![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
young, but I'm not that bold.
Oct. 25th, 2014 04:29 pmPeter probably could have tested out of high school when he first arrived in Darrow. If he wanted to, he could already be attending college full time, instead of taking advanced courses at the community college during his senior year at Darrow High. But he thought that skipping high school would feel wrong somehow. Everyone talked up the high school experience, and given all that he had already lost, he didn't want to miss out on yet another rite of passage. He wanted something in his life that felt normal, and continuing his high school education seemed, at the time, like the right answer. Within the walls of Darrow High, he could pretend that he was just another regular teenager. For a few hours out of the day, his only responsibility was to listen and learn. His only concern was which atrocity would be served up on the day's lunch menu. There was no villain greater than the school principal, and the scariest thing that could happen to him was being stuffed in a locker or getting detention. It was his way of reclaiming his childhood, at least for a little while.
Boy, was I an idiot. I can't believe I actually, voluntarily, of my very own accord, signed up for more years of high school.
Almost two months into senior year and Peter is regretting his decision like never before. But not because of homework, or bullies, or unfair administrators. He would almost rather be swamped with homework, or get the geek treatment from the resident mean kid, or be called into the principal's office for some asinine reason. Those problems all have easy solutions, relative to his current dilemma. Because right now, the biggest problem in Peter Parker's life is girls.
Or, well, a girl. A girl and a dance. Specifically, the fast-approaching Homecoming dance. One of those rites of passage that he was so eager to experience for himself. It seemed exciting back then, when senior year was still in the distant future. Now that the time has come, he's conveniently forgotten everything he ever knew — or thought he knew — about dealing with girls. Not that it would help, when the girl he wants to ask to the dance is so unlike any other person he's ever known. He wishes he knew more about the customs of her world. Is he supposed to present her with livestock? Agree to a duel? Slay a dragon?
He doesn't have the first idea. And he is running out of time. When the final bell rings, he drags himself to his locker to collect his things. Then he heads out the main entrance and plants himself on a bench where he'll have a decent view of everyone leaving the school. He waits, and waits, and waits, until finally he sees her.
Deep breath, deep gulp. He stands up and waves for her attention. "Sansa! Hey!"
Boy, was I an idiot. I can't believe I actually, voluntarily, of my very own accord, signed up for more years of high school.
Almost two months into senior year and Peter is regretting his decision like never before. But not because of homework, or bullies, or unfair administrators. He would almost rather be swamped with homework, or get the geek treatment from the resident mean kid, or be called into the principal's office for some asinine reason. Those problems all have easy solutions, relative to his current dilemma. Because right now, the biggest problem in Peter Parker's life is girls.
Or, well, a girl. A girl and a dance. Specifically, the fast-approaching Homecoming dance. One of those rites of passage that he was so eager to experience for himself. It seemed exciting back then, when senior year was still in the distant future. Now that the time has come, he's conveniently forgotten everything he ever knew — or thought he knew — about dealing with girls. Not that it would help, when the girl he wants to ask to the dance is so unlike any other person he's ever known. He wishes he knew more about the customs of her world. Is he supposed to present her with livestock? Agree to a duel? Slay a dragon?
He doesn't have the first idea. And he is running out of time. When the final bell rings, he drags himself to his locker to collect his things. Then he heads out the main entrance and plants himself on a bench where he'll have a decent view of everyone leaving the school. He waits, and waits, and waits, until finally he sees her.
Deep breath, deep gulp. He stands up and waves for her attention. "Sansa! Hey!"
He spends most of his time on his own these days. That isn't a personal choice as much as it is a necessity. Peter has enough trouble juggling everything on his plate — school, work, and Spider-Man — without adding a social life into the mix. And, okay, maybe there is a little bit of choice involved. If he's being honest, he doesn't have much interest in making or keeping up with friends anymore. He feels distanced from the kids at his school, and too young to be taken seriously by anyone at the station. Which is fine. Because he doesn't know how long this ride lasts, and when it's over, he goes back into the ground. He wishes that he could say that it was a selfless thing, that he keeps to himself because he doesn't want anyone else to get hurt. But it comes from a place of anger and bitterness. He can never forget that he is living on borrowed time.
Still, that doesn't keep him from trying to make a life for himself in Darrow. He keeps pushing himself at school, planning for his future. Reminding himself that he still has one. He stays busy enough not to notice that his life here is infinitely emptier than the one he left back in Queens. Busy enough that he doesn't miss his family every minute of every day. Sometimes it even works. Sometimes it's more like every other minute, and that's an accomplishment.
This weekend, like every weekend lately, is dedicated to homework. Because it's hard to focus in his apartment — it's just too quiet there, and he still isn't used to it, if he ever will be — he takes himself to his favorite café. He claims a table at the back of the shop, where patrons rarely venture unless they're searching for the bathrooms, but the background noise is still enough to make him feel comfortable. And he gets to work, pulling heavy library books out of his backpack, setting up his laptop, and falling into a familiar routine.
Still, that doesn't keep him from trying to make a life for himself in Darrow. He keeps pushing himself at school, planning for his future. Reminding himself that he still has one. He stays busy enough not to notice that his life here is infinitely emptier than the one he left back in Queens. Busy enough that he doesn't miss his family every minute of every day. Sometimes it even works. Sometimes it's more like every other minute, and that's an accomplishment.
This weekend, like every weekend lately, is dedicated to homework. Because it's hard to focus in his apartment — it's just too quiet there, and he still isn't used to it, if he ever will be — he takes himself to his favorite café. He claims a table at the back of the shop, where patrons rarely venture unless they're searching for the bathrooms, but the background noise is still enough to make him feel comfortable. And he gets to work, pulling heavy library books out of his backpack, setting up his laptop, and falling into a familiar routine.
left to my own devices.
Mar. 14th, 2014 07:30 amPeter can't wait to go to college. That isn't such a strange sentiment, he supposes. Most kids his age are eager to leave high school. But they aren't looking forward to more schooling. In this way, Peter has always been strange, nerdy, whatever. But really, he can't wait. He loves everything about this place. No one cares how old or how tall he is, no one calls him a nerd or tries to stuff him in a locker, no one even knows his name. After years of bullying at Midtown, anonymity was the best that he could hope for at Darrow High. But at the community college, he doesn't feel like such a loser for sitting alone at lunch. Here, people will respect his space. Here, he's unafraid to raise his hand in class when he has the answer. Here, the fact that he's younger than most of the other students makes him envious and impressive. He can stretch his legs and breathe here. This is the place for him.
He would never dream of staying a second longer than necessary at Darrow High. But after class today, he hangs around the college, walking along the path until he finds a place to sit and get started on his homework. He's hard at work, scribbling in a notebook under the shade of a large tree, when the back of his neck begins to tingle. It isn't his Spidey Sense, thankfully. That's all he needs, for some d-bag villain to invade his only sanctuary. No, it's something else. A pair of eyes trained intently on him. He looks up and a woman he's never met is staring back at him, looking very sad. He doesn't know what to do or say.
"Uh, hi?"
Idiot.
He would never dream of staying a second longer than necessary at Darrow High. But after class today, he hangs around the college, walking along the path until he finds a place to sit and get started on his homework. He's hard at work, scribbling in a notebook under the shade of a large tree, when the back of his neck begins to tingle. It isn't his Spidey Sense, thankfully. That's all he needs, for some d-bag villain to invade his only sanctuary. No, it's something else. A pair of eyes trained intently on him. He looks up and a woman he's never met is staring back at him, looking very sad. He doesn't know what to do or say.
"Uh, hi?"
Idiot.
I'm just a kid and life is a nightmare.
Oct. 7th, 2013 02:53 amA month into the school year and Peter is still surprised at normal he feels inside the walls of Darrow High. High schools don't differ much in terms of appearance or curriculum, and although he must be entire universes away from Midtown High, he doesn't feel much different. Sure, Peter had high hopes that, upon starting at a new school, he might find more success in the realm of popularity. Those hopes were quickly dashed when he realized that at Darrow High, weird new kids who claim to have come from other worlds are the laughing stock. As if being a science geek wasn't enough already. He didn't mind it, though, at first. He knew then that he wasn't much fun to be around, and it wasn't much fun for him to be around others. He was still missing his aunt, his friends, his girlfriend. Now, Peter misses them as much as ever, but he is beginning to settle, finally accepting that he may not see them again.
Life goes on. It did when his Uncle Ben died, and it will again now. If this is the last life that he gets, he won't let it pass him by.
He keeps going to school because he likes it, and because now that he has a future again, he wants to ensure that it will be a bright one. This is what Peter reminds himself of as he enters the school cafeteria at lunchtime, looking ahead to forty-five minutes of sitting alone while kids all around him chat and giggle and enjoy their free time. He wishes for what must be the fiftieth time that Gwen wasn't older than him now. It's easier to make friends when you're not at it alone. But, as he reminds himself, he chose to be here. He'll survive it. He's survived much worse.
Just as Peter is resigning himself to another lonely lunch, he sights a familiar shock of red hair. His gut tightens, as it always does when he thinks of Mary Jane, but this time he doesn't mistake her. She is Sansa. He knows someone! On the way, he almost trips over his clumsy feet and drops his tray, he's so excited to have seen her. Thankfully, he makes it to the otherwise empty table where she is seated without incident.
"Hey," he grins. "I didn't know you went here. I can't believe I haven't seen you around."
Life goes on. It did when his Uncle Ben died, and it will again now. If this is the last life that he gets, he won't let it pass him by.
He keeps going to school because he likes it, and because now that he has a future again, he wants to ensure that it will be a bright one. This is what Peter reminds himself of as he enters the school cafeteria at lunchtime, looking ahead to forty-five minutes of sitting alone while kids all around him chat and giggle and enjoy their free time. He wishes for what must be the fiftieth time that Gwen wasn't older than him now. It's easier to make friends when you're not at it alone. But, as he reminds himself, he chose to be here. He'll survive it. He's survived much worse.
Just as Peter is resigning himself to another lonely lunch, he sights a familiar shock of red hair. His gut tightens, as it always does when he thinks of Mary Jane, but this time he doesn't mistake her. She is Sansa. He knows someone! On the way, he almost trips over his clumsy feet and drops his tray, he's so excited to have seen her. Thankfully, he makes it to the otherwise empty table where she is seated without incident.
"Hey," he grins. "I didn't know you went here. I can't believe I haven't seen you around."
I feel my time, my time has come.
Jun. 30th, 2013 04:24 pmIt's funny. My entire body aches in ways I can't begin to describe. In fact, I'm half-convinced that I'm dying from the pain alone. I'm shutting down, fading fast, and all I can think of is… my toe itches. It really does. I would ask someone to scratch it for me, but from the looks on their faces, I'm guessing now is not the time.
Over a chorus of gut-wrenching cries of "Oh no…" from Aunt May, Peter can just make out Gwen speaking. He's almost never heard that quiver in her voice before. "Queens. Forest Hills. We have a — there's a — You know? Then get here!"
The air smells crisp, charred, like a Sunday afternoon on the back porch with Uncle Ben on the barbecue. He can almost hear Aunt May calling from inside not to undercook the meat, and see Ben smile to himself as he inevitably leaves a piece for himself just shy of too red for his wife's liking. Tears well in his eyes, but Peter can't tell if they're from the memory or from the ever-growing pain. There is still a bullet in his side, and though the webbing has kept him from bleeding out, he thinks that he can feel the warm metal inside of him, his entire body rebelling against the alien object. Slowly, through the fog of his nerve receptors working overtime to process every last stabbing ache, he comes to realize that he's bleeding from just about every but his side, and wonders if maybe he shouldn't just web himself all over until the ambulance arrives, turning himself into a Spider-Mummy, or an insect caught in his own web.
"He's really hurt," comes MJ's voice through the fog. His eyes are open but he can barely see her, his vision blurring. He can tell, though, that she's crying, and he wishes he could make it stop.
Aunt May is crying, too. "What did you do, boy? What did you do?"
"It's okay," he tries to tell her. "I — I did it."
She doesn't listen. "Just — just hold on. The ambulance is —"
"Don't you see…" He's using every last ounce of energy to speak, his voice hoarse and breaking with each word, but it doesn't matter. If it's the last thing he does, he has to tell her. He has to make it right. "It's okay. I did it."
From the distance, he can hear sirens, but they're too far off. Peter knows that. He is, he thinks, at peace with it. He'd like to say that he always knew he would go down fighting, but that isn't quite true. Much as he hates to admit it, and probably wouldn't aloud, Captain America was right. He ragged on Peter for being too young, for thinking himself invincible, as all kids do at his age. Peter wanted to argue that he knew better, that he wasn't blind to his own mortality, but he sees know that, in his way, he always was. He always knew that it was a possibility that he would get hurt, but that possibility lived at the very back of his mind, behind many assurances from himself that the worst could never happen to him. He wouldn't go so far as to say that he expected to live forever, but he certainly expected to last more than sixteen measly years.
It's okay, though. This time, he isn't just telling himself that to reassure himself because he's scared. He can't feel scared anymore, when he knows what's going to happen. He's not sure when he did, but he's accepted it, and now it's only a matter of what — or rather, who — he leaves behind. And he needs to make sure that his aunt doesn't blame herself. "I couldn't save him," he whispers, now that she's close enough. He's glad for that; he doesn't have much talk left in him. A real first. "Uncle Ben. I couldn't save him… no matter what I did." He can feel himself slipping away, but as much as he wants to fight it, wants more time to say his goodbyes, he doesn't have it in him to hang on much longer. He tries again, anyway. "But I saved you," he smiles. That's all that matters. That alone is why he can die at peace. "I did it. I did…"
And the world goes quiet. Everything hurts, and then it doesn't.
Except for his side, after a while. He lies still for a long, long time, then suddenly, he realizes that he is lying in the most uncomfortable position known to man. He rolls over on his side, the one with the bullet lodged deep, but the sharp, shooting pain never comes. Somehow, he feels whole again. The rips and tears in his costume don't give way to deep gashes; he can't find a single shallow cut or bruise. He's still covered in sweat and blood, but he doesn't seem to be sweating or bleeding anymore. Underneath him is not the cool grass of Aunt May's lawn but the soft carpeting of a train car aisle.
Hold up. This is way too fancy to be the subway. With alarming ease, Peter picks himself up from the floor. The train is no longer moving, if it ever was, and he makes his way through the empty car — Can we say creepy? — without interruption. No one stops him when he tries to get off, stepping onto the platform of a station he has never seen before. He makes his way over to the information kiosk and is surprised to find his name staring back at him, printed on a manila envelope. He's never been religious, despite having met actual gods. Like any scientist, he prefers a tried and true law to popular theory, but in this moment, the only thought on his mind is: This is not how I imagined Valhalla at all.
Over a chorus of gut-wrenching cries of "Oh no…" from Aunt May, Peter can just make out Gwen speaking. He's almost never heard that quiver in her voice before. "Queens. Forest Hills. We have a — there's a — You know? Then get here!"
The air smells crisp, charred, like a Sunday afternoon on the back porch with Uncle Ben on the barbecue. He can almost hear Aunt May calling from inside not to undercook the meat, and see Ben smile to himself as he inevitably leaves a piece for himself just shy of too red for his wife's liking. Tears well in his eyes, but Peter can't tell if they're from the memory or from the ever-growing pain. There is still a bullet in his side, and though the webbing has kept him from bleeding out, he thinks that he can feel the warm metal inside of him, his entire body rebelling against the alien object. Slowly, through the fog of his nerve receptors working overtime to process every last stabbing ache, he comes to realize that he's bleeding from just about every but his side, and wonders if maybe he shouldn't just web himself all over until the ambulance arrives, turning himself into a Spider-Mummy, or an insect caught in his own web.
"He's really hurt," comes MJ's voice through the fog. His eyes are open but he can barely see her, his vision blurring. He can tell, though, that she's crying, and he wishes he could make it stop.
Aunt May is crying, too. "What did you do, boy? What did you do?"
"It's okay," he tries to tell her. "I — I did it."
She doesn't listen. "Just — just hold on. The ambulance is —"
"Don't you see…" He's using every last ounce of energy to speak, his voice hoarse and breaking with each word, but it doesn't matter. If it's the last thing he does, he has to tell her. He has to make it right. "It's okay. I did it."
From the distance, he can hear sirens, but they're too far off. Peter knows that. He is, he thinks, at peace with it. He'd like to say that he always knew he would go down fighting, but that isn't quite true. Much as he hates to admit it, and probably wouldn't aloud, Captain America was right. He ragged on Peter for being too young, for thinking himself invincible, as all kids do at his age. Peter wanted to argue that he knew better, that he wasn't blind to his own mortality, but he sees know that, in his way, he always was. He always knew that it was a possibility that he would get hurt, but that possibility lived at the very back of his mind, behind many assurances from himself that the worst could never happen to him. He wouldn't go so far as to say that he expected to live forever, but he certainly expected to last more than sixteen measly years.
It's okay, though. This time, he isn't just telling himself that to reassure himself because he's scared. He can't feel scared anymore, when he knows what's going to happen. He's not sure when he did, but he's accepted it, and now it's only a matter of what — or rather, who — he leaves behind. And he needs to make sure that his aunt doesn't blame herself. "I couldn't save him," he whispers, now that she's close enough. He's glad for that; he doesn't have much talk left in him. A real first. "Uncle Ben. I couldn't save him… no matter what I did." He can feel himself slipping away, but as much as he wants to fight it, wants more time to say his goodbyes, he doesn't have it in him to hang on much longer. He tries again, anyway. "But I saved you," he smiles. That's all that matters. That alone is why he can die at peace. "I did it. I did…"
And the world goes quiet. Everything hurts, and then it doesn't.
Except for his side, after a while. He lies still for a long, long time, then suddenly, he realizes that he is lying in the most uncomfortable position known to man. He rolls over on his side, the one with the bullet lodged deep, but the sharp, shooting pain never comes. Somehow, he feels whole again. The rips and tears in his costume don't give way to deep gashes; he can't find a single shallow cut or bruise. He's still covered in sweat and blood, but he doesn't seem to be sweating or bleeding anymore. Underneath him is not the cool grass of Aunt May's lawn but the soft carpeting of a train car aisle.
Hold up. This is way too fancy to be the subway. With alarming ease, Peter picks himself up from the floor. The train is no longer moving, if it ever was, and he makes his way through the empty car — Can we say creepy? — without interruption. No one stops him when he tries to get off, stepping onto the platform of a station he has never seen before. He makes his way over to the information kiosk and is surprised to find his name staring back at him, printed on a manila envelope. He's never been religious, despite having met actual gods. Like any scientist, he prefers a tried and true law to popular theory, but in this moment, the only thought on his mind is: This is not how I imagined Valhalla at all.