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Entry tags:
old wounds
Title: Old Wounds
Rating: PG
Series: Spider-Man (Peter Parker, Spider-Gwen)
Wordcount: 1,143
Summary: “Peter,” she says, and her voice cracks straight down the middle.
Remarks: Fic for a whumptober prompt - 'poisoned'.
Peter coughs once into the thick haze of concrete dust and settles a ginger seat on the least pokey edge of a broken table, wincing as the movement sends a ripple of fresh pain across his stomach.
“A dozen roses and a nice card would have been a much easier invitation to the party,” he informs the unconscious form sprawled at his feet. Gargan continues to drool slack-jawed into the scattered and crushed remains of a fruit basket. It’s probably not good superhero ethics to hope he has a citrus allergy.
There are distant voices at the other end of the ballroom, muffled by the wall of debris that has at least provided some convenient cover; the official attendees starting to creep back in with all the practicality of New Yorkers, ready to start salvaging the occasion now that the sounds of battle have passed. Something to be dealt with sooner rather than later, but he’s happy to label that a problem for the Peter Parker of five minutes into the future.
The Peter Parker of right now instead pulls his hand away from his belly and makes a face at the vivid red that has been eagerly soaked up by the high thread count of the rental tux that he is definitely, decidedly, one hundred percent not getting the deposit back on.
Bugle awards ceremonies. Never a dull moment.
The low grind of stone on stone sounds out a lot closer, but the lack of a spider-sense alarm call says it’s a friendly face even before he sees the familiar white-black-and-pink push past a chunk of shattered baroque column. Peter’s shoulders lose tension he hadn’t realised he was carrying. Gwen - playing spider on duty while Peter is trapped in a cummerbund - at least looks no worse for wear than he does, dusty and narrow-eyed, one hand curled protectively over her shoulder.
He lifts a hand in greeting. The cleanest one, because May Parker raised a gentleman. “Nice work, Spider-Woman.”
Her head jerks up like he’s yanked on a string. The white lenses fix on him and widen, steadily swallowing the blank plane of her face, and she sways a little in a way that brings the tension roaring right back.
“Peter,” she says, and her voice cracks straight down the middle.
“Hey,” he says cautiously, starting to stand, and then Gwen takes two unsteady steps and goes to her knees, and suddenly he’s running forward instead. “Woah, woah, Gwen...”
When he reaches her, though, the hand that catches his jacket is still fast as a whip and unrelenting as iron, and Peter stumbles down beside her, taken by surprise as always to feel the strength that usually sits under his own skin turned against him. “Woah there,” he says again, low and half questioning, and then hisses and hitches his stomach in as she presses her other hand hard over the cut.
“Peter,” she says, “Peter, no,” and he wraps her fingers up in his own, half reassurance, half to stop her poking at it. If anyone should know that a shallow cut isn’t a problem - but then blood and a white shirt makes for a much worse look than the reality.
“This? It’s fine. It’s not bad. C’mon,” he says, squeezing her hand tightly, “I survived ten whole minutes of Jonah’s speech, you really think I’m going to let Gargan be the one to deliver the mercy kill?”
The noise she makes is a deeper wound than anything the Scorpion could have dealt, and that’s the moment Peter realises he’s not the only one wearing red-on-white. The tear at the back of her suit is small, but the streaks of blood down her shoulder carry a poisonous green tinge that stutters his next words to pieces on his tongue.
No thin slash like the one already closing over on his stomach. A puncture wound. The tail end. Neurotoxin.
“Okay,” Peter says, forcing a calm he doesn’t feel, and tucks a hand under her chin, trying to pull her gaze up and away from the damn shirt. Can only imagine the pinprick pupils, the paper-pale skin, the cold sweat. “Okay, now that’s a problem. Gonna need you to focus here, Gwen. Whatever you’re seeing-” and he has a sinking feeling he knows what’s firing off in her head, knows exactly what demons the poison is clawing up out of the dark, “you’re seeing it worse than it is. Gwen, it’s not real. Stay here, with me, okay?”
“I did,” she says, and the grip still fisted in his jacket shakes him, already a little weaker than seconds before. “I am, do you even - I never know how to get you to understand.” Frustration and something too hollow to be called desperation are at war in every word, the jaw clenching and unclenching under his fingers. “You and me, Peter. It was always us.”
They don’t talk about this. A barely spoken agreement, filled in around poor jokes and averted eyes; she won’t thank him once she’s better for letting it go. “Gwen.” It’s gentle. “Don’t. It’s okay.”
The hand he’s holding grips back, convulsively. “It was always going to be us. I would never have- I never meant to…”
“I know,” he says, automatic, mouth dry, heart aching. “I-”
“You don’t,” she says. “You don’t, you don’t, because you’re- you’re here again, you’re… And I don’t know how to get you to stop. Peter. Please.” Her head sags forward. The grip shifts, arm going around, pulling him in, fingers digging into his spine. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Please just stop.”
“Oh,” he breathes. Peter closes his eyes, bumps his forehead in against hers. “Gwendy. No.” He doesn’t know all the details - doesn’t expect he ever will, the same way he’ll never put words to the feel of a line going too taut, too fast, a face empty of that beautiful fire rolling back too far in his arms. With her trembling against him, though, he cups the back of her head, where blonde curls and bright pink streaks are hidden under the spandex, and says the one thing he knows for sure. “Gwen, it wasn’t your fault.”
The multiversal constant: there’s only ever one person to blame.
She shudders a breath out, wet and disbelieving, and Peter’s officially done. The voices are closer now, feet approaching through the cracked stone and timber, and he swings an arm under Gwen’s legs, hefts her with him as he stands. Let the staff and guests tonight think that Peter Parker’s secret is a gym membership.
The first real spasm hits, and Gwen makes a muffled noise almost of surprise, grip hard enough to leave bruised prints up his back.
“Hey,” Peter shouts, the cut on his stomach a bare memory against the heavy ache in his chest. “I need some help over here!”
Rating: PG
Series: Spider-Man (Peter Parker, Spider-Gwen)
Wordcount: 1,143
Summary: “Peter,” she says, and her voice cracks straight down the middle.
Remarks: Fic for a whumptober prompt - 'poisoned'.
Peter coughs once into the thick haze of concrete dust and settles a ginger seat on the least pokey edge of a broken table, wincing as the movement sends a ripple of fresh pain across his stomach.
“A dozen roses and a nice card would have been a much easier invitation to the party,” he informs the unconscious form sprawled at his feet. Gargan continues to drool slack-jawed into the scattered and crushed remains of a fruit basket. It’s probably not good superhero ethics to hope he has a citrus allergy.
There are distant voices at the other end of the ballroom, muffled by the wall of debris that has at least provided some convenient cover; the official attendees starting to creep back in with all the practicality of New Yorkers, ready to start salvaging the occasion now that the sounds of battle have passed. Something to be dealt with sooner rather than later, but he’s happy to label that a problem for the Peter Parker of five minutes into the future.
The Peter Parker of right now instead pulls his hand away from his belly and makes a face at the vivid red that has been eagerly soaked up by the high thread count of the rental tux that he is definitely, decidedly, one hundred percent not getting the deposit back on.
Bugle awards ceremonies. Never a dull moment.
The low grind of stone on stone sounds out a lot closer, but the lack of a spider-sense alarm call says it’s a friendly face even before he sees the familiar white-black-and-pink push past a chunk of shattered baroque column. Peter’s shoulders lose tension he hadn’t realised he was carrying. Gwen - playing spider on duty while Peter is trapped in a cummerbund - at least looks no worse for wear than he does, dusty and narrow-eyed, one hand curled protectively over her shoulder.
He lifts a hand in greeting. The cleanest one, because May Parker raised a gentleman. “Nice work, Spider-Woman.”
Her head jerks up like he’s yanked on a string. The white lenses fix on him and widen, steadily swallowing the blank plane of her face, and she sways a little in a way that brings the tension roaring right back.
“Peter,” she says, and her voice cracks straight down the middle.
“Hey,” he says cautiously, starting to stand, and then Gwen takes two unsteady steps and goes to her knees, and suddenly he’s running forward instead. “Woah, woah, Gwen...”
When he reaches her, though, the hand that catches his jacket is still fast as a whip and unrelenting as iron, and Peter stumbles down beside her, taken by surprise as always to feel the strength that usually sits under his own skin turned against him. “Woah there,” he says again, low and half questioning, and then hisses and hitches his stomach in as she presses her other hand hard over the cut.
“Peter,” she says, “Peter, no,” and he wraps her fingers up in his own, half reassurance, half to stop her poking at it. If anyone should know that a shallow cut isn’t a problem - but then blood and a white shirt makes for a much worse look than the reality.
“This? It’s fine. It’s not bad. C’mon,” he says, squeezing her hand tightly, “I survived ten whole minutes of Jonah’s speech, you really think I’m going to let Gargan be the one to deliver the mercy kill?”
The noise she makes is a deeper wound than anything the Scorpion could have dealt, and that’s the moment Peter realises he’s not the only one wearing red-on-white. The tear at the back of her suit is small, but the streaks of blood down her shoulder carry a poisonous green tinge that stutters his next words to pieces on his tongue.
No thin slash like the one already closing over on his stomach. A puncture wound. The tail end. Neurotoxin.
“Okay,” Peter says, forcing a calm he doesn’t feel, and tucks a hand under her chin, trying to pull her gaze up and away from the damn shirt. Can only imagine the pinprick pupils, the paper-pale skin, the cold sweat. “Okay, now that’s a problem. Gonna need you to focus here, Gwen. Whatever you’re seeing-” and he has a sinking feeling he knows what’s firing off in her head, knows exactly what demons the poison is clawing up out of the dark, “you’re seeing it worse than it is. Gwen, it’s not real. Stay here, with me, okay?”
“I did,” she says, and the grip still fisted in his jacket shakes him, already a little weaker than seconds before. “I am, do you even - I never know how to get you to understand.” Frustration and something too hollow to be called desperation are at war in every word, the jaw clenching and unclenching under his fingers. “You and me, Peter. It was always us.”
They don’t talk about this. A barely spoken agreement, filled in around poor jokes and averted eyes; she won’t thank him once she’s better for letting it go. “Gwen.” It’s gentle. “Don’t. It’s okay.”
The hand he’s holding grips back, convulsively. “It was always going to be us. I would never have- I never meant to…”
“I know,” he says, automatic, mouth dry, heart aching. “I-”
“You don’t,” she says. “You don’t, you don’t, because you’re- you’re here again, you’re… And I don’t know how to get you to stop. Peter. Please.” Her head sags forward. The grip shifts, arm going around, pulling him in, fingers digging into his spine. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Please just stop.”
“Oh,” he breathes. Peter closes his eyes, bumps his forehead in against hers. “Gwendy. No.” He doesn’t know all the details - doesn’t expect he ever will, the same way he’ll never put words to the feel of a line going too taut, too fast, a face empty of that beautiful fire rolling back too far in his arms. With her trembling against him, though, he cups the back of her head, where blonde curls and bright pink streaks are hidden under the spandex, and says the one thing he knows for sure. “Gwen, it wasn’t your fault.”
The multiversal constant: there’s only ever one person to blame.
She shudders a breath out, wet and disbelieving, and Peter’s officially done. The voices are closer now, feet approaching through the cracked stone and timber, and he swings an arm under Gwen’s legs, hefts her with him as he stands. Let the staff and guests tonight think that Peter Parker’s secret is a gym membership.
The first real spasm hits, and Gwen makes a muffled noise almost of surprise, grip hard enough to leave bruised prints up his back.
“Hey,” Peter shouts, the cut on his stomach a bare memory against the heavy ache in his chest. “I need some help over here!”