumped slightly, startled out of her own thoughts.
"I don't like seeing you upset. C-Can you please tell me what's wrong?"
Gwen made to start speaking, then stopped. Her nose crinkled -cutely- and her bottom lip was swallowed by her upper lip. She exhaled out of her nose.
"Eddie lied to me. He lied to us. I gave him the chance to tell the truth, and he lied anyway."
"W-what did he lie about?"
"He wasn't anywhere near his apartment, and he wasn't out for a jog."
Peter was confused. "How do you know that?"
"You heard him as he was running: he was running on gravel. The only places in Queens with gravel to run on are crushed stone suppliers, all of which are owned by the local gangs."
"H-he could've been at the park, though."
Her brow arched in disbelief. "I doubt that."
A rare spark of anger lit in Peter's chest, "W-Why are you so down on Eddie? He's our friend."
Gwen's retort was no less passionate as his, "The last time Eddie set foot near a gravel yard, my dad found him covered in blood and bruises. He was trying to join one of those gangs, Peter!"
"Well, he didn't! He's better than that," He bit back.
"So what he was doing at a gravel yard?"
"We don't know he was at a gravel yard. If he'd been jogging, like he said he was, then he'd have likely jogged through a park. Some of which, like Willow Lake's southwest entrance, have gravel."
"It's unlikely that he'd want to walk an entire mile just to go jogging when he wasn't even well enough to go to school today."
Peter scoffed, "Far more likely than walking the six miles to the nearest gravel yard."
Gwen's hand was gripping his pretty hard by now. "It's five point seven miles, connected directly by both bus lines and a sub connection!"
By this point, the van was approaching the highway exit.
"Of course, discounting the fact that someone you just claimed wasn't well enough to walk a mile for the purpose of jogging suddenly gained the energy to sprint through a stone supplier's yard."
"Peter Benjamin Parker, do not get snarky with me," she seethed. "He lied to our faces, and now you're taking his side?"
Peter stood his ground. "If anyone, even Eddie or May or Ben was implying about you what I think you're implying about Eddie," He scowled at her probably for the first time, "I'd never let it go unopposed. I would never let anyone talk about you like that, and I won't let you talk about Eddie like that. He's better than that."
His scowl softened, and he squeezed her still-joined hand affectionately. "You're better than that, too."
Gwen didn't say anything for the rest of the ride, but she didn't disconnect their hands either.
They had to let go after arriving in front of an apartment building, though. Despite the argument, Peter was sad to do so.
"This is Eddie's apartment building."
Oh. Oh.
Their sudden departure from Gino's made so much more sense in Peter's mind now. They were here to check up on him.
…More like catch him in a lie if you asked Gwen, but he wasn't asking her. Checking up was better.
They ascended the stone steps to the building entrance and scanned the ledger, finding Charles Brock at 16-10. They hit the intercom and buzzed. The high-end intercom dialed not unlike a phone.
While it was dialing, he felt Gwen lean into him, wrapping her right arm around his left and intertwining their fingers; the top of her head laid in the crook of his shoulder and neck. Peter's blood pressure spiked and every hair on his body shot up straight.
"I'm sorry, Petey."
"I'm sorry, too." It took about every bit of willpower he had not to stutter. He squeezed her hand.
Just then, the dialing tone ended and an automated voice answered.
"Please input your five-digit code for entry."
Refusing to move from his current position, Peter stuck his right hand out towards the keypad attached to the automatic door.
"Try his birthday," Gwen suggested. "32892."
He input the code.
"Incorrect code. Please input your five-digit code for entry."
Peter frowned. It could be anything.
11288.
"Incorrect code. Please input your five-digit code for entry."
Damn.
He went with his gut.69420.
The door opened with a click, stopping just at their feet. Gwen dislodged herself from Peter, grabbing the door and pulling it all the way open. He heard her grumble as she stepped inside.
"Fucking degenerate."
His laugh could be heard all the way down the street.
Neither Peter nor Gwen expected the door to be unlocked. Or rather, for the door to have been knocked in to where it could no longer lock. The metal deadlock along with the bolt lock was broken, so the heavy, oak door sat loosely in the hinge.
It looked like someone had broken in.
Gwen stepped in front him, drawing her pepper spray from her keychain. She carefully approached the doorframe, frame hunched over to make herself smaller. She called through the doorway.
"Edboy, are you home?"
Silence was their reply.
Her long hair whipped Peter in the face as she turned back to him. "Call him." His face scrunched.
He did. As the dial rang, she listened closely for the sound of vibration, noise, anything within the apartment.
Once again, silence was their reply.
"Alright," she sighed, "We should probably call the police. If this was a break-in, we shouldn't-Peter!"
He chose that moment to quickly move around her and into the apartment.
"Peter Benjamin Parker, what the frick are you doing?!"Gwen whisper-yelled after him. As she came in, he was scanning the entrance area slash kitchen space.
He gave her an odd look, speaking low and quietly. "It doesn't look like a robbery, Gwen."
Gwen shot him her most incredulous stare. "If you've never been here before, how in the heck would you know that?"
Peter rubbed his arm, looking solemn as his gaze continued to scan the room around. "It, uh…it looks like a drunk came through here."
"And again I ask: how in the-oh god, what is that smell?" She covered her nose with the long black sleeve of her fall jacket.
Rather than respond, Peter continued looking. As he peered beyond the luxurious kitchens connecting half-wall into the living room, he noticed a dark brown couch situated against the wall where the room opened up, facing the largest in-home tv Peter had ever seen.
Carl Brock was splayed out on the couch amongst a veritable sea of beer cans and wine bottles. On the glass coffee table next to Carl sat a deep blue urn. Despite the number of empty containers surrounding the clearly unconscious man, none came close to touching the urn.
He'd noticed the stench before they'd even entered the apartment. It was the smell of alcohol and sweat; the type of odor that did barrel rolls in the entrance of the nose before expanding into a thick, pungent wave of sour sterility as it dove deeper beyond the nose hairs. It was a smell Peter despised.
A shared hatred he and Eddie had bonded over.
Peter spoke quietly as he heard Gwen approach. "The liver metabolizes alcohol and its principal contents into a salt called acetate. The more alcohol that you introduce to the body, the more it produces. That stench is the, uh…result."
Gwen laid a hand over the half-wall, peering into the living room to see what Peter already had. Her eyes scanned over the torpid drunkard.
The resemblance between Carl and Eddie was evident, their facial features and large bodies being a perfect match for the other. The only real difference she could see was their coloration: Eddie's ruddy, strawberry blonde complexion contrasted with Carl's sallow, sandy blonde.
Her father being a news-watching man, Gwen had seen Carl on tv before, but he'd never looked this sorry. The only constant between the charismatic, intelligent pundit and the jaundiced mass coalescing with the worn, sweat-soaked leather of the couch was the arrogance both exuded.
"Gross."
Peter followed her through the down the narrow hallway, passing a spotless laundry room and a rather spartan bedroom. The end of the hall led to two rooms, one of which was open. Gwen peered in the door on the left, finding a dimly lit office. As Peter entered in the door opposite the office, likely Eddie's room, she found herself drawn further into the office space, her previous anger and desire to chew Eddie out forgotten.
Bookshelves lined the walls that weren't taken up by furniture, filled to the brim with enough academic literature for Gwen to know she probably hadn't read even a single one of them. A thick, heavy looking wooden desk sat in the corner of the room, covered in paperwork and an old desktop monitor. Opposite the desk was a large trophy case, the shelves lined with the achievements of a successful and lucrative career.
Al Neuharth Award for Excellence in the Media - Charles Spencer Brock, 1996
Conscience-in-Media Award - Charles Spencer Brock, 1993
CPJ International Press Freedom Award - Charles Spencer Brock, 1995
Edgar A. Poe Award - Charles Spencer Brock, 1996, 2001
Dart Award - Charles Spencer Brock, 1997
Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Journalism - Charles Spencer Brock, 2003, 2005
Goldsmith Prize for Investigative Reporting - Charles Spencer Brock, 2006
Gwen knew Carl was accomplished. She'd personally read his magnum opus, The Right to Be when it had come out a few years back. It was rare for anyone with any kind of legal or political know-how not to at least know his name, but she hadn't realized just how successful he'd been in just 15 years of journalism. The selfless, ambitiously egalitarian man the awards portrayed looked nothing like the man she'd just seen merging with his own couch leather, nor the cruel man she'd only rarely ever heard Eddie describe.
It disturbed her, how people could wrap their entire lives in veneers of virtue, kindness and dignity when the person underneath held none of those qualities. How lawmakers, journalists and politicians alike could look themselves in the mirror having spent years lying to the world's face. All the while they ruined the lives of actually good and hardworking people. Where was the justice?
It disgusted her, just like the man on the couch.
"Gwen, I think we should go."
Peter's voice spooked her out of her thoughts.
She turned to see his head poking in the doorway. Unlike her, Peter cared little for context; he'd only wanted to be sure Eddie was okay. She felt a bit embarrassed at how quickly she'd been side-tracked.
She crossed the room and stepped into the hall. "Edboy isn't here, I take it?"
He frowned. "No, but I figured he wasn't since Carl is."
"That's fair enough, I guess…" she trailed off, "You could try calling him again."
Peter pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.
Just as the dial tone began, a loud bang resonated on the side of the building where the fire escape was, then another higher against the wall facing the buildings adjacent to theirs.
Before Gwen or Peter could react to the unexpected noise, a voice groggily rose from down the hall.
"Hufh-the fuck wuzzat?"
They both froze in place.
Carl was awake.
Panicking, Gwen grabbed Peter's hand and made a surprisingly quiet mad dash for the door. As they passed through the kitchen they heard Carl yell out, "Izzat youu, boy? Ed-Edd-ay?"
They continued moving as quietly as they could, exiting through the front door into the complex hallway, closing the door behind them. They heard Carl yell out one last time as they made their way down the hall.
"You'd bet-better come back withh sommethin' to drink, motherfucker!"
- 9:00pm -
It'd taken the both of them a while to calm down after getting in the van. Gwen had been stiffly silent the entirety of the three-plus minute drive to Peter's house. Upon arriving, he'd awkwardly thanked her for the ride before trying to talk about what happened, but she'd shut him down.
"We'll, uh…we'll talk about today tomorrow, Petey."
He tried to press it. "A-are you sure? I'm here to listen."
She gave him probably the most unsure smile he'd ever received from someone other than his bathroom mirror. She was definitely upset again. "Super sure. It's been the longest day."
"Alright, um…have a good night, okay?"
"You, too."
He heard her knock the curb pulling away, as he walked around the Passat parked in the driveway. Peter unlocked the side door, quietly climbing the landing stairs to the first floor. Peeking his head into the doorway of the living room, he saw the bald head of his Uncle Ben snoring loudly in his armchair.
Peter walked quietly and calmly through the small hallway between the landing, living room and kitchen to the front hall. Climbing the stairs with the same practiced ease, he unlocked his bedroom door and collapsed on his bed, dropping his backpack by the closed window next to his desktop.
He rolled over onto his back, eyes locked on the ceiling while his mind wandered elsewhere.
Today had been…a lot.
From the anxiety-filled morning he'd spent hoping for a reply, the frustration of the budget pitch meeting, to the stress of whatever the hell had just happened at Eddie's apartment; Peter was spent.
Hearing a light thump, he rolled onto his side facing the nearby open window.
Nothing.
He was probably just imagining things.
The streetlights illuminating the storied brick of his middle-class Forest Hills neighborhood; it provided him the comfort of a nightlight when he was little, and they were no less comforting now. The-wait.
Wasn't that window just closed?
Just then, a voice whispered from close by.
"Pete, don't make any sudden noises, okay? It's me-"
Peter's head swung in the direction of the voice. A tall, hooded figure stood in the corner, hunched over next to his computer desk. His every muscle tensed, all the hairs on body stood up, and Peter's brain overflowed with fear. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. His heart skipped several beats, and his eyes rolled in their sockets as his body fell back on his bed, already unconscious.
He'd fainted.
"-Eddie." The hooded figure finished.
Eddie sighed loudly.
"Fuck."
A/N: Thanks for reading! Leave a review, if you'd like.
Or don't. :'(