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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.
