#I wouldn’t even be around him for 3 weeks cause I couldn’t handle it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

supernaturalscribe67 · 1 year ago

Text

Euphoric

Words: 3,587

POV: 3rd Person and brief 1st Person

Pairing: Gabriel x Trans!FTM!Winchester!Reader

Warning(s): Fluff, Language, Dysphoria, a single mention of Deadname (D/N), self-hate, mention of past self-harm, attempted self-harm, hurt/comfort

Summary: Dysphoria can hit at any moment, and when it hits, it hits hard. The reader is going through a tough time with the way he looks, doubting himself and the people around him. When he feels at his lowest, ready to seep back into his old ways, his boyfriend, Gabriel, is there to help him out.

Request:

Hi I've been binge-reading your stories recently and I was wondering if you could do this request. :)

So a Gabriel/FTM!Reader where the reader is dealing with really bad dysphoria (possibly mentioning past SH?) and a comforting Gabe? Possibly with an established relationship?

(Would be so fucking rad if he Sam and Dean's younger brother!!)

Tysm even if you don't do this, I love your work so much and it's helped so much recently

@genekies

A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long to get out, hun! A lot has been going on at work that has taken my focus away from writing. However, I finally found the inspiration to write this with the help of my Supernatural novels that I found hidden away in a box! I really hope you enjoy this story and that it brings you some type of comfort! Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Much love~

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Good morning, sugarplum!

Sorry, I couldn’t be there when you woke up this morning. Duty calls. I’ll be back later tonight! I hope you have a good day! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! <3

Your Casanova,

Gabriel

Why do some people wake up with an already negative attitude? A multitude of factors could be the cause; relationship issues, low self-esteem, stress, unhealthy thoughts, and lack of sleep are just a handful of possibilities. Some have their reasonings read out to them by a licensed professional they pay an arm and a leg to visit every couple of weeks, while others lack the funds and/or the proper motivation to cope, so they bottle it up inside, casting it away to the darkest depths of their mind for weeks, maybe months. They ignore the feelings they get, the troubles that stalk them, until the bottle inside of them fills to the brim. It shakes and stirs, begging for release. It spills out, slowly at first, but then the pressure becomes too much to handle, and it combusts.

And (Y/N) felt like he was about to explode.

Nothing looked right. His jawline wasn’t sharp enough, his curves were more pronounced than ever, his binder didn’t make him flat enough, he was too short, the hair on his face was barely considered peach fuzz at that point, and his eyes - yes, his eyes - screamed femininity. Screamed female. Screamed everything about you is wrong. Screamed;

You are not a man, and you never will be.

It wasn’t often that his gender dysphoria acted out as bad as it had that day. Sure, there were times when he woke up and the negative thoughts just never seemed to go away. The thoughts that made certain parts of him look wrong, misplaced. Rarely had his mind told him that everything about him was wrong. Rarely did his mind tell him he wasn’t the man he wanted to be. But, when those thoughts arose, they hit him hard, as if he got struck by a semi-truck going eighty on the interstate. It hollowed him out and made him a shell of his former self. A shell that was slowly wilting away.

His brothers were the first to notice his shift in demeanor. While he normally came into the kitchen every morning with a goofy grin on his face, a smile was nowhere to be seen. His head was cast down and he barely spoke a word to either Sam or Dean. Another thing they noticed was the lack of exposed skin he had. Usually, (Y/N) would walk out of his room clad in a t-shirt and shorts in the morning. That day, he wore a hoodie, sweatpants, and socks. The temperature in the bunker hadn’t changed, so it wouldn’t make sense that he was cold. If he had been, he would have complained about it for the rest of the day, yet he didn’t say a word. Instead, he silently got some coffee and sat down with his brothers at the table. He didn’t engage in conversation.

Later on, the three of them sat in the library, heads buried in books and computer screens. They would typically sit around, and talk about potential hunts or random information that they had found. (Y/N) acted the same way he did when he was in the kitchen, though. He was physically present, but nowhere near as mentally present. His head was down, the cord from his earbuds wrapped around his phone, which was sitting next to the book he had been reading. It didn’t even seem as if he was actively reading the text. It had been ten minutes since he turned the page.

Sam leaned closer to Dean, who sat next to him. “Does he seem off to you?” He asked in a low, quiet voice.

Dean looked up from his computer and glanced over at his youngest brother. He hesitated, studying him for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah, something’s wrong with him. Has he said anything?”

Sam shook his head. “No.”

“Do you think it has something to do with Gabriel?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

Dean pursed his lips for a moment before he turned back to (Y/N). He leaned over and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. (Y/N) lifted his head to look at his brother and, for the first time that whole morning, their eyes connected. Dean noticed something almost immediately. His eyes were empty, void of any emotion. (Y/N) took an earbud out.

“Yeah?” He asked, voice low and monotone.

“Hey, man, you doing okay?”

(Y/N) looked away for a moment. “Yeah?” He shook his head and shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just seem a bit off today.”

“I’m fine.”

“Did something happen with Gabriel?” Sam asked.

“No? I said I’m fine.”

“Ok, well, obviously you’re not,” Dean said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” (Y/N) spoke in an exasperated tone.

“(Y/N),” Sam leaned forward, palms flat on the wooden surface. “If something’s wrong, you know you can tell us, right?”

“Nothing’s wrong! Will you two stop fucking bugging me!?” He exclaimed.

(Y/N) slammed his book shut and shoved it away from him. Quickly, he stood, stuffed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, and stormed out of the library. Sam and Dean’s eyes were attached to him until he was out of sight. Dean and Sam shot a glance at one another, both of them opening their mouths as if to say something, but decided against it before they went back to their work.

(Y/N) was numb, aside from the small annoyance that had bubbled up inside of him from his brothers’ persistence. One common trait that was distributed through all the Winchester siblings was the lack of willingness to talk about their emotions. It was an ideology that was beaten into them when they were younger and first got into hunting. Bury your emotions deep within, don’t let them show, and don’t let your enemy know your weakness. Hell, don’t let your allies know your weaknesses, either. They’ll turn their back on you if they see you at your lowest. Stay strong, hide your feelings, and don’t let anyone in, even if it’s family.

When he made it back to his room, he walked over to the small dresser that was pressed along the far wall. Beside the dresser sat his tennis shoes. He grabbed them and put them on. He walked back over to the dresser, opened up the top drawer, and rummaged around in his undergarments for a moment before he fished out a pack of Marlboro Reds. The box was slightly creased, the plastic rustling in his grasp. It had been a while since he had a cigarette. He hadn’t felt the need for them, but he could feel the stress and anxiety grumble inside of him. He needed something to clear his mind. (Y/N) placed the carton into his hoodie pocket and left his room.

As he made his way past the library archway, he was stopped by his brother’s voice.

“Where’re you going?” Dean piped up.

(Y/N) stopped in his tracks and turned towards them. “Out.”

“Out where?” Sam asked.

“Look, I’m just going to take a walk around the bunker, that’s all. Going to clear my head.”

Dean and Sam shared a look. “You sure?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” (Y/N) shrugged. “Just need a breather is all.”

“Alright, well…don’t go wandering too far.”

“I won’t.” (Y/N) shared a small smile.

Sam and Dean returned the smile as (Y/N) turned his back on his brothers and headed up the staircase toward the front door.

The afternoon sun slithered past the canopy of oak tree branches. Orange, red, and yellow leaves shined bright, painting the dirt floor like a kaleidoscope. About half a mile from the bunker, a dead tree had fallen during a heavy thunderstorm several years prior. The trunk has since been embedded in the ground, forming a natural bench in the middle of the forest. This was where (Y/N) had gone to clear his head.

He sat at the edge of the log, back slouched, elbows resting against his knees, and hands hung limply between his legs. The smoke from his lit cig wafted upward towards the treetops. The end of the cigarette slowly withered away, a small amount of ash falling upon the autumn leaves. His eyes were cast down and glazed over, the thoughts in his mind running at a hundred miles an hour.

You’re delusional. A man? No one would ever consider you a man. You look nothing like a man. Nothing like what you want to, and you never will. You’ll always look like the girl you were born as. You’ll always be (D/N), and there is nothing you can do about it. Sam, Dean, Gabriel? They’re all lying to you. They’re feeding into your delusion because they feel bad for you. They don’t love you or support you. They’ll never see you as a man. Never have and never will.

(Y/N) lowered his head as he brought the cigarette up to his lips. He inhaled deeply, feeling the burn of the smoke filling his lungs, before he brought the cig away from his mouth. He tapped the end of the cig, the ash falling onto the ground. As he shifted, the sleeves of his hoodie lifted, the remnants of depressive episodes from his past peeking out through the cotton fabric. His eyes shifted to the discolored scars. He could remember how he felt when he first made the scars. The relaxation he felt afterward, the relief. It was a distraction from the pain he felt within. It was a distraction that he desperately craved.

For a moment, he looked at the end of the cigarette. It was slowly dwindling to half its original length. He shifted it in his fingers and brought it to his wrist, stopping right before the end of the butt touched his skin. He hesitated and contemplated. (Y/N) closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and moved the cig closer to his arm.

“Hey Sugarplum,” the voice came out of nowhere.

(Y/N) let out a startled shout, the cigarette fell to the ground as he turned toward the sound of the voice. Sitting beside him on the log was Gabriel, his signature smirk etched onto his lips. (Y/N) sighed and leaned down, grabbed the butt, brought it to his lips, and took a final drag. He then lifted his foot and put the cig out on the bottom of his shoe before he flicked the remnants onto the ground. He placed his hand on the log and exhaled, the smoke leaving his lungs and creating a halo around his head.

“A little birdie or two told me you went on a walk. The little birdie also told me you weren’t feeling the best.” Gabriel said as he reached an arm around (Y/N)’s shoulders.

(Y/N) could feel himself instantly relax at Gabriel’s touch, the tension leaving his shoulders. So much was going through his head. So many emotions beating at his heart, begging to be released, begging to be expressed. Yet something was stopping them.

“I’m fine,” (Y/N) said, his voice soft.

The smirk was gone from Gabriel’s face, his expression turned more serious. He inched closer to (Y/N) so that their sides were pressing against one another. He pulled him close.

“You know that’s not true,” Gabriel whispered. He pressed his nose against (Y/N)’s cheek. He ran his fingers through his hair softly and soothingly. “I can hear everything going on in your pretty little head, sugar, and I know that it’s not quiet.”

Gabriel’s closeness was comforting, something that he had been craving all day. The longer Gabriel sat next to him, the more relaxed he felt, yet the demons were still scratching at the inner crevices of his mind. With the mixed feelings he experienced, it was all so overwhelming. (Y/N) recognized the familiar prickle of tears appearing in the corner of his eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Gabriel breathed as he wrapped his arms around (Y/N)’s body, pulling him as close as he could, his head resting on Gabriel’s chest.

(Y/N) sniffled as he allowed the tears to fall, something that didn’t happen very often. Something he would, normally, not let himself do. Be vulnerable. Vulnerability is what gets you killed in the hunting career, and there was no time for that. Still, the warm feeling of Gabriel’s arms wrapped around him made him feel at home, made him feel safe, and told him that it was okay to let himself go.

Gabriel rubbed (Y/N)’s back. “Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?” He asked quietly.

(Y/N) hesitated for a moment as he clasped his hands together. He rubbed the back of his knuckles, a soothing gesture he learned from a young age. “I don’t…” he trailed and let out a sigh, shoulders slouched. “I don’t look like a man.”

“What?” Gabriel furrowed his brows.

“I don’t look like a man, okay!?” (Y/N) exclaimed and moved away from Gabriel, standing abruptly. “I mean, look at me! I’m so short and feminine! Look at my hips! Look at my face! Everything about me is wrong. Everything about me isn’t what it’s supposed to be and it’s killing me.” (Y/N)’s voice got louder, frustration evident in his tone.

The tears were freefalling, and (Y/N) did not attempt to wipe them away. Gabriel simply stared up at him, listening, a saddened expression making its way across his face.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to wake up and look at yourself in the mirror and see nothing but a body that you hate? A body that you don’t want to be in? That you feel like you don’t belong in? It feels like my life is a lie, that I’ve just been kidding myself when I said that I could finally be the man that I always wanted to be. Everything that you or Sam or Dean have said about me, validating my emotions, supporting me through everything, was just some pathetic pity party in an attempt to make me feel better about myself, even though, deep down, I know I’m not going to look anything like I want to. I’m not going to be the man that I’ve always dreamt I’d be because I’m stuck. I’m stuck in this worthless body that I was forced to have and I can’t do anything about it. I want…”

The tears were coming faster now, his words becoming shaky, almost unintelligible.

“I want to be happy…but I look at myself and I just can’t.”

Gabriel stood and walked over to him. “(Y/N), look at me,” he reached down and cupped (Y/N)’s wet cheeks, lifting his head so that he could gaze into his reddening eyes. He used his thumbs to wipe the tears away. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?” He had a smile on his face.

(Y/N) sniffled. “What?”

“I see a handsome, strong, brave man who risks his life daily for the people that he loves. I see a man with a heart of gold, who would do anything to make other people happy. I see the most handsome man on the face of this planet, the most wonderful man that my father had ever created. More importantly, I see your soul.”

“My soul?”

“Yes, your soul. I see how bright, beautiful, magnificent, and glorious it is. How perfect it is. The man you truly are.”

(Y/N) looked down at the ground. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Gabriel’s middle. Gabriel wrapped his arms around him, running his fingers through his hair.

“I know it’s hard some days. You look at yourself and don’t like what you see. You feel like there’s nothing you can do to change it. That people aren’t going to see you for who you are. I hate to break it to you, sugarplum, but that’s all I see.” He chuckled deeply. “All I can see is the man you are. The man you were meant to be. And some days are going to be harder than others, you're going to beat yourself up more than you should, and that’s okay. Because, in the end, you’ll get through this. You’ll gain your confidence back. You’ll see yourself and finally say ‘This is me’, and I am going to be with you every step of the way.”

Gabriel leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of (Y/N)’s forehead.

“Because I love you. Every part of you. The parts that you like and the parts that you don’t like. I love it even more when you’re happy with yourself. When you love yourself. And even if I pop in one day and you’re dressed as an Oompa Loompa with a five-foot-tall bright green and yellow mohawk and a beard the size of Gandolf’s, then I would still love you.”

(Y/N) snorted and let out a short laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” (Y/N) shook his head. “An Oompa Loompa?”

“Hey, it’s not my place to judge if or when you decide to dress up as an Oompa Loompa.”

(Y/N) rolled his eyes, a smile curled into the corner of his lips. Gabriel brushed his wet cheek with his thumb.

“Feeling better?” He asked softly.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Good, I’m glad. And I’m proud of you.”

(Y/N) furrowed his brows and glanced up at Gabriel. “For what?”

“For telling me how you feel. If I know anything about you Winchesters, I know that that wasn’t easy.”

“It wasn’t. But…it felt good.”

Gabriel nodded. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against (Y/N)’s lips. When he pulled back, he stared lovingly into his eyes.

“You’re my person, (Y/N). The person that I love and care for, and if you ever feel like this again, just give me a shout and I’ll be there faster than you can get my name out of your mouth. I never want you to be alone when you feel like this. You don’t deserve to be alone through this. Promise me that you’ll call me next time you feel like this?” Gabriel’s hands trailed down from his face to his arms and stopped to grab his wrists gently. He rubbed them softly through the sleeves.

(Y/N) opened his mouth and hesitated. “I can’t promise, but I’ll try.”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” Gabriel smirked and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Now, do you want to go back to the bunker? We can cuddle on your bed, and watch some of those terrible reality TV shows. I think I have a bit of an addiction to 90-Day-Fiance.”

(Y/N) smiled. “Do you mind if we sit out here for a little bit? It’s a beautiful day out and…I’m not quite ready to go back inside yet.”

“Of course, anything for my sugarplum,” he leaned forward, his nose brushing gently against (Y/N)’s.

“Thank you,” (Y/N) whispered. “I love you. I don’t deserve you.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong. You deserve the world and every beautiful thing in it.”

“I don’t want the world. All I want is you.”

“Then have me you shall. Forever and always.”

“Forever and always?” (Y/N) lifted a hand, his pinkie finger sticking out.

Gabriel smirked and chuckled. He lifted a hand, hooked his pinkie onto (Y/N)’s, and looked deeply into his eyes.

“Forever and always.”

My Dearest (Y/N),

I’m writing this, not as one of my regular notes, but as a reminder to you. I want you to pack this away somewhere safe where you can take it out and read it whenever you feel down about yourself in any way.

You are strong. You are brave. You are handsome. You are perfect. You are loved. You are you.

I know it’s hard to see yourself in a positive light at the moment, and everything may seem like it’s closing in as if nothing is going right and it will never get fixed, but, just know, you’ll make it through this. Just like you’ve done on multiple hunts, you will prevail. You will conquer the enemy, even if that enemy is yourself.

Remember, you don’t have to fight this battle alone. I’m here for you, and so is Sam and Dean. We all love you so much and we want you to be happy! We love seeing your smile when you walk into a room. You brighten our day just by being you, and nothing will ever change that.

If you need anything, anything at all, just think of me, and I will be there for you. We can watch your favorite movie and I’ll even bring you some of those little dessert cakes you like from the cafe I took you to on our first date. Even if you don’t want to talk to me about it, I want you to know that you don’t have to suffer in silence. Not while I’m around. I’ll always be by your side, no matter what you go through.

I love you,

Forever and always,

Your Casanova,

Gabriel

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waddlewaddlewaddlewaddle · 2 years ago

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Over my head (Miguel ‘o’ Hara x Reader)

Chapter 2

Pairing: Miguel x f reader!

Summary: y/n is a kind hearted nurse who’s life gets turned upside down as she get fired from one the most prestigious hospitals in NYC , desperate , she start filing job applications wherever. Coincidentally a stressed Miguel is looking for a nurse due to a big amount of spider people getting injured due to the surprisingly large amount of anomalies happening in the spider verse. What could go wrong is these two meet?

Themes:

Mutual pining

✎office romance (¿)

Hidden romance

✎Smut available as story progresses.

Dom Miguel x sub/bratty reader

✎Stubborn, Ill tempered Miguel.

✎ Angelic reader .

Medium slow burn.

✎I try to be as accurate as possible.

English is not my first language so bare with me.

✎badass stoic x sweet empath.

Wc:1.4k

Og spanish speaker so be prepared for steamy dialogue :3

(For the sake of storytelling spider society’s HQ is on earth 2099 :D)

See master list for previous or future chapters

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

As Miguel scanned through the résumés that lyla picked out for him , all he could do is sigh and make uninterested faces at the computer. All the applicants seemed untrustworthy , not qualified enough , they lacked experience in Miguel’s eyes. He was worried there wouldn’t be a candidate who’ll keep their mouth shut about the spider society. He couldn’t handle the risk of a villain getting notice of their HQ.

Lyla watched as Miguel’s eyebrows turned into a worried knot as he watched the HQ’s camera as more injured Spider-Men barely hopped out of the portal only to plummet into the ground with their face beaten black and blue.

-“I know you need me to be obedient especially when you’re like this, but how about you check this application. It is a lady but��-Lylas sentence is cut short by Miguel’s interruption.

-“Looking at that application will only be a waste of time , I don’t want my men distracted with anything love like plus I need a nurse who can carry a 170 pound man in deadweight.”-Scolded Miguel as he looks at Lyla with a raised eyebrow.

-“Fine I’ll speak in your language then, the applicants a valedictorian, cum laude , graduated from Cornell university, certified critical care nurse , worked 3 years in presbyterian hospital and did plenty volunteering while finishing her med school and for the moment volunteers once a week. Such a goody too shoes , she seems kinda boring not gonna lie. But she will do.”-Lyla giggled as she sat on Miguel’s shoulder as she looked at his defeated face realizing you might just be the person he’s looking for.-“Plus I can ask for Spider-Man 199999 to make some robotic hospital beds!”

Miguel lifted the corner of his mouth in 1/8th of a smile, Lyla may be insufferable some times but the majority of time she was one of his best workers, if she recommended you it must be with a good reason

-“Call pavitr through the communicator and assign him to run a background check on y/n and have him follow her around for two days, if everything goes well assign an interview for Friday and have Jessica interview her.”- He said sternly even though in the bottom of his heart he felt some relief cause things were started to look better for him.

Just when he thought he could get himself a cup of coffee, his communicator started going off asking for backup in some random universe. He quickly sheathed his mask on and after receiving the coordinated portal hopped to help his co workers out.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

After receiving the good news of your interview yesterday you called Gigi with delight letting her know you got a job offer, a lot of the information is undisclosed but you’re happy you got the chance to work in what passionate about. All you hope is that you get some bonuses here and there and a decent pay.

You open your closet door after an intensive shower and grab a black turtle neck to hide your bruised neck after the accident, you pair it with a pair of white slacks and some black Mary Janes.

Lastly you do your makeup to your hearts desire and let your hair lay loose , you quickly lock up the door and run to the metro to head to the job interview.

At arrival your eyes take in a beautiful view, you gaze upon a Mediterranean cafe with gorgeous white detailing on the outside and through the window you saw some wooden tables surrounded by sky blue walls with woven straw lamps. As you entered the cafe there were few people in there , but the most distinguished was a woman with good looking Afro that decorated her head wonderfully, at closer inspection you also realized she was pregnant.

As she notices you staring at her she signaled you over to her table and invited you with her facial expressions to sit down.

-“Hello, you must be y/n. I know you didn’t upload a photo on your resume but something tells me it’s you.”- Said the mysterious women as if she hadn’t scanned and analyzed through 20 photos of you that Pavitr took of you while spying on you for the last 2 days.

-“Yes! I’m the one applying for the corporate nurse position , do you happen to be my possible employer?”- You asked with curious eyes.

The mysterious woman let out a big chuckle while resting her hands on her belly.

-“Me?! No god no”.- She said while shaking her head trying to die down her laughter- “You’re gonna wish I was though. Just kidding!”- after popping that joke she stood up straight getting meaning she was ready to talk business. -“Im Jessica Drew btw, so tell me y/n , what makes you stand out from other nurses and why should we hire you?”- Spiderwoman didn’t flinch while telling you her true identity, you seemed nice but most importantly you’re not from her earth so why should she care.

While you chatted with Jessica ;with each anecdote that came out of your mouth she was more sure that you were fit for the job , she knew you would take care of any spider person without any prejudice be it plushy Spider-Man or the ugliest of spider people. She really wanted to be confident in her decision because even tho it cost her to admit it , she cared deeply for her coworkers particularly a blond one. So after hearing about your time volunteering and a through personality analysis. You got the job.

After knowing her decision your eyes lit up and you could feel you spark return to your soul , the salary was beyond incredible ( mysteriously incredible) and you were to visit the company tomorrow to present yourself and to check out the infirmary so you can create a list of devices and supplies that you’ll need to have the place running in no time

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

The next day news spread quickly of your arrival, many spider people were glad to have you in their HQ mainly because they didn’t have healthcare in their earth but partly also because a new face excited them , especially one without a spider mask.

In the meanwhile Spider byte and peni Parker started to work on a database like program that would be ready at your arrival , in this program all the spider people put in their medical history like allergies ,any prior diseases or special conditions.

As to your surprise the company you will soon be working in is located in the ugly part of town, you had to take a couple buses to get there but a long commute never bothered you, soon you arrived at spid-so.co which was oddly a… warehouse? Negative thoughts started to plague your mind about your job, maybe this job offer is too good to be true . But all those negative thoughts had to be blown away ;you couldn’t fuck up your only job offer.

So as you rang the doorbell you pulled out a pocket knife , hoping you wouldn’t need to use it , but as you hear heavy foot approach the opposite side of the door you decide squeeze your eyes shut and whip out the pocket knife in front of you to protect yourself from your possible kidnappers.

The next thing you feel is a strong hand wrap around both of your wrist; with enough pressure to keep still but gentle enough so it didn’t hurt. As you fluttered your eyes open your gaze stumbled upon a lamp post of a man, he was tan ; probably Hispanic. He had a strong face structure and a gaze that’ll send you running away but hair so fluffy that it cancels all the intimidating features out. This strange fellow looked so masculine to you even though he was just wearing some sweat pants and a compression shirt, a compression shirt that defined and highlighted his hunky shoulders and broad back that was miraculously help up by some shredded obliques and a tiny waist.

You looked at him with a wide stare wondering what the hell was going on, he was clearly not your average office worker.

Seeing your confused expression the figure in front of you decided to take the pocket knife from your hands diligently and open his mouth to let out a deep but stern voice.

-“Now who let you think you knew how to handle this?”-

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hockeyboysimagines · 1 year ago

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The girl with the broken smile

Chapter 3

Warnings: angst, some language

Final Chapter, and the next part would be when Sawyer arrives in Philly in Chapter 1 of Say it to me softly. I’ve been wanting to get this out of the drafts for a bit here so I can focus on some other things. Enjoy! Keep an eye out for updates to Carter this weekend🤍

Nash woke with a start and turned to check the clock. It was 2:36 AM and she sighed and laid back down. It was raining, buckets pouring out of the sky and staining her windows. She sat up, and padded across her bedroom and out into the hall.

She sleepily wondered if Travis was awake but as she turned the corner she realized that she wasn’t at his apartment.

She was in hers.

It had been only a week since she’d moved abruptly out of Travis’s apartment and into her own in a different building. Moving boxes were still stacked here and there and she felt a little bit worse each time the silence set in.

She missed seeing him every day. Missed his dumb jokes, big smile and overall warmth she’d become accustomed to. She felt isolated again, like she’d backpedaled on all her progress she’d made since she moved out of her home and into Travis’s. She felt like a failure to herself and him.

She poured a glass of water and sat on her couch staring out the window. At first she’d loved living here, mostly because she now had the privacy to cry in peace without burdening Travis with her breakdowns. But she hated it now. Moving out had been a mistake. She missed him.

She hadn’t seen him, and he’d been “busy” when she asked if he wanted to come see her new place leaving her with only Carter and Kevin that afternoon.

“Is he okay?” She asked as she glancing up from where she was folding laundry.

Kevin glanced up from his place in the kitchen where he was unpacking silverware “Not at all. What gave it away?”

“Seriously? All of a sudden he’s busy? For the last few weeks I couldn’t even be home alone and now he magically has plans.”

“ I think he’s just a little sad that’s all.”

“About what?”

“About this.” He said gesturing around the room “He wanted you to stay.”

Nash felt guilty. She knew he didn’t want her to leave, but she was a little afraid of what might happen if she didn’t.

She was almost positive that Travis was intending to kiss her when that horn beeped, and the only reason he didn’t was because of it. And that was her worst fear.

To think that he was going to kiss her for whatever reason, most likely pity because she was such a train wreck, would break her heart, and she wouldn’t do anything that might cause her friendship with him to die. She just couldn’t take the risk. He was too important to her now more than ever.

She looked at Carter “Am I wrong for leaving?”

He pursed his lips “Uhm…no I don’t think so. But is there a reason you were so quick about it?”

She looked between them. They were both staring at her like they knew something but she wouldn’t tell them.

“No. Just wanted to give him his space. I mean who wants to live with a girl when it comes time to bring girls home?” She chuckled.

“Travis isn’t bringing any girls home.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She mumbled.

“Pat isn’t bringing any girls home either. So what does that tell you?” Kevin said bluntly still staring at her as he stuffed things in drawers.

“What do you mean?”

“Neither of them have any interest in fucking around with anyone, and Pat is in love with his best friend. So I’ll ask you again. What does that tell you?” Kevin was getting a little huffy with her, which was something she wasn’t used to. For the most part, everyone has been especially gentle with Nash the last few weeks. The only true reality heck she’d gotten about the way things had come wrong in her life, was the random run in with Justin, and Libby consistently reinforcing the fact that she could never have anything to do with him again. Other than that, she’d been handled with care.

“I understand what your saying but what does Nolan and Sawyer have to do with me?”

“Nash don’t be fucking dense okay?” Kevin scoffed closing a drawer “If you can’t see what’s happening here then your either being purposely ignorant or your just not paying enough attention.”

Nash frowned “Kevin i-“

“Kev don’t.”

She turned to see Carter shaking his head “You should talk about this with Travis. It’s none of our business.”

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Travis likes you okay?” Kevin snapped.

Carter rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling “Way to be subtle Kev.”

“No.” She shook her head “He doesn’t.”

“Whatever.” Kevin dropped the rest of the stuff in his hands and grabbed his keys “I gotta go.” He left without another word and Nash turned to Carter, head down, lip trembling.

“Please don’t cry. If you start crying, I’m gonna start crying and if the guys can’t find out that I cry they’ll make fun of me for the rest of my life.” Carter stood and pulled her into a hug “It’s all going to be okay Nash. Travis will work out his issues, your going to get back on your feet, Sawyer will be here for Nolan in a few weeks, the seasons gonna start and everything will be peachy okay?”

“Promise?”

“Pinky promise.” He hooked his pinky in hers and shook it, before he reached over and handed her a tissue “Now stop crying. Let’s finish unpacking.”

**************

Travis was across town, blissfully unaware of the pinky promise Carter had just made about him working out his issues, because he was doing the exact opposite.

“Okay I think you’ve had enough.” Nolan said pulling the glass out of Travis’s hand and pushing it away from him. Travis scowled and reached for it.

“I’m not a baby Pat.”

“Then stop acting like one. What is going on with you? Is this about Nash moving out?”

“No. I don’t care about that. I don’t care about her.”

“That’s not true-“

“It is. She obviously doesn’t give a shit about me so why should I?”

“Don’t say things like that. Your mad she moved out, and I get it but that doesn’t give you a free pass to hate her for it.” Nolan was frowning at him, which wasn’t uncommon but this wasn’t the usual “Don’t act like a dumbass” frown. This was more of a “I’m disappointed in you dumbass” frown. He hated it.

“Whatever.” He turned and looked around, eyes landing on a brunette that had been trying to get his attention for the last hour.

“Travis.” Nolan warned in a low voice “That’s not a good idea.”

“Why? Worked for you didn’t it?”

Nolan’s face got red and he looked angry for a second “That was different.”

“Yeah okay. So you can fuck some girl to get over your ‘best friend’ and I can’t? What the hell is that about? You wanna keep lying and say you don’t like her fine you do that. But don’t be a hypocrite okay?”

“You know what? Fine. You do whatever you have to but I won’t be have any part of this.” Nolan stood and left without another word but Travis really didn’t care.

He couldn’t believe Nolan didn’t understand, or maybe didn’t want to, how he was feeling. He’d never outright admitted how he felt about Sawyer but of course Travis knew. Just a month or so prior Nolan could get drunk and take someone home and now he was advising against Travis doing the same thing. What a dick.

Travis turned back to glance at the brunette again and sighed.

He did not of course end up leaving with her, but rather left by himself and went home to his empty apartment.

He hated it.

It was too quiet, too empty. He hadn’t seen her since she left and he didn’t know if he could. He had promised her just a few days ago that he was back in her life for good, and now he was here too afraid to face her.

He huffed and sat down on his sofa. The room was spinning, his head hurt, and his heart was sad. He tipped over sideways and fell asleep on his sofa.

**************

“Hey.” Nolan said with a smile.

“Hi.” Sawyer was smiling at him on the other end of the screen, seated presumably on her bed at home. He could see rain hitting the window behind her.

“How are you?”

“I’m good. Getting excited. How about you?”

“Same. Are you all packed and ready?”

“Mostly. Just a few small things left to do. I can’t wait to see you.” She said smiling. She had her glasses on and he could faintly hear the tv in the background.

“Me too. it’ll be nice to see each other everyday again. Like old times.”

“Hopefully better than some of the old times. I’m really looking forward to meeting your teammates and watching you play.”

“Yeah they’re excited to meet you. Especially now that they know your actually real and not my imaginary friend.” Nolan smiled.

She laughed and shook her head “How do you know I’m not?”

“Shutup.” He leaned back on his bed and for a minute his mind drifted back to Travis.

“Are you okay?” He glanced at the phone. Sawyer was frowning a little bit, eyebrows knotted together “Seems like something is bothering you.”

“I’m alright. Travis is going through some things and I’m trying to help him but it seems like he doesn’t want it.”

She pursed her lips “I think he probably wants your help, but maybe doesn’t realize he needs it yet.”

Nolan nodded. He wasn’t about to tell her about the conversation with Travis at the bar. He’d sworn him to secrecy about it because he didn’t want Sawyer to know. He hoped Travis wasn’t out making the same mistake he had. Nolan had been keeping his secret for a long time, but he’d never had to compete with a boyfriend either. He was able to keep his composure where Travis couldn’t because Nolan never had to worry about another guy coming into Sawyers life. While it was selfish, he couldn’t just admit out loud that he’d been harboring elephant sized feelings for his best friend.

And when he’d taken that girl home, he regretted it so deeply it made him sick. To think he’d done that to try and put a bandaid on something so serious made him wanna punch himself in his own face. And that’s exactly why he didn’t deserve her.

He sighed and cleared his throat, averting the conversation to something else, still thinking vaguely about Travis.

**********

Travis stood and stretched, feeling a wave of nausea as he did and immediately sat back down.

He was thankful that he was in his own apartment and not someone else’s, and then panicked a minute hoping he hadn’t brought anyone home, but the silence told him that he was alone.

Thank god.

He blew out a breath and closed his eyes, rolling to his side to face the back of the couch. While the evening before was fuzzy, he had some recollection of what had happened.

He had to make an apology to Pat at some point, for bringing up something he promised he’d never talk about again, and for acting like a colossal dick when he was only trying to help. He knew what it was like to be Nolan, and he shouldn’t have mocked that. It was wrong.

Everything was wrong. It was his own fault really. He was just on such a high from finally having unlimited access to his best friend again he forgot how long they hadn’t been 100% in each others lives. He wasn’t sure why he expected her to just bounce back from everything that had happened to her, but it was wrong. It would take time, and he should have realized that she need more time. And that the last thing she was thinking about was jumping into anything with him when she’d just come out of hell. It hurt, but it was no one’s hurt but his own.

He felt a sharp pain in his chest and winced, wondering if he would feel this way forever about Nash leaving.

And then he realized that it wasn’t the pain of her leaving, but rather the pain of the vomit that was bubbling up his throat.

**********

“She really didn’t know?” Libby asked Carter as he sat on their sofa and told her and Joel all about the events of the afternoon previously.

“I don’t think she had any idea honestly. She seemed pretty clueless as to why Haysey yelled at her.”

Libby frowned so deep, her lips might fall off her face and her eyes narrowed, eyebrows coming together low over her eyes “He yelled at her?” She said slowly, leaning forward unblinking.

Carter coughed “Uh it wasn’t a yell I guess, more of a stern talking to-“ but Libby wasn’t buying it.

Joel rolled his eyes “You dumbass.”

“He better not be yelling at her in front of me. No one better yell at her after what she’s been through.”

“I agree. He didn’t really yell though, I think he’s just trying to back TK up is all.”

“I know and that’s great for Kevin, but he needs to remember what she’s been going through. Of course she’s not thinking about Travis liking her. I mean really. She only just finished antibiotics, the last thing she’s thinking about is anyone having any romantic feelings about her. So Kevin can shut up and stay out of it.” Libby crossed her arms. Joel put a hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze.

“It’s all going to be-“

But at that moment the door opened and Kevin himself walked in completely unannounced.

Libby jumped from her seat and crossed the room like lighting, cornering Kevin before Joel could say or do anything. Kevin backed up, bumping into the wall as he did. Carter remained seated, not wanting to be involved.

“I heard you yelled at Nash.” She said arms folded across her chest.

“I didn’t yell at her. But she-“

“I don’t wanna hear it. You have no idea what she’s going through and you don’t have any right to push her into anything.”

Libby was right. Kevin should have stayed out of it. He was really only coming at it out of his friendship for Travis but it was selfish of him to think that Nash would be ready for anything after what just happened to her.

“I know I just-I just feel like-“ he fumbled over his words, but Libby continued to frown.

“We’d all love to see Travis make her happy. But she’s not ready and he and everyone else needs to accept that and let her be.” Libby added the last part very sternly, looking at Carter who looked at his hands. The whole thing was such a mess, and he didn’t like thinking or talking about it.

In the back of her mind though she hoped Nash would be ready to soon, because she didn’t know how much more Travis’s heart would be able to take.

**********

Nash answered the knock on her door and was more than surprised to find Travis on the other side. He looked a little awkward but smiled when he saw her.

“Can we talk?”

Nash stepped aside and allowed him to pass her. She closed the door and turned to find him looking around.

“This place is really nice.” He said quietly, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Yeah it is. Starting to feel like home I guess.” She said with a shrug. She was so happy to see him, and a little relieved. After the second day of his absence she was starting to get worried she may never see him again.

He nodded “Yeah. That’s good.” She gestured for him to sit, and sat down tentatively next to him.

It was quiet for a few seconds before he cleared his throat “I know how hard this has been for you.” He said quietly, meeting her eye for the first time “Believe me I do. And I’ve tried to be there for you, and I think I’ve done a pretty good job? Which is why I’m confused about why you left. Was it me?” He turned to look at her, eyes clouded with hurt. It made her want to cry.

“Oh Travis.” She scooted closer and grabbed his hand “It wasn’t you. I loved living with you at the apartment. I did. But I needed to be able to stand on my own two feet. I spent the last year and a half relying on Justin for everything, including my happiness. And it wasn’t fair to myself or you to do that. It wasn’t you I promise.”

“You can always lean on me. I just wanna be there for you is all. And I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you this week, I was just confused and a little hurt by your sudden move to be honest.” He sighed and looked at his hands.

“I know. And I’m sorry it was so sudden. I knew that if I didn’t do it now I wouldn’t ever.”

“You could have stayed forever. I wouldn’t have minded.” He said softly.

Nash swallowed thickly and cleared her throat “I’m still here Trav. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You did though. I just want you to be happy. Are you? Happy?”

Nash bit her lip and shrugged, eyes moving to look out the window “I’m surviving, but I’m not happy.”

“What would make you happy Nash? Good friends? A great support system? Someone to lean on? Because I can be all those things for you. I want to be those things.” He was looking at her desperately, and it made her heart hurt so bad it felt like she couldn’t breathe.

“You have been. You are. You will always be”. Her voice cracked at the end “I just need to learn to stand on my own two feet for a change. I promise, I’m here to stay.” He was still looking at her sadly so she smiled at him.

For the first time in a while he saw a very faint glimmer of a real smile from her. It filled him with what could only be described as hope, that someday she might come back to him. He reached forward to grip her hand and gave it a squeeze “I’ll be here. However long it takes you. You know that right? No matter what?”

She squeezed his hand back “That’s good. Because I’m going to need you.”

He smiled and then leaned back on her couch “What I need is food. I’m starving can we please go eat I-“

She laughed and nodded “Okay Trav.”

It would take a while, and there would be tears and trouble and long days ahead of her. Her journey to recovery wouldn’t be easy, and it wouldn’t always feel good to rediscover who she was without Justin. Some days would be high, others low but she was so thankful that she had him. She smiled a little as she watched him stand still jabbering about food.

Travis Konecny was a beautiful soul.

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queerlilchinchin · 1 year ago

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When Death Does Us Part, Part I

Part I: Endings Are Beginnings

Genre: Romance/superhero Wordcount: 906 Trope: [friends to] enemies to lovers

As a young child, it had always been my dream to be a hero, to be the savior of the planet, to be the one that saved those in need. I grew up in a subpar household. I wasn’t abused or neglected, it was just… boring. Everyone around me led such exciting lives, traveling around the world, living in huge mansions, and I?... well, I didn’t have any of that.

My family wasn’t poor, don’t get me wrong. We were just average, living in a rich town. My friends all went on these amazing, exotic adventures every year with their families while I was trapped at home, babysitting my little sister.

It was fine. Don’t get me wrong, it could have been so much worse. We had everything we’d ever need. We weren’t hurt or told we were a burden. Our parents loved us very much, and they made sure we knew it. It was just… when you live around people that get to do all of these amazing things, it tends to dull the color from your world. It tends to make you forget how fortunate you really are.

When I was 20, my father got diagnosed with Cancer. It was the hardest thing I ever had to deal with, watching him wither away until there was nothing left… and then 3 months later, we lost him entirely. My best friend tried to be there for me, but I shut down completely, isolated myself away from the world. I didn’t want to be around all of these people with their perfect lives and perfect homes. It was too much. The color that had previously dulled from the excitement around it now was lost entirely. No longer was being the savior my priority. Now just surviving day to day was.

My mother and sister tried to reach out several times, but it took my mother passing before I finally came out of my cave. I completely broke that day. I couldn’t handle it anymore. The world was so cruel. While all of my old classmates were living it up in other countries and regions around the world, I was over here, trying to pick the remains of my life back up.

Again, my friend reached out and tried to get me out of the house, but I was swallowed up in my misery and could no longer fathom doing anything but crying. The idea of being happy was no longer a concept I understood. Smiling was no longer an expression I wore. I just frowned, curled up in my bed, and withered away into nothing myself.

–

I wake with a start, gasping for breath. Something feels different. I glance around me in a groggy fog.

Why do I feel so…

I stare down at my hands and feel a weird sensation of loss and regret unlike I had already been feeling. Something is different… something is different… something is-

A desperate knock startles me, making me jump. I go to the door and attempt to open it, but my hand goes through it. Blinking in confusion, I attempt again, but the same thing happens a second time.

A familiar distressed voice calls through the door, “You can’t keep me out forever! You’ve not come out of your apartment in weeks, your neighbors said so. You have to come out… please, your parents wouldn’t want this for you.” Her words hit hard, even though I know they come from a place of love and I call back, “Fuck you for bringing them into this!”

She pauses and knocks louder. “Come on, please!” Her tone changes to anguish. “I know you’re hurting… just let me be here for you.”

“Yeah, you really want to be here for me saying stuff like that!” I call back. She sniffs, making it more than clear that she’s crying on the other side of the door. Again, I try to open it, but I can’t touch it.

“What is happening to me?” I mutter, getting irritated with not only my friend, but with my body as well. She sniffs again, then I hear footsteps walk off into the distance. So much for wanting to-

BANG!

A loud thud startles me out of my thought and causes me to jump again.

“LET ME IN!” She screams desperately. “LET ME IN RIGHT NOW! I’m not losing you, and at this rate, I’m going to! Please!” BANG BANG BANG!

I think she’s slamming her body against-

Before I can finish the thought, she slams the door open and immediately gasps in shock. She’s looking right through me. Confused, I ask, “What?”

She ignores my question and slowly moves past me. She walks right through me and I gasp for breath has I feel her pass through me. She doesn’t even seem to notice me. I open my mouth to yell at her, but as I’m turning to follow her with my eyes, I’m silenced by my own shock.

I’m lying on the bed. My body has withered away. I look like death. She collapses to her knees and cries, burying her face into me and grasping my shirt in her hand.

“Why!? What have you done?” She cries against my chest, body rocking with every sob. I stay silent this time, watching as my best friend mourns my death.

How am I dead… how has this happened?

Numbed with shock and confusion, I continue to watch in complete silence.

#my writing #writers of tumblr #my wips #romance #enemies to lovers #writeblr #when death does us part

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jade-escobar · 2 years ago

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Clearing the Air | Jadrigo

Featuring: @rodrigo-esc & Jade Clark with Julia Ivanov, Jewel & Jett Clark, and Leo Malinowski Castillo de Leon; mentions of Jeanette Shapiro Location: Saddle River Day School; San Francisco, CA Notes: 1 step backward, 3 steps forward. Enjoy!

RODRIGO

It had been a couple of days since Rodrigo had the intense talk with Jade's mother. He'd be lying if he said that it didn't leave him completely heartbroken and that he didn't want the already long weekend to last longer. The longer it lasted, the less he had to think about having to be in the same room as Jade again. He didn't know how to face her even if he did miss her like crazy. It was a lot of conflicting feelings and a week wasn't enough for him to begin to scratch the surface. Truth be told, he had never felt this way about anyone but it didn't matter anymore. Jade didn't feel the same. The day had finished and he was glad for the distraction. He knew that his classroom would be piled into soon for dress rehearsals but for the next few minutes, Rodrigo leaned against his desk and took a deep breath. Seeing Jade again would give him some relief. It's not like he didn't miss her but it would also bring all those feelings back and he wasn't sure he was prepared for any of it. Plugging his earphones into his ears, he went over the music for the show and got himself lost in that until he heard someone at the door. He got up and opened it, shocked and infuriated to see Julia there. "What...." He grabbed her arm and escorted her outside the classroom. "What the hell are you doing here? I already told you I don't want to see you again."

JADE

Jade had been a tightly wound bundle of emotions. The past week had her finally coming to grips with the fact that she had feelings for him. Strong, blooming feelings. Their time spent together, coupled with Rodrigo's unfailing kindness touched her heart and the moment she realized it, she couldn't get the truth out of her mind. Yet she wasn't sure if she could bring herself to tell him, or how. They primarily spent time together rehearsing with about 30 jr. high kids. And if she told him and he didn't feel the same way, she had no idea how she would handle the rejection, mostly because they still had a little more time working together before Hamilton opened. He was somewhat distant over the weekend, which only fed her belief that her newly realized feelings weren't even close to mutual. Stuffing it deep down, she privately told herself to just get through Hamilton and then maybe afterwards would be a good time to tell him. If he didn't feel the same--if he did reject her, then at least she wouldn't have to endure seeing him nearly every day for a few hours soon. Spring Break was coming up, and the musical would open soon after that. In the meantime though, she ended up letting the little flips of her heart from Rodrigo's smile bring a smile to her own face. The mental image was even causing her lips to curve. She thought about him ahead of reaching his classroom but stopped once she rounded the corner and found him talking to a woman she'd never seen before. With a silent gasp of surprise, she instinctively retreated back around the corner, having a strange feeling like she'd been unexpectedly intruding on something. But curiosity got the better of her and she peeked, wondering who the woman was.

RODRIGO

"Rodri, I saw what you did for that lead of yours..." Julia smiled, making sure he knew how unbothered she was by his reaction to her being there. She reached for the collar of his dress shirt, raising a brow slightly. "You never dressed up like this for me. You look nice, smell nice too...who are you doing this for?" She grinned, keeping her frame close to his, and Rodrigo pulled back, turning his face to avoid Julia getting any closer. He grabbed both her arms and let them drop to her side. "Listen to me...I'm working and I have a lot of work to do. None of that involves you. You and I were over a long time ago. Get out of here. I mean it." He didn't let her say anything more and Rodrigo went back into his classroom. Julia stood there shocked and annoyed at the rejection before she gripped her bag and made her way down the halls, practically walking into Jade. "Excuse you." She murmured and exited the school.

JADE

Jade hadn't heard what was being said but she was fairly fluent in body language. The woman's was the one she'd been zeroed in on and the way she slipped her fingers up Rodrigo's shirt and gripped his collar... it was an intimate gesture--commanding but intimate. And she'd only moved in closer to him. Jade was convinced that they were about to kiss and she couldn't bring herself to watch that. She turned away, back around the corner and started to walk away, only to abruptly stop. She couldn't leave. She was supposed to be helping with the rehearsal. But she couldn't think straight or focus on Hamilton or rehearsals. Her heart felt like it'd sunk down into her stomach like a piece of lead. Of course he was seeing someone. He was wonderful and it shouldn’t have jarred her to learn it. After drawing in a slightly ragged breath, Jade told herself to push through for the kids' sake. She wouldn't need to engage in or even attempt at some semblance of normalcy between Rodrigo. She'd gotten her answer--he wasn't interested in her, and with a woman like that, why would he be? Her focus could go entirely to finishing up her time with helping the kids. She turned to go back around the corner, only to bump right into the woman she'd spied on with Rodrigo. "Sorry," Jade whispered, still clustered but collecting herself enough to get through the next few hours. Jade reached for the handle to his classroom door, only to pause and knock. Strangely, it didn't feel right to automatically let herself into his space anymore.

RODRIGO

As if everything that was already buzzing around in his head wasn’t enough torture, Julia had to turn up again. He didn’t even make any sense of what she had come to say to him. In his mind, Julia was a lunatic and he wanted nothing to do with her. The interaction was enough to boil his blood that Rodrigo felt his mood shift completely. He didn’t want to be this upset in front of the kids or Jade. Not when they were so close to opening day. So he took another deep breath, fingers digging into the edge of his desk as he tried to gather his thoughts one more. There was a knock on his door again and it had happened so quickly after Julia left that he figured it was her again. Jade wouldn’t knock and his kids stormed in every time. Pinching the bridge of his nose he swallowed hard and let out a dry chuckle. What else could possibly go wrong? Rodrigo opened the door, murmuring, “ I told you to get out…” and he cut his words short almost immediately. Jade was at the door and after not seeing her for a full week, he came to understand the whole absence makes the heart grow fonder saying. He knew he was screwed in more ways than one and he had already forgotten about the visit he had just minutes ago. “Hi. Hey.” He pushed his hand through his hair and stepped to the side to let her in. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else and I really didn’t want to see them…” but you? You I want to see always.

JADE

Jade was listening for approaching steps on the other side of the door despite the perpetual self-depricating internal dialogue. It was reminding her that she was no one special and shouldn't have let her budding feelings for Rodrigo go unchecked for so long--nevermind she'd only very recently came to realize them. She flinched at the way he initially answered the door but her face was already largely expressionless prior to his opening the classroom door. "Hi," Jade said just above a whisper, stepping over the threshold and past Rodrigo. She heard his apology but had already been too focused elsewhere to hear the rest of what he had said. Rather, Jade said nothing back and set her tote bag down on the piano bench, taking out the Hamilton piano book to prepare for the rehearsal.

RODRIGO

"Hi." He repeated again, slightly perplexed at Jade's behavior but not entirely. After what her mother had said about her lack of interest and feeling sorry for him, he wondered how much he really knew about her or rather, how much he had allowed himself to believe for the sake of hanging onto a crush. He felt slightly bitter but quickly righted himself realizing that perhaps things have always been like this. He was just being uncharacteristically naive. "Right. So, dress rehearsals this week, and I figured one last one this weekend. If you're busy, it's fine. Just thought we'd get you paired up with the orchestra before opening night so you can tell them of anything you think they'd need to know like um I don't know, any pauses or something." He cleared his throat and kept his distance, by the window, leaning there and wishing he'd understand where they went wrong. He wondered if he was just too much and now things were weird.

JADE

Jade took her time reaching back into her tote bag and taking out her notebook. She already knew the kids' cues and keys that they performed each song in but removed the notebook out of a need to try and occupy herself while trying to push her feelings far down. "Okay," Jade replied, looking outwardly expressionless while internally, she was adamant in trying to focus on anything but Rodrigo. Her heavy heart was aching from the attraction and feelings she'd developed, the pain of knowing he was already involved with someone else, and the embarassment and foolishness she'd felt for not realizing it before--for letting herself think for even a moment that the feelings she'd developed for him would matter, could matter. And it bothered her that her body in mind were reacting so immediately and so significantly, and she could barely do anything to keep any of it from surfacing.

RODRIGO

He watched her every move at the very beginning of their interaction but he quickly became mindful of how that may have made him look. Desperate and probably creepy in Jade's eyes. Even if she had the decency to not break his heart like Julia once did, he would have appreciated it if his friend came clean. The fact that she knew his secret, how he wanted to be with her, and felt nothing more than sorry for him cut deeper than he ever imagined. Still, he wanted nothing more than to be friends, to get over this little hump, and to clear the air. There was only one way for them to do that. They'd both have to come clean. Rodrigo focused on his script a bit longer, staring at the loud corrections, the red marks, the purple highlighted passages, and the little notes for himself and for Jade. It reminded him of times he'd write them in between rehearsals to show her and make her smile. He'd do almost anything to see that again. Now she just seemed miserable, robotic, unbothered. It wasn't her and he was partially to blame for it. he tapped his pencil against the paper a few times, letting a few minutes of silence fall between them. The kids would be arriving soon and this is not how he wanted things to be. "Look." He sighed and placed the script down. "I know I came on perhaps too strong and I can acknowledge how that probably was a huge turn-off for you along with I mean, anything else. I understand. I promise I can take that. I'd much rather we talk about it so we can push and work past it and finish the week off without any hiccups. Sorry if I made things weird between us, Jade but aside from me flirting and wanting to be close to you, I'd like to know if I did anything else wrong. I'd appreciate some honesty."

JADE

Jade was reading the notes she'd already had memorized when she heard Rodrigo address her and sigh. But hearing him say things like, "came on too strong" and then apologizing to her for flirting and wanting to be close to her made her freeze. Inside, her mind was going into panic mode, working even harder to keep his requested honesty shoved down. What good would it do when he had clearly been involved with someone now? Still trying to protect herself, Jade barely looked his direction when she replied, "I don’t know what you want me to say." She turned her body a little from him, similar to how he'd been teaching the kids to 'cheat out' on stage. Her eyes were back on the notebook page. "You didn't do anything wrong," she told him, her voice low but monotonous.

RODRIGO

It really felt like she wanted nothing to do with him and that just added to the hurt that had accumulated over the last couple of days. "do you not want to be friends, I don't understand..." His voice drifted but he shortened the distance between them, taking a few steps toward Jade. "You say that but your body language says differently. I think you've just been very nice to me because you're a nice person. You didn't want to hurt me which I can appreciate but this, I promise you, hurts more. Tell me I was a jerk. Tell me I was overbearing. I'd rather that, Jade than whatever this is. You tell me I didn't do anything wrong but all flags point to you hating me or something." He took a deep breath. "If that's the case. I get it." I think. He didn't get it. He didn't get a lot of things. Did he really play this sick game in his head with himself? Did he really allow himself to believe he'd have a chance with someone as good and pure and kind as Jade? "I know you're not interested in me and that's okay. I just want to know what did for you to no longer want to be friends. I won't make it weird. You're like one of the few people I have in my life I can talk to but I don't want to pressure you to be something or someone you're not and...God, this is very confusing." He's so used to the fight, so used to the argument, the disdain, the pressure, the loathing.

JADE

Jade's face was turning red and the rest of her body was feeling hot once Rodrigo moved closer to her. She closed her fingers around the edges of the notebook to keep from showing the nervous tremble of her fingers. Was she really that transparent? She used to be better at shutting herself off from others, used to be better at going unnoticed and hard to read. Yet Rodrigo was completely right. Each observation of her that he voiced was like taking a shovel to everything she was desperately trying to bury to protect her feelings. "I know you're not interested in me". It wasn't until he said that, that Jade's gaze snapped up at him, eyes wide with fear despite the wobbly defensive tone that left her voice. "How can you know if I'm interested in you or not? And what would it matter?" She stopped herself abruptly, knowing she was letting those feelings surface and she absolutely needed to keep on doing the opposite. Shaking her head a little, she stared determinedly at the notebook again. "It doesn't matter," she answered for the both of them.

RODRIGO

Before he could stop himself, Rodrigo was sitting beside her, facing the opposite direction on the piano bench. It'd be the closest he'd let himself be to her. If she allowed it. When she spoke, he looked up at her, brows furrowing from utter confusion. "Your mother." He said it so matter of factly, not wanting to keep anything from Jade. He was never the type. "She told me everything. You don't have to pretend. It's okay." But the other part of that question made him question just about everything. "What would what matter?" He leaned back slightly to try to gauge her expression without getting too close, without getting too personal, without getting in her space. These were all things he respected. He respected Jade, he cared for her, understood her complexities, took into consideration her nuances and her discomfort, and how far she was willing to go with anything let it be a favor or a task or a conversation. He wouldn't push but also, but he had no idea what was going on and that didn't seem fair or balanced for either of them. "I'm going to be completely honest with you, I'm getting mixed signals here and maybe it's my poor judgment which admittedly gets clouded when I'm around you but I believe it's been established how I feel here." "Everything about you matters. To me. That's all I can add to that I think."

JADE

Jade's fingers were bending and creasing the cardboard front and backing to her notebook as she stood by the piano. Her heart was pounding inside her chest, more so when Rodrigo sat near her on the bench. But it felt like her heart had momentarily stopped when he brought up her mother. Her gaze stilled on him for the rapid passing seconds it took for her to realize when and how he must have met her mother. Her earrings were on the table near the front door of her apartment. And while Jade had a conflicting relationship with pristine and perfect organization, she knew she never left her earrings by the front door. Rodrigo must have brought them by but she hadn't really thought much of it, and her mother never mentioned who dropped them off--not even a description of Rodrigo. Embarrassment flooded her like a bucket of cold water being dumped on her head. She had no idea what her mother had said but knew it couldn't have been anything good, or honest. Jeanette knew nothing about who Jade was interested in. But Jade knew what her mother was like--what she could be like. "My mom doesn't know anything about you," she told him before looking away. And she barely knows me she thought to herself. "She doesn't want me involved with anyone she hasn't hand-picked herself." The less she said about her mother though, the better, but she wanted Rodrigo to know that much. God, this was a mess. And while she was piecing together that Rodrigo was expressing feelings for her, she had no idea why. She knew he was involved with someone. She saw as much that very day, that very hour. Her head shook as she pushed the notebook back into her tote, not meeting his eyes. In 'fight or flight' the flight urge was overtaking her brain, fast. Reaching for the songbook, she shoved it into her tote, only to be caught off guard by Rodrigo once again. His words pierced her heart and prompted a flutter but she couldn't understand why. He kept bringing up friendship before. Maybe that was it. She mattered to him. Everything about her mattered to him. As a friend. That much made sense to her but she couldn't fully swallow that truth and also continue with the rehearsal unfazed. She couldn't push through right now, knowing that her feelings for him were more than friendship. "I have to go," she told him, her voice still shaky. She gripped the handles on her tote, not meeting his gaze as she added, "The kids can use the instrumental recordings today like they do when I'm not available." Jade turned for the door, clinging desperately to what of her resolve was still within her reach.

RODRIGO

And there he was, observing her every move, watching her body language, trying to decipher what exactly was happening here. He wanted to reach for her hand, get her to settle down. Something was bothering Jade and the more he thought he had it figured out, the more he ended up confused. When she said her mother didn't know anything about him, Rodrigo looked at her perplexed once more. "What do you mean? She told me she did. She said you weren't interested, that she knew you well, and that you were nice out of pity. You were a great actress. That's what she said to me." How could she not have known about them unless Rodrigo's smile from ear to ear, his eagerness to see her, and his kindness towards her mother were all indications of what was obvious at that moment? "How did she know? She knew how I felt. I believe you but she knew..." "Wait. Where are you going?" He managed to get up, placing his hand on the door, and hovering over Jade as she got to the exit. "You can sit out of rehearsals. That's more than fine. You can go home if you don't feel well, and you can ignore me another week or so, okay but please you need to hear me out! I like you. I have liked you for a while not and every time I felt like I had a chance, something happened, I felt shut down, felt like maybe you didn't feel the same. The first time it happened, I ignored it because like I told you when we met, I'm incorrigible. I go after what I want. Nothing stops me from doing that but with you, I've taken my time and I've gotten to know you because everything about you screams TLC and I'm okay with that because I want to be those things. I want to be tender and loving and caring and the other night when I almost kissed you? I swear I thought this was it until your mom shut it down. And who better to know you than your mother but you're sitting here telling me she doesn't know about me and I believe it so that's great, we've crossed that hurdle."

He took a deep breath, "Why are you fleeing now, Jade?" And before he can add anything else, he felt the door open against his hand. "Mr. Escobar! Is the door locked?!" His kids were coming in and they were ready to burst through the door as they usually do. "Just a minute, guys!" His gaze burned into Jade's. "Ms. Clark and I are having a talk."

JADE

"That's how she is," was all Jade could bring herself to say in the moment. A conversation about her mom would have to happen another time, if it was going to happen at all. "But it's not true." Of course she knew it shouldn't surprise her that her mom would say that about her, but the truth was that any sort of acting on Jade's part always came from the lifetime of conditioning from her mother. She was her mother's show pony who had succeeded in everything except the one thing her mom wanted her to achieve the most. And when Jade failed at that in her eyes, her mother's played a less hands-on role, but her pricks and critiques of Jade's life and decisions were as subtle as a breeze or as harsh as sea storm, depending on the older woman's mood and personal desires. "Home," she told him, her voice small as she sped to the door. She couldn't stay, couldn't make herself stay. Her mind was reeling from her mom's unexpected yet unsurprising interference. On top of that, she wa edging closer to admitting outright to Rodrigo how she felt about him, even though she knew there wasn't any point. Even though he was startlingly accurate on what he had come to know of her so far. Even though he just admitted that he had in fact almost kissed her. Her eyes stung as she looked down at the handle. Her voice was barely above a whisper, which was as loud as she could control it as she told him, "Because I can't handle this. It doesn't matter how I feel about you. Or how you say you feel about me. You're with someone. Someone I'm sure who's a lot more deserving of you and how great you are. That's not me and I-" Jade choked but forced herself to swallow thickly. "I can't--" Jade jumped, practically out of her skin when the kids try to barge into the room. Running the back of her hand across her lowered gaze she said, "Just let them in, and let me go," she quietly said, reaching for the handle. The last thing she wanted on top of everything else was to fall apart now.

RODRIGO

There were things that Jade said that kept his dimming hope from burning out completely. Maybe he was foolish to do that but Jade never seemed like the type to lie. Great actress, his ass. He should have known nothing from his interaction with her mom made much sense. Jade was always genuine. He couldn't believe there was a bad bone in her. It was why he was so drawn to her. He had never in his life met anyone like her. "You can't handle what?" His eyes searched for answers before she produced them, desperately hanging out to any shift in her expression, anything that gave him the green light to press on. He didn't want her to cry, didn't want her upset but he wanted to know. It wasn't until Jade told Rodrigo that he was with someone that he was completely thrown. He had lost control of the conversation for a moment as he was now surprised at this revelation. "I'm with someone? That's news to me.." He whispered, picking up her chin but the kids were calling both their names out and if he didn't open the door for them, they'd surely get Mrs. Dupont to come and check on them and that was the last thing they all needed. Especially after the education board meeting. "Fuck. I have to let them in. Jade, please don't leave. Okay?" He trusted she wouldn't but he knew how fast she was. At this moment, the kids had to come first. He reached for the handle, never letting his gaze falter, and cleared his throat, allowing Jade to move as well. "Hey! Impatient today, I see! Get to your places and into your costumes!" Rodrigo was high-fiving all of them and Jade was getting lost in the sea of children.

JADE

Now Jade's confusion was growing. She knew what she had seen just moments ago. There was nothing that was strictly friendly about the way that woman had her hands on Rodrigo, or their close proximity to each other. When he lifted her chin, she closed her eyes. She heard his quiet plea but the flight urge was overwhelming her, especially when the students were let in. She stepped aside and kept her gaze to the floor as the kids--most of whom were at or around her height--filtered into the room, chatting excitedly amongst themselves. Jade easily slipped between them and, having already been by the door, passed into the hallway. And ran. Her tote was pinned under her arm but it had taken slowed her in the least. Rodrigo told her he wasn't with anyone. Was that true? It had to have been. He hadn’t been dishonest with her before. In fact he was the very opposite, which was something she liked about him. His honesty coincided with his kindness towards her, which was deeply refreshing for her. Still, even I'd he was single, and was interested in her, what was it that made her deserving of his affections? That was something she couldn't fathom. Her mother's rearing, her father's decisions in how little he was involved in most of her life, and and the piss-poor excuse of the past couple of men she'd dated gave her no reason to believe that she was trult desirable or wanted. Jasper, the twins and the few friends she had were kind towards her, included her in their lives, and showed that they cared for and about her. But it wasn't the same and it wasn't the kind of relationship she was finding herself drawn towards when it came to Rodrigo. And she felt foolish for wanting it when she didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve him.

RODRIGO

He was losing this fight, he could tell but for the first time ever in their relationship, he was willing to keep pushing. It made no sense to do otherwise. Something was bothering Jade and he was on the brink of discovering what it was. If they talked it out, they'd manage. He just knew it to be true. When he turned to make sure she was still among the students, Rodrigo frowned when he didn't see Jade. "She keeps doing that." he whispered. "Doing what?" Leo looked up at Rodrigo, a confused but almost amused expression on his face. Rodrigo pointed at him and decided not to think too much. Jade was fast after all. "We're talking about that look you're giving me later but you're in charge for now. I'll be right back. Make sure everyone goes over the first number." And with that, Rodrigo ran out too, jogging down the hallway, down the stairs, and out of the building, his lungs unable to keep up with the stamina his adrenaline rush was producing. "Shit. Jade! Fuck, I'm quitting smoking today." He murmured as he looked around the campus front lawn for her. "Jade!" If he missed her, he'd run after her after the rehearsals but he really didn't want her to go. Something was telling him not to give up. And that's when he saw her, standing in the parking lot, gathering her things and he took the opportunity to run up to her. "You...okay...give me a sec." He took a few breaths and then exhaled. "You're really hard to catch up with." Rodrigo held up a finger, begging for a minute with his eyes. "Okay, okay. I have Leo in charge of kids twice his size so for his sake, I need you to listen. I'm not seeing anyone. I don't know where you got that idea. The thought isn't even an option because I can't imagine being with anyone that's not you and that's been a CONSTANT thought for days for me." He breathed again. "And if you think that I can just let you leave without me clearing that up, you're so wrong." Rodrigo breathlessly looked Jade in the eyes. 'Because you're all I think about, it drives me crazy."

JADE

At first Jade wasn't sure where she was running to, but logic started to kick in and she'd started towards the staff and visitor parking lot. She'd been delayed by the search for her keys when she heard Rodrigo gaining on her. Some irrational side told her to bolt but log won out and she stayed put, catching her own breath while her fingers finally brushed the metal of her keychain. Her chest heaving was nothing compared to how harsh Rodrigo had been breathing once he'd caught up to her. She started to ask if he was okay but pursed her lips obediently when he held up a finger. Her shoulders fell and she frowned. But she listened to him while her breathing continued to level out. "I saw you with another woman, when I got here today. She looked like-... she's not your girlfriend?" Jade asked, taken aback. It was a bit if an irrelevant explanation at this point though because everything Rodrigo said after that made her hear feel like it was being clutched. Her eyes became glossy and her chest felt tight like she might faint or burst out in sobs. But she smiled. Tears did well up and trickle down her face but smiled sadly at Rodrigo. "Rodrigo, I don't..." Jade lowered her gaze. "No one's ever said anything like that to me before." She drew in a shaky breath and then admitted, "I like you. I always look forward to the time we spend together, and when we're not here, I'm thinking about you. A lot." Cheeks burning, she glanced up at him, wiping her eyes again. "I don't know why you like me. Or want to be with me though. I don't..." Her windpipe suddenly felt very narrow and she turned away, leaning on the side of her car while trying to force herself to breath deeply. "I'm no one special and I haven't done anything to deserve you."

RODRIGO

Catching up to Jade was embarrassingly enough no easy feat. Hopefully, they'd laugh about this moment later. For now, Rodrigo was wondering how much a gym membership would cost and if he could really quit cigarettes because this was not it. When Jade finally spoke, he listened intently, lips frowning as he realized what had gotten her so upset. "Julia? The blonde? Oh, Jade, that's my ex. You know, the one I told you about? She wants nothing to do with me, trust me. She just thought she'd get her kicks because nothing is going her way now or something." He laughed, finally catching his breath. "She is not my girlfriend nor will she ever be my girlfriend. Never again, I promise." When she continued to talk, he listened, his eyes zeroing in on Jade's tears. "Hey..." He walked up to her, this time slowly so that she'd have enough reaction time to smack him or turn him away. Rodrigo cupped her face, wiping her tears with his thumbs. "Is this okay?" He whispered and then listened some more. "You don't know why I like you? I can give you a whole list. Two if you give me time." Rodrigo's gaze met hers, keeping her face in his hands but she turned away to lean on her car. He missed it immediately and so he gently pulled her away from the vehicle and practically into his arms, wrapping them around her frame. "You're the most special person I've ever met and it's me that doesn't deserve you. I'll make sure you're reminded of that. How can I not like someone so kind and loyal and funny and smart and talented and giving and beautiful? Tell me how?" He withdrew his embrace to cup her face once more, leaning in as much as possible and lowering his head so that he could kiss her forehead. "Please...can I kiss you?"

JADE

Jade's lips parted but no sound came out when Rodrigo explained that the woman she'd seen him with was his ex. Her mind recalled some of what Rodrigo had previously told her about the woman, Julia. And then she brought her watery eyes back up to his as he neared her even more. His cooler hands further highlight just how much she'd been blushing but she welcomed his touch, closing her eyes as he wiped away the thin streams of tears. She nodded at his first question and then shook her head at his second. Because she honestly did not know. She wasn't special--her Mom had more than humbled her on that. And in a way, so had her dad. And she hadn’t thrown herself at Rodrigo or done anything extraordinary to make herself seem worth his interest. At least that's what she believed. The discomfort from the foreignness of being shown tenderness, kindness and intimacy from someone who wasn't a sibling, wasn't a friend and wasn't a part of her staff, was a feeling she fought hard to push through. She wanted to embrace it, much like how Rodrigo currently had her tiny body enveloped in his arms. Jade slowly straightened her arm, letting her tote bag slide from the bend of her elbow and hit the ground with a solid 'thud'. And then she returned Rodrigo's hold, hugging her arms around the middle if his back his back. She shook her head at him, knowing that the two of them could argue which of them was the least deserving of the other. And then she lightly smiled at him, eyes still a bit watery, "I can't tell you... I just... I have a lot of baggage, Rodrigo. You should know that now." Her eyes closed again, the moment his lips made contact with her forehead. Without even being aware of it, his closeness, embrace and the kiss to her forehead had calmed her significantly. And when he asked to kiss her, she very nearly could have cried again from the amount of love he was making her feel, just by sharing his feelings for her with her. He was special to her, so special.

When asked if he could kiss her, Jade opened her eyes again and met his gaze. "Yes," she told him, lifting her chin and raising on her toes. It wasn't much to help with their 9-inch height difference but she tried.

RODRIGO

Feeling Jade's arms around his middle made him return her smile. Rodrigo would do anything to stop her crying. He had decided he hated seeing her so sad and never wanted to be the reason she looked like that. "Who doesn't have baggage? You don't have to tell me. You don't have to tell me now. I want to learn about it, want to know everything about you. The good and the bad and we'll figure things out together. If you let me. I also have baggage. Here, my father? He's in prison because he's a deadbeat. Well, that's not the only reason but you get my drift. I'm nowhere near perfect and neither are you and that's all more than okay. I just want you. When Jade gave him the green light, he didn't hesitate, lowering his head to capture her lips, closing his eyes as his thumbs caressed her cheeks. It had been all he had wanted to do for weeks now and everything he had built himself up for just a week ago. The kiss was worth the wait, worth the insecurities, worth all the terrifying moments they had both endured to finally get here. He'd forgotten where they were momentarily and Rodrigo took his time exploring the lips he had been thinking about for far too long.

JADE

"I know, but I have a lot of baggage. You should know that now," Jade feebly argued. She wasn't expecting Rodrigo to share something about himself in that moment and she'd been understandably surprised that what he'd had to tell her was that his father was in prison. Up until then, she couldn't recall a time where Rodrigo had ever mentioned his father. But he'd moved on from talking about it and told her that he wanted her. She wouldn't be able to focus on much else if he kept talking to her in that moment. Her thoughts were swimming, up until he brought his lips to hers and she kissed him back. At that point, Jade felt like some of her fears were melting away--enough of them for her to shut her eyes and enjoy the feel of Rodrigo's lips on hers. Her fingers gripped the back of his shirt a little firmer, and she'd leaned a little into him while on her toes, relishing every millisecond of the moment passing between them. She'd parted her lips a little to grant him entry while angling her head a little to deepen this kiss.

RODRIGO

"That's okay", Rodrigo whispered, his knuckles gently caressing Jade's cheek. He just didn't care about the baggage. Nothing would turn Rodrigo away unless Jade was another Julia and she was definitely not that. His mind had been made up over who he wanted to be with and it seemed like she felt the same way. The English teacher smiled against her lips right before hers were parted. Grateful for the new angle, Rodrigo's tongue found its way to gently massage against Jade's, a soft moan escaping his mouth. He didn't want to stop and if not for a handful of tweens sitting in a classroom waiting on them, he probably wouldn't but alas, they had work to do. He pulled away only slightly, enough for him to drag his thumb against her bottom lip, eager gaze fixated on her mouth. "We could um...continue that later. After class. I promise I'll continue that later..." He chuckled softly bending his head to kiss her once more. "It'll be a distracting hour but I think I can manage..." Who was he kidding? Rodrigo was good as gone. He kept his face close to hers and he left a soft peck against the side of her neck before his lips spoke slightly below her ear. "How does this work? Let me take you on a proper date." He smiled, pulling away once more to capture her features. "And another, and many after that. Am I like...your boyfriend now?" His grin grew from his teasing. He dropped his hands so that one could take one of Jade's, interlacing their fingers together but his eyes never left from admiring her face.

JADE

His comforting touch to her face made a melting feeling run down her from the inside, slow and soothing. And when he kissed her, she found herself quickly deciding that she liked the way he kissed her. And she wouldn't admit it aloud but his gentle moan and his expertise in exploring her mouth made a throbbing start between her legs. It ended up being a small blessing that he'd ended the kiss when he had. He was right though that there were rehearsals to get to and a classroom full of kids waiting on his return. Her fingers curled further into his shirt when he spoke against her neck, light stubble tickling her pale brown skin. "Okay," she said and when he added more dates after she agreed to the first, she smiled at him and chuckled a little. "I guess you are. I'd like you to be. But let's sort out that first date, first. And this rehearsal." Removing her arms from around him, Jade spread her fingers a bit and bent them to his, and then bent to pick up her tote. "The kids re probably wondering what's going on..." she trailed off looking back towards the school, her eyes zeroing in on the windows to the music room, only to see some heads quickly bob out of sigh from the open blinds. Face quickly turning red, she looked back up to Rodrigo. "....Or not."

RODRIGO

Rodrigo chuckled at her words, agreeing to sort out what they'd be after a first date and if they could get through the rehearsal. He moved to take her tote from her with his free hand, flashing her a smile when he did so. Her hand felt nice in hers, perfect even and he silently wondered if she thought so too. "Yeah, they probably think you run track too.." His words trailed off when he followed her gaze with his own. "Oh, great." How would he explain it? Well, he didn't have to. He was the teacher after all. He could act as if everything was fine and not make a mention of anything at all. "Was that Michael Sin holding up Leo?" He shook his head and looked over to Jade, chuckling softly before pressing a kiss against her cheek. "We've got this." He gave her hand a squeeze to reassure her and shouldered the tote on his other arm. He'll let go of her at the very last moment they get, right before they walk into the school. "You look very pretty today, Ms. Clark. I've been wanting to tell you since you walked in but what else is new?" He was glad there were very few staff members left in the building. "How about a burger after?"

JADE

"I did, in high school," Jade admitted. Now she just ran for the exercise and because it sometimes helped with her anxiety. But she was sure the kids would only bring up her running as an afterthought, had they even noticed that she'd literally run off. Her gaze was still at the window though when Rodrigo asked about Leo being held up by Michael. "I think you're right. We'd better get back before he drops him and we're out of a king." The additional kiss from Rodrigo made her smile a bit. Jade was sure that later on, she'd end up thinking more about everything that had transpired between them, but for now, she was allowing herself to live in the present and bask in the good feelings that came with it. Keeping her hand in his felt right--more so than she expected it would. She walked beside him back into the school, and then reached for her tote from him. "Thank you. And please call me Jade," she insisted. While they walked back to the music room, she considered his offer and realized she didn't have much of an appetite right now, likely because her stomach felt full of butterflies. She also hadn't really worked herself up to eating more than half a granola bar or a few bites of fruit in front of Rodrigo but she was doing her best not to overthink. Instead, she told him, "Sure, we could go get something after rehearsals. I wouldn't mind finding a place that has vanilla milkshakes."

RODRIGO

"We need a king and we definitely need a Leo." He laughed and then nodded at her asking him to call her Jade. "I was only teasing." It would be nice to have a proper meal with Jade. He hadn't forgotten her dizzy spell in Mexico or the fact that she once admitted she barely gets the chance to eat when she's constantly running around. He'd take care of her. "Oh, no you're talking. I'm a strawberry milkshake man myself but we can get both. Be all cute, get two straws." His smile grew even more at the very cheesy but very adorable image. He was never the type or at least he didn't think so. That's all changed since meeting Jade. Their entire situation had made him giddy, all smiles, and probably completely impossible to deal with. Fletcher was going to make sure he knew about himself. Leaning against the door, he wanted to look at Jade one last time before going in. It's not that she'd disappear or something, (at least he hoped not), it's just that Rodrigo didn't want to forget anything about this day. "Ready?"

JADE

Jade smiled, "Yes, we do," agreeing to both. Leo was one of the few kids she was especially fond of, not just because of the young boy's charisma, talent and maturity but because he was considered one of the twins' best friends. Talking about a dinner date and hearing Rodrigo share that he liked strawberry milkshakes the best was something that she would keep in mind in the future. Everything about the relationship they'd entered was new now. She'd found herself walking a little ahead of Rodrigo but paused and looked back to him just as he asked her if she was ready. "Yes. Just a few more rehearsals to go, and then, it's you and the kids from there." It was a bit of a bittersweet thought; the rehearsal times would be over soon for her, but it also meant she would get to sit in the audience and watch the production in full, along with Jasper and all the parents and other families.

RODRIGO

"I can't believe it. I'm going to miss having you around. We'll have to make up for that somehow." He smiled and looked down just thinking about it. "The kids will miss you too. But anyway, we should go in there before they really lose their mind." Rodrigo opened the door, hearing the sounds of chairs being peeled away from the door and he couldn't help but laugh at the innocence. "Okay okay, how did we survive?" He leaned against the opened door, smiling as Jade walked in and ignoring the giggles from the kids. "Suprise, Ms. Jade!" Leila appeared with a cake in hand and some flowers. "We all asked Mr. Escobar if we can get you something as a thank you." Leo popped up and nodded. "Yeah! He helped us get everything together." They all looked at their teacher and he shook his head, holding up one hand in surrender. It was their moment. "The kids really wanted to say thank you for all your hard work. It's our last week together. So, you know...can't say no to those faces." And right on cue, they all pouted, puppy dog eyes in full view and Rodrigo joined before clapping his hands. "Jewel, Jett, get the plates and utensils, Michael, get the napkins. Cake and then one full rehearsal before your parents get here." He looked up at Jade and winked quickly before moving to help set up the tables.

JADE

Jade gave Rodrigo a knowing smile while thinking better of voicing any sort of retort that she could think of. She didn't know what the etiquette was like at the school but figured to err on the side of caution in case someone in passing overheard and took issue with hers and Rodrigo's brand new relationship. "Good idea, we don't want to prolong their rehearsal any longer." She passed by Rodrigo through the threshold and took in the kids' rushed attempts at looking like they had been doing absolutely nothing other than sitting and angelically waiting for their teacher/director's return. Jade smiled to them and shook her head, "Nice try. We saw you guys." But her smile fell as her face morphed into one of pure surprise at the flowers and cake. And it as even more clear that Rodrigo knew her well since he had responses ready before she could protest the generosity. She looked to him and while the kids grabbed items to get the cake dished out, Jade was significantly more relieved that the cake would be largely portioned out to the kids. And during the kids giving bursts of excitement over the cake, Jade placed the flowers with her tote near the piano, and then offered to cut the cake slices for each of the kids who wanted some. She'd cut even slices for the kids and a slightly bigger piece for Rodrigo. Her own slice was smaller and she'd set it aside at the piano with her other belongings, deciding to take out her water bottle from her tote for a few gulps. "Thank you all for your kindness. The flowers are beautiful. Be sure to get something to drink so your mouths and throats are cleared to sing," she advised to the kids who could hear her.

RODRIGO

"Yes, Ms. Jade." The student's voices echoed throughout the room and Rodrigo chuckled before taking a forkful of his piece of cake and then leaving it to the side. It would be hard not to steal glances today but he'd make it work. All he knew was that he had a date tonight with the girl he couldn't stop thinking about for days now. Life couldn't get better than that. "Alright, two more minutes and we need to get you in your places. Leo, my man, come here let me fix that wig of yours. Its givinggggg nightmare on Elm Street not royalty." The kids laughed including Leo and he marched over to his teacher to get the wig in place. "Don't worry, we'll have hair and makeup on our last dress rehearsal so you'll get an idea of what to expect with your wigs and mics. One minute, guys." He warned the kids who stuffed their mouths and took sips of their drinks before marching up to the faux stage. "We'll have the theater the rest of the week to rehearse. Start from the top. Ms. Jade?" He looked over to his almost girlfriend and smiled. "Care to do the honors?"

JADE

Jade felt light in her happiness, being in the music room again and helping out Rodrigo and the kids as she'd been for weeks now. She chuckled at Rodrigo and Leo, and then offered to help Jewel pull her curls back into a low ponytail for the beginning of the production, much like Lin-Manuel Miranda had done in the original performances. She knew the style would excite Jewel even more. And after giving a quick adjusting tug to he tan jacket Jewel started out wearing, she whispered, "Break a leg," to her half-sister and then turned to the piano. After throwing a small, quick smile to Rodrigo and then looking to the kids to make sure that they were ready, Jade placed her fingers on the piano keys and got the kids going on their dress rehearsal. It had been a true pleasure to see how much all of the kids had progressed over the weeks, but periodically throughout the rehearsal, Jade's mind would wander back to the plans she and Rodrigo made afterwards today. And she couldn't wait for their first date.

#Clearing the Air para #Rodrigo

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diaryofasadpisces · 11 months ago

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I met a guy name named Josh back in February in a kik group chat , he was a really sweet guy at first and said he liked fat boys . Red flag number one he lied about his name . He said his name was John at first and it took him weeks to tell me his name was really Josh . I forgave him and accepted it . The reason he said he lied was because he got exposed for messing around with guys before in the past. I reassured him multiple times I wouldn’t do anything liked that. He never really trusted me and that hurt me really bad .I always try to be honest and trustworthy but he was too damaged to accept that. That’s one thing we really had in common was being hurt by people in the past . I thought we really would be together forever because we would talk for hours . When we would talk it would be about him mostly about his past traumas and relationships . I’d always listen and give my opinions on the situations. Another red flag should’ve been his lack of social media. He said he didn’t have a Facebook , Instagram , or Snapchat . I accepted that but he lied again he does have a Instagram he gave it to me but it had zero posts . The only reason he gave it to me is because one day we were talking and he slipped up and mention he’s friend showed him something on insta. I think the whole relationship was started off by lust cause we met in a freaky gc on kik . I posted an ass pic and he started DMING me . He started telling me I was sexy and all of this stuff . We traded nudes back and forth that , that same day I had to go to a funeral as well so for a few hrs we didn’t text each other . He was hella clingy thought as first it was annoying but now I miss it . Anyways he wanted to jerk off together I was kinda nervous about it because I only did video chat one time before with another guy named David . But it was something about Josh that made me just do it . So we jacked off on Skype . I had to make an Skype account because he didn’t have any other way to do it . He does have an iPhone but it was off at the time . We talked for 3 weeks I that time I learned he lived in a half way home and he had be in foster care through out his life . He never met his dad and mom was on drugs and had a lot of mental issues . Besides the falling out of the name thing & lying about social media I was really upset he sent me videos of him fucking his old gf . Her name was Toni I believe Toni Marie the videos appeared to have been made in 2023 . I was disgusted he ate her pussy out and cummed on her face . I was extremely jealous I guess cause it wasn’t me. He went out to tell me he also showed the videos to his mom . I was weirded out by that but even more shocking Is her response from what he sad the mom was like he couldn’t handle the girl and seemed to be interested in his son girlfriend sexually.

#Josh

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iammrsemily · 1 year ago

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This song is a special one for me. My pregnancy was for sure a surprise, but a welcomed surprise. It was beautiful but also a tough pregnancy.

STORY TIME:

When I found out I was pregnant it took me some time to process because I was on a birth control and was for sure not planning to have any more children, my mind was set that one was more than enough that I could handle, but God had other plans.

My daughter fought to be brought to this world from the very start. I went through a lot of health scares while pregnant, there was HG, High Blood Pressure , Gestational Diabetes, Chronic Placenta Abruption (which is what lead me to be on complete bed rest and to having her come to this world a little bit earlier than expected) and this is without mentioning the emotional stuff happening all around me. I saw darkness throughout most of my pregnancy honestly - her kicks were my reminders that she was there, and although at moments were painful, they also would bring a smile to my face - knowing that there was a fierce little mini me growing in there.

I remember when I first heard this song, I had just received some disappointing information about someone really close to me; and to add to that was going through just so much in other areas that I just laid on the floor and looked up and screamed, what else? What else is next? What else do I need to go through? Why not just give me a break? Why can’t I just have a period of continuous happiness?

Then I rolled over, grabbed my phone and scrolled through Facebook, and came across this song. As if God answered those questions I asked him 3 minutes prior to finding that song.

“Giving in to your feelings is like drowning in the shallows - Oh you got to keep believing even in the middle of the unknown cause Grace will be there when you come at the end of your rope and you let go, it may feel like you’re going down now but the story isn’t over. There will be joy in the morning, there will be joy in the morning, if it’s not good then He’s not done, no He’s done with it yet, there will be joy in the morning.”

Aubrey definitely made an entrance. My princess was due to arrive on 8/23. However, she arrived on 07/29. She was so tiny but long. She was so hairy too! I was so happy! I couldn’t wait for them to finish up with me so I could be reunited with her at my room. Unfortunately, she was transferred to the NICU 1 hour later after I had her. She couldn’t breathe on her own. It was heartbreaking for me. It wasn’t part of MY plan. I didn’t expect it. I didn’t expect me being away from my daughter. I didn’t expect that when I would see her again after the 5 seconds they put her on me when she was born I would see her covered in wires and a breathing tube, in a cube. It was so hard, I felt numb. Confused. I thought it would maybe be for a night - but then things were getting more complicated. At moments when I thought she was getting better, she would have a set back. It was an emotional roller coaster ride - but she was a fighter. After I was officially discharged I was a wreck to have to come home without my daughter. I felt so incomplete. I felt so confused. So conflicted, because yes she was in the condition she was in - but there were babies in worst conditions in there, I’m talking 20 week old babies in there fighting for their lives as well. NICU is definitely a life changing experience and changes your views and thoughts on so many things. My heart goes out to every parent who have gone through that, and are currently going through that.

The night that I went home without her, I just stayed in bed. Didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone. My son was confused, because I even pushed him away. I feel guilty for that till this day. The emptiness that I felt is one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. That night I prayed for a miracle, then I played my playlist and that song came on again…

“Cause it ain’t even faith til your plan falls apart but you still choose to follow, if it doesn’t make sense right now it will when it’s over. There will be joy in the morning, there will be joy in the morning, if it’s not good, then He’s not done, no He’s not done with it yet, there will be joy in the morning.”

I prayed, cried, and screamed in my pillow. Then I fell asleep. The next morning my husband and I went to the hospital, and got the news she was coming home. The doctors were in shocked as well and called it a miracle, my baby girl was breathing on her own. God made those lungs strong and allowed air to flow through them. I can’t explain the joy that my heart felt, my princess had a different color to her, she was just a different baby. I felt so grateful, primarily with God, also with those amazing hard working loving nurses and doctors.

My princess was heaven sent. Her strength is definitely to be admired. She is so smart and is building such a personality. I feel like she’s a boss baby. Here I am with her almost 6 months later. Every time I see her, I remember that she is God’s miracle and she was given to me. What an Honor to have been chosen to be her mother. God has been so good, she was the piece to me that I did not know was missing. Aubrey is a representation of His Love, His Grace and His Mercy. Thank you, God for showing me so much love through her.

If you’re going through a rough period in your life, run to Him. Lean on to Him, to His word, to His Promise.

There will be joy in the morning, there will be joy in the morning, if it’s not good then He’s not done, no He’s not done with it yet, there will be joy in the morning. 🤍

#Spotify #JoyInTheMorning #BabyStory #MiraclesOfGod #God #NICU #NICUbabies #GodOfLove #GodofMiracles #tumblr stories

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haikyuuhoo · 3 years ago

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2:17am

Megumi opens the door to his bedroom and immediately feels the fatigue hit him. He’s dead tired, and coming back from a mission when everyone else was sleeping was not something he enjoyed.

Well, everyone is sleeping except for you.

You’re sitting at his desk, hunched over an assignment that isn’t due until the next week — just to give you something to do — and you immediately look up when the door opens. A smile blooms over your face, but the sight makes Megumi frown.

“Why are you still up?”

You don’t even roll your eyes, standing from his chair and making your way over to him. You wrap your arms around him and his circle you in automatic response. “I’m leaving in the morning. I wanted to make sure I got to see you when you came back.”

Megumi groans and buries his face in your hair. Recently, the two of you had been like ships in the night, rarely seeing each other between missions before one of you was sent out again.

“You should be sleeping then,” he scolds, but it makes you relax in his arms. You missed this, the way he would scold you that you knew was his way of showing he cared.

“Seeing you is better,” you whisper, and you have to hide your yawn against his chest. You don’t have the heart to add I can barely sleep when I’m waiting for you to come home.

He sighs. “Let me go shower—I’ll be back in a couple minutes. You should get in bed.”

You reluctantly let go of him and nod, standing up on your toes to place a gentle kiss on his lips.

His grip tightens on you and he sighs against your mouth, pulling you closer in an attempt to deepen the kiss.

Now it’s your turn to scold him, though it doesn’t hold much weight with the way you’re smiling that tired grin up at him. “Go shower, ‘Gumi.”

And he grunts out a quiet fine before letting you go and moving to retrieve his things.

You watch him go before flicking off the desk lamp and rooting around in his dresser, picking out one of his shirts at random in the dark and changing into it. You then settle into his bed, taking a deep breath and letting yourself be consumed by the smell of him on his sheets. It’s like a cloud envelops you, holding you when he’s not there, making you feel warm and comforted and safe. It’s the only way you’ve gotten to sleep the past three nights without him.

By the time Megumi returns from his shower, he can tell you’re barely able to keep yourself awake with the way you sleepily open your eyes to blink up at him. You’ve got the blankets pulled up to your chin and a sleepy smile on your face, and the sight causes his cheeks to tingle with heat. He’s suddenly glad for the darkness as he climbs in beside you.

You’re nuzzling against him before he can even wrap an arm around you and pull you close, and though the action is gentle his fingers grip the back of your shirt — no, his, he realizes — like he’s afraid to let you go.

Because while he’s sure that everything is going to go fine — Gojo may have an interesting style of supervision, but surely he wouldn’t put you in any situation you couldn’t handle, right? — Megumi knows that nothing is certain.

He knows this life is hard, dangerous, unpredictable. He’s glad he’s able to go through it with you.

But if he’s being honest with himself, sometimes he’s scared.

And so he holds you closer, finally giving into the ache in his bones, wishing that the morning didn’t have to come.

we all knew this day would come — my first jjk post. ngl I didn’t think it was gonna be for megumi but I love him so here we are

hi jjk peeps i hope i do your favs justice <3

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privateanxieties · 2 years ago

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The Golden Age of New York City

Summary: “I lost Gwen. I couldn’t save her. I’m never going to be able to forgive myself for that. But I carried on, tried to um, tried to keep going. Tried to keep being the - that friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, ‘cause I know that’s what she would’ve wanted but... at some point, I just... I stopped pulling my punches. I got rageful. I got bitter.”

The story of a rageful Spider-Man, and the one who brings him back from the ledge.

Warnings/Spoilers: violence, crime, assault, addiction - generally adult themes. Please read only if you are at least 17.

Characters: tasm!Peter Parker, unnamed original character (she/her), May Parker, miscellaneous characters and perspectives.

Words: 18.1K. Honestly? My best work thus far.

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Peter doesn't listen to the chatter anymore.

Whereas most people have a beginning and an ending to their day, time is blurred together in the young man's mind. As he walks to work, the battered watch on his wrist announces the sunrise, but he wouldn't know it for the bruises around his eyes. In and around crowds he maneuvers, unwilling to look up as he lets his senses lead the way. When the coffee cup burns his palm, his grip tightens, and for a moment he sees color.

He goes through the motions, asleep to the world around him.

The construction site is quiet when he gets there, his supervisor the only person on the premises. He's often caught Peter working before his shift even began, and for this Mr. Daniels sometimes regards him with the fatherly concern of a good man. Though he tries, Peter can't find it in himself to appreciate that.

He does, however, appreciate the opportunity to begin his day in peace and skip the talk with the other guys. After months of keeping strictly to himself, the conversation around him has long shifted from good will to acrimony. Despite the looks they exchange and the whispers carried by the echo of empty walls, he doesn't react, and his supervisor never berates him. He remains the only employee whose work isn't under scrutiny at the end of each week, and even when he sees Peter lift more than he should reasonably be able to, Mr. Daniels looks the other way.

The day is long and the work is intense, but it's the only thing he can do anymore. He prefers it, in fact - pushing his body and keeping his mind running minimally. He does plenty of thinking between the hours of 3 and 6 a.m., when he waits for sleep to crash over him.

Clocking out takes longer than usual, because it's payday and everyone is already lined up before him. He'd go back to fiddle with some equipment, but he knows he'll get distracted and he doesn't want to keep Mr. Daniels there for longer than he has to be. The man is nearing his sixties, and from what he gathers, a new grandfather twice over. At least someone should get to go home to their family.

As he waits in line outside the small trailer office, his consciousness invades again, as it usually does in the absence of physical stimulation. The chatter he makes a habit of ignoring reaches his ears involuntarily. Two guys from crew B are talking too loudly at the front of the line.

"Yeah, she bugs me about that too. Shoves her phone in my face before I even make it through the door."

"What's so special about that one? Every two-bit reporter in this town wrote about the guy, everyone tryna make money off him."

"Well guess what, I looked this morning - not like I had a choice. She showed me again before she went to school. And you know what, it ain't half bad. Kinda makes you feel sorry for him."

"Yeah? What's it say?"

"I'm not doin' a book report for ya. You wanna read it, ask your daughter. Just make sure you tell 'er not to go looking for him like that crazy woman did, crawling over skyscrapers and shit."

The more he hears, the deeper the frown carves its way into his skin.

"You know girls these days, man. You tell 'em not to do something now, they'll do it when they're old enough just to spite you. I think imma let Salma handle this one."

"Salma? Wasn't she in love with Spider-Man? You think she's gonna tell your daughter not to go looking for him? She'd go herself if she could!"

"Fuck you, Jimmy!"

They laugh and shove each other like they're twenty years lighter, but Peter doesn't hear the rest. He doesn't want to, because it's nothing new.

It's true that every reporter in town has written a piece on Spider-Man, as if it were some rite of passage of journalism. He hasn't read an article in more than two years, and he certainly hasn't been tempted to lately.

When Mr. Daniels hands him his envelope with a kind smile, Peter's own feels unsynchronized and false. He stops by the drugstore on 19th St. where he knows he can pick up ketamine without so much as a raised brow, no matter how many trips a month he might make.

'Wrong', screams his conscience, because he isn't the only one procuring the substance. Other people don't have his resistance or his metabolism. They don't heal from this abuse. However, he doesn't know an alternative to getting through the nights yet; nothing else makes the pounding headache go away, and the buzz that hits a couple of hours in isn't unwelcome either.

He eats when he gets home and forgets that he did an hour later, so he gets pizza from the corner stand. The taste doesn't matter, because it's nourishment he'll need for later.

Head down, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing - this is how he moves about the city when the mask isn't on.

It's only 8 p.m., and midsummer isn't kind with its extension of daylight. It means hours more to kill before he can finally move, finally breathe. It's why he crushes a pill before he leaves the apartment, and it burns his nostrils when he inexpertly tries to inhale the powder. It's the first time he's done it this way, but he needed a quick fix that would last less before he ingests a proper dose later.

Peter Parker doesn't need anyone feeling sorry for him. Whoever this reporter is, the desperation makes his blood boil. He's used to people following him, trying to ask him questions, trying to take glamor shots of him in a fight.

This, by contrast, is insidious - the nerve to go looking for him in the only place that is his own anymore.

Up.

He looks up in a rare moment, but it's with unbridled anger.

She's been up there, probably on observation decks, thinking she'd… what? See him and get him to sit down for an interview? Wring an anecdote or two out of him? Pester him for metaphors?

The door cracks when he slams it closed.

He's been losing track of time even when he intends to keep it. He knows it's a side effect, but can't bring himself to care, much less worry. Words like addiction flutter about his mind, but they never stay for long, a sign that he's traversing into the deeper end of such struggles.

The alarm he sets for 11 p.m. never rings, because he turns it off half an hour before it even has the chance to do so. He's out the window with a grunt, shooting a web at the last second of the drop.

He lets momentum bring back some of the feelings that make up a person, with tugs and pulls and somersaults that knock him about and rattle his brain around his cranium like sorbet in a cup.

He isn't headed for Park Avenue tonight. Fisk has surrounded himself with state-of-the-art security systems in every single one of his weasel holes, and last time he almost returned home with a hole through his sternum. It makes him bristle, this impotence; this overwhelming knowledge that all his brute strength can't take on endless resources.

He's outworn and past his prime.

The world turns and will keep turning, whether he wins or not. Whatever he does, the world is indifferent and proceeds with abandon.

And Peter matches its disregard as he moves further into the night.

He wakes to news playing on a nearby billboard. It's one of the only ways for him to recall what he even does anymore on the nights that he goes out raging. He listens with one ear while the other lays flat against the roof he passed out on. He doesn't know where he is, but he can guess that it's too central of a location to still be in once the sun has risen.

"…at this time. The NYPD has provided sparse details of the scene, a fact that leaves many speculating whether the police are protecting the public from the knowledge that a once-cherished hero has turned into what we all fear. Is it safe for the city that Spider-Man is out there, imparting the kind of punishment we know him to be choosing? Has New York reached its limit for patience? We'll be addressing all these concerns and more in our special broadcast tonight at 8 p.m. EST."

He lies there, unmoving. If the thoughts in his head could escape and take form, they'd bruise his entire body with their weight.

The public's patience… his own patience is running thin. With himself, with the world - Peter has been over this entire thing for what feels like an unending amount of time. He doesn't remember when, if ever, this brought him joy or satisfaction. The suit is inextricable from him now; he can't imagine himself without it. Whatever awaits him, he'll face it as Spider-Man.

"Coming to you with breaking news: Editor-in-chief and Founder of the Daily Bugle newspaper, J.J. Jameson has just announced he's looking into opening a lawsuit against the former NY Times photographer whose independent work has made waves on social media this week. Jameson sustains that her allegations are quote: 'Nothing more than the musings of an infatuated young lady, perhaps dreaming of being rescued from one of the many life-threatening situations she's put herself in just to talk to a man who breaks the law every night and puts our great city in danger. Parents would do well to not entertain or tolerate admiration for the kind of mind who wrote those words.'

Stay tuned for more details on the developing situation."

A sardonic half-smile turns the corner of Peter's lip.

No one has gotten under Jameson's skin so thoroughly since he started putting on the mask, and for once, curiosity rises within him.

It's more of a fleeting interest in whatever remark she made that riled the old badger up.

A photographer.

Something Peter might've imagined himself to be in another life, had he taken a different path. He doesn't know when he last picked up a camera. He hasn't sold Jameson a photo this year, or the year before.

His worst impulses beckon a little bit of smugness, too. The anger from yesterday, which lingers still, feels soothed. Maybe a lawsuit would dissuade future adventurers from seeking him out in his only refuge. It's a good way to learn a lesson.

When he makes it back to his apartment, he's sweating bullets from the unforgiving summer heat, but his attempt to shower is interrupted by a ringing phone. He doesn't have to look, because it's aunt May.

The ringtone he picked for her years ago is still set, and when it once warmed him up to hear, it now serves as a warning.

He doesn't answer. He hasn't for months.

She keeps trying.

He takes a bath instead, keeping his head underwater until his lungs scorch and his heart pounds in his ears, drowning out the gentle tune from the phone.

The cease and desist letter sits innocently on the glass coffee table, a pair of eyes tracing its contours with amusement.

Jameson reveals himself as the kind of person who thinks he can scare anyone under thirty with an official-seeming document. Since most youths are focused on getting good jobs or pursuing big dreams, it stands to reason none of them have high-powered lawyers at their disposal. He forgets the internet exists, as one is wont to do when one lives in the spring of 1947 - the good old days, when people were fed lies and had few ways of fact-checking.

It didn't take long to figure out the letter is fake, and it comes as no surprise that any serious attorney would refuse signing such a thing. He sent her a cease and desist for a blog post, for crying out loud. The man is clearly not into freedom of speech when that speech hits a little too close to home.

She'll plan what to write about this debacle later, and maybe, over coffee, decide whether she wants to pursue this legally. There might be avenues into a courtroom where Jameson would have to explain to a judge what he thinks intimidation is.

Having seen his published statement in the Bugle this morning, maybe she can tack defamation charges onto the steaming pile of recalcitration that is J. Jonah Jameson.

"An infatuated young lady dreaming of being rescued… maybe I should start signing that at the top of every article," she mutters.

Grabbing the laptop from the armrest of the couch, she settles in for light research and an email answering session. She ignores the ones that are clearly job application rejections. Looks like her next gigs would still be dog weddings for wealthy Brooklynites and vanity projects for Upper East Side widows.

She tries resisting the urge to check the post again, but it's difficult when it's the most success she's had in the last couple of years.

Thirty-one thousand new readers.

1.4 million views since posting date, which was almost nine days ago. Thousands of comments of every shade under the sun.

Was this in any way monetizable? Yes, probably.

Does her skin crawl just at the thought of making money off of words she wrote earnestly and with no ulterior motive? Too much. Enough that the thought is banished soon after it arrives.

Though maybe, if she's honest, it's not so much the words as it is who they are about.

He's been exploited by enough people for enough reasons.

Yes, principles don't really put food on the table anymore these days, but she'd rather her stomach ache sometimes than her mind screech all the time.

With no more to do on another day of being unemployed, she decides on an afternoon walk that will likely end up just as fruitful as the others. Zero progress.

New York seems slow for a Tuesday. It's that special time of day, right before corporate employees revive and amble home as if in a trance, heads and eyes still in the grip of their managers. No one stops working at 6 p.m., not even those with fixed hours.

She makes the trek all the way down to 63rd St. and wonders if another stroll through Central Park would be too indulgent, because these are the worries of the under occupied. Any break feels like too much leniency, and any time spent not producing something is time you are lost to the world.

The oak tree she stops under shields her from the unrelenting sun and in an equal measure invites longing. Existing in place, changing without moving, being useful without doing damage - what a thing. A thing she can't seem to find out how to do.

Photography.

Little did she know when she was barely a teenager that the real obstacle to achieving greatness in art wouldn't be time or money invested in equipment and training.

Finding anyone to care that you have something to say… that was the real trouble.

Earning a living in this profession entails mostly hurting oneself or hurting others.

So far, she's been hurting herself and her hopes with every silly gig she could find around town - the sort of photography that means nothing, even to the people who pay for it.

The other thing that makes money requires a change of scruples: selling a couple shots of some celebrity or other, preferably in compromising positions or locations, would bring a good dinner every time, if she could keep it down.

In the absence of nepotism or wealth, the good jobs and opportunities in this field are close to none, and time… time moves along. It barrels forward, with or without participation.

She wonders, on the way to her favorite spot, what his relationship to time might be. How does he process doing what he does across the increasing compression of the years? Do the months disappear from under his feet too, or can he fit a century's worth of deeds inside an afternoon?

As she walks along the concrete, she feels it burning through the too-thin soles of her yellow ballet flats.

It's a serious thing, this tension. It impresses upon her the gravity of the situation: in her unwillingness to relinquish ambition and purpose, she feels she's losing any usefulness she might have. She isn't gaining any skills she doesn't already have, and nobody is looking to apply her experience in anything she finds worth doing.

There's no pursuit left, it seems - only soulless occupation.

She's old enough to recognize a great deal of immaturity in her stubbornness, but with only one life to live, she'd rather it be short and meaningful than long and complacent.

Perhaps a therapist would untangle all of this and set her straight, but to get money for one, she'd have to do the very thing she finds difficult.

For a while, the New York Times job was a dream come true that she never even dared to have, especially so soon in her career. She was there for eight months before she screwed up. Maybe she wanted too much, pushed too much and too early. Maybe she didn't understand how things were supposed to be done, and the differences of principles between her and her bosses were irreconcilable.

She isn't sure why she expected they'd send her out on investigations that could get them sued every other Thursday. In the end, she turned in one too many folders with photographs that belonged more in an F.B.I. file than a publisher's office, so they let her go. She hasn't done anything meaningful since, and yet the sun keeps shining.

In the intimacy of the nook forged by overgrown roots, she waits for the gleaming orb to take refuge behind the buildings, and she waits for the moon to replace it for good measure. A walk in the tranquil breeze caressing the night always does good. Shoulders exposed, camera strap covering the daisy details along the neckline of her dress, she releases one last sigh before heading back inside her apartment building.

It's nearly midnight, and this has been another day.

The calm fizzles out the closer she gets to her door, thoughts of repeating the cycle tomorrow starting to take hold, but they don't get far.

The door barely clings to its hinges.

She backs away, reaching for her phone, but isn't fast enough.

Peter is still trying to get water out of his ears. He uses his one day off a week to look after his living space somewhat, the only thing he still does that is a remnant of what May taught him.

For the past innumerable hours, he's been scrubbing at the mountain of dishes, gagging at the dead roach he finds in the odd glass, and getting blood stains out of the wooden floors and carpet. A voice at the back of his mind still drones on about how far gone he is, but it's such a mousy one that it's easily drowned out.

The 8 p.m. special broadcast comes and goes, but he couldn't care less. If getting blood out of the carpet is hard, getting dried cement off of clothes is even harder. Miscellaneous stains litter most of the street clothes he owns, with the exception of some that he received as a present for his 19th birthday, the last one he celebrated.

He fiddles with the web shooters the hour before he leaves again, and they're in bad enough shape that they need replacement. Tomorrow. Building new ones right now would cut two hours out of his time, and his skin has been prickling for long enough.

He can, at least, switch the battery with a new one, but when he opens the fake compartment in his work desk, he finds he's all out of those. With a curse on the tip of his tongue, he finds a suitable replacement he can charge after half an hour, and it's inside his old police radio.

He hasn't listened to that thing in who knows how long.

Whether it's sentimentality or an impulse to torture himself, he isn't sure, but he flicks it on still. There's only crackles and coil whines, and he almost has to fill in the gaps himself with memories of ATM robberies, muggings and burning buildings. That used to be his job, but he's since graduated to organized crime.

College could wait, because Peter Par -

"…come in, units north of 117th St., I have a 240-242 reported. Suspects could still be in the area. We have two officers on the scene, a 10-45C. Waiting on EMS. Please set up a perimetre at 416 East 117th Street. Media-sensitive case in progress. Over."

Despite not having heard report codes in a while, Peter knows them by heart. He wonders what happened, but there isn't anything he can do about it. He's more than sixty blocks away. If he goes, he'll go just to come back to Midtown. Waste of time.

He installs the battery, and once his web shooters whirr to life, out into the night he goes.

It's as though criminals also took the day off mid-week, and it would be cause for surprise, if Peter didn't know that many of them actually have families. He scowls beneath the mask, lights from the million billboards in Times Square hurting his eyes as usual. He stops here whenever he hits a snag in the road, and tonight certainly qualifies.

On the one hand, regular petty criminals being afraid to go out at night was something to be proud of. On the other, you can't bust a large drug-smuggling operation every Wednesday at 2 a.m. He's left little to do, whether for the police or the F.B.I., and it irks him more than it reassures.

The real important things, the important players - they were up in their silver towers, and the police wouldn't help take down the people they helped put there. He's once again having to confront ineptitude, and it makes pain bloom right at his brow.

There's no one meandering about Times Square at this hour with the exception of shift workers heading home, maybe the odd teenager or two whose parents don't care where they are.

Peter makes a lot of assumptions these days.

He sees people, but he rarely observes them or tries to picture the breadth of their lives, whether right or wrong. He used to do that for fun - people watching. It used to be a way of feeling close to the city he protected, imagining a connection between himself and the beings he called neighbors and fellow citizens.

He's ceased imagining himself a part of New York, but a guard dog will remain loyal even without its owner's love.

As he stays poised on the ledge of one building, he debates what to do.

He'd go swinging if he weren't running on defective shooters, and he hardly fancies a fall from twenty stories up. It's degrading, somehow, the thought of going in search of crooks. If it isn't making enough noise to grab his attention, Spider-Man no longer cares.

The largest screen in the square that, until a moment ago was displaying a Coke ad quietly, startles him with its sudden volume. He mutters a snide comment about marketing, but is interrupted mid-sentence when CNN comes on.

"Breaking News: We've just received exclusive reports from one of our sources at the scene that tragedy has struck tonight at the home of a former NY Times photographer and freelancer, whose work has captured the attention of over a million people as of today. She was a guest on our show only two days ago, when she tried making a case very few people dare to anymore: that Spider-Man deserves our understanding and requires our help in confronting the forces that bend New York City to their will.

A plea that may not have been well received by many, as we bring you news of an apparent assault at her residence. The police have established a no-entry zone and are currently not taking any questions, but eyewitnesses report paramedics at the scene attempted to resuscitate someone fitting the profile of the young woman. We are uncertain, at this time, if they succeeded. Our thoughts and prayers are with her as we await news of her condition.

Stay with us for more information as we go live to NYPD Chief E.L. Russell at 2:45 a.m. EST…"

A released breath is all he musters, and the air on the way back in almost hurts. The throbbing beneath his brow has expanded to his entire forehead, but he bites it back as he moves off the ledge and onto the roof.

240-242. 10-45C.

Assault and battery. Condition of patient is critical.

He should've gone.

His mind plays the words on repeat as he removes his phone from a concealed pocket in the suit. Her name is plastered over every title on every website he can find that has gotten a hold of the story. Many link directly to the article she wrote.

Peter doesn't hover over any of them, but leaves directly for Mount Sinai, the closest hospital he knows to East 117th Street, a photo he glimpsed of her smiling face imprinted behind his eyes.

It's disconcertingly quiet as he stops to listen over every window, trying to gauge some clue, some indication that he's where he's supposed to be.

The rustling leaves from Central Park provide the equivalent of white noise, and it stresses him out like a ticking grandfather clock.

Who puts a hospital across the street from a park? It's like saying to patients and pedestrians alike that they are never too far removed from a life-changing event. Infrastructure planning in this city is so shit that nobody wins.

He stops to shake his head, as though that will clear his mind of all hazardous thoughts and gnawing anxiety. He's been crawling over every wing of the hospital for the better part of an hour, and so far nothing has been learned.

But he isn't anything if not relentless. So he continues, keeping to the shadows and listening, breathing deeply to stave the blood rush and adrenaline. It's nearing 4 a.m. when the crackle of a police radio is picked up by his sensitive hearing, and it's coming from a few windows over. He stays put as he focuses, and soon enough he knows it's what he's been looking for.

The information relayed on the radio is of no interest to him, but its presence is important. It means there are police officers standing guard in the hallway, and a closer listen to their soft spoken conversation confirms his assumption.

This is it.

As he approaches the window, his breath has trouble staying tranquil. He removes the exterior lock on the frame with ease, and it barely makes a sound. Some security. Though he noticed not all windows sported a lock on the outside, this one provided as much safety as all the ones without. He lifts the frame with care he hasn't exercised in ages, and dreadful sounds hit his ears soon after.

It makes him almost stop and turn back, but something within won't allow it. He has to look.

The bed isn't far, but he takes in the room first. He stalls.

Whenever he moves this stealthily, it's with the intent to harm, and it ties a knot in his throat knowing that he's here to do the opposite.

The officers outside the door are unaware of his presence, and a snarl almost makes its way past his lips.

If someone were here to harm, they'd encounter no resistance.

Try as he might, the chair in the corner and the painting on the wall can no longer distract him from the chest moving up and down in his peripheral vision.

He drags his eyes over the bed, but he's delayed as much as he could.

He stutters on a breath, choking it out - in? He doesn't know. It rattles through him, this unfamiliar grip of something.

It isn't rage. He knows rage.

The longer his gaze holds over every contusion and bruise, and the higher the number gets as he counts them against his will, the more a full-body shiver usurps his control.

The machine breathing for her makes a noise he isn't likely to forget as long as he lives.

Against his better judgment, he grasps the patient chart at the foot of the bed in both hands, and he reads and reads and reads, hoping for hope.

He gathers that her condition is stable, or was at the time of entry, but the knowledge does nothing. It isn't enough.

What he's looking at is debilitating injury. The kind he's - the kind he's -

The flipchart clatters to the floor, and that finally attracts the attention of the officers.

He disappears before they step foot inside.

5:41 a.m.

There are cracks in the night sky.

There's sharpness over every surface, as if the suit is made of thistle and pumice.

In the stillness of the room, Peter Parker reads.

----

We have never seen a time such as this.

The city enjoys a great deal of jubilation for small and big things alike, and it has for as long as it has been here. Throughout all its tender history, our dwelling of permanent enthusiasm and tangible ambition has seen figures rise to its aid in the face of senseless destruction, none more unending in their devotion than the one whose name we've all spoken.

It began with seemingly inconsequential acts of vigilantism, as the authorities deigned to call it at the time. The city had yet to see the terror that extreme abilities can bring when wielded by unstable or ill-meaning individuals, but in its midst, a protector was already taking shape.

We all have to start somewhere.

Small-time crooks and thieves, then violent criminals. Then, criminals no one would hazard calling violent because they attend banquets and fund the campaigns of mayoral and presidential hopefuls, even today.

Somewhere in the timeline of his service, the city took on a whole new quality. We've always stood up for each other, that much is certain; but the people have never rallied behind one person the way they did for him.

A fair share of tourists, co-nationals or not, have learned it unwise to bad-mouth the local hero. The city channeled its legendary zeal for unity into never-before-seen protectiveness. Plain old devotion, staggering in its sincerity.

We have, after all, a great debt to pay - yet it feels like a duty one does with an easy heart.

How simple it was, pretending not to look whenever he staggered home on foot, presumably having consumed the webbing that decorates our streets every day. How innocent - though for parents irritating, I'm sure - the desire of children to sneak to the fire escape in the hours of the morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of red and blue.

How heartwarming, whenever word went around, of delis and pizzerias competing to certify themselves as a favorite of his, and leaving innovative creations in strategic pick-up places.

Easy hearts, easy smiles - it was the Golden Age of our fine city.

It's been getting harder lately.

Of the myriad classes of criminal, only the full-timers remain; those who have seen and done everything there is to see and do. And of those, only the ones with friends in high places are still in business.

You peruse one article or another just to get to the description of the crime scene: blood and teeth and webbed-up zombies, more dead than alive.

Arrests don't happen on the spot anymore, because medical care is needed.

Time passes unsparingly.

And in the torrid summer, under scaffolding and awnings, between fences and billboards, New York begins to whisper.

Tales of a breaking point and a rageful Spider-Man.

The locals speculate. In the absence of concrete proof, you can hardly blame the minds attempting to soothe themselves with hollow myths: perhaps this happened, and then the other thing; perhaps he's done too much, received too little in return.

For the past five years, we've all confounded our journey with his. New York believes in shared failures and triumphs, so the atmosphere turns dour when it senses powerlessness.

We believe whatever touched him, has the potential to wreck us all. Whatever changed him, means a force that won't spare us.

Is it pain, or age, or illness?

Is it bitterness, or hopelessness?

Is it grief?

And do we dare judge?

There are some among us who dare go even further, and who have attempted career-building out of a spiteful penchant for persecution. A publication that has, for as long as this author remembers, been denigrated and ignored, now returns with renewed vigor. Its editor-in-chief would love nothing more than a redemption story - his own, of course. For nearly half a decade, J. Jonah Jameson has professed his hatred of Spider-Man to the fullest of his editorial capability, which is to say, in mediocre fashion. Whatever vindication he now feels will surely fuel more of the fables we've grown tired of.

The city has a mind of its own, a personality of its own; it doesn't need to be told what to believe, especially not by those afflicted with grudges.

Perhaps I should've begun this by stating it is not an opinion piece. It isn't much of an objective evaluation of the facts, either. The only purpose for its existence is remembrance.

Trying to understand Spider-Man is not a task one knows how to begin approaching. He is, at this point, part of both daily life and folklore. You may see him, but you don't talk to him.

Not many people try anymore.

It would have done no good trying to find him, as every journalist in town has already learned. Nobody has been able to claim him as an interviewee. Journalism is not my occupation, but I do wonder as to his. We all have to do something to survive, and Spider-Man does not fit the typology of a spoiled trust fund recipient.

So what exactly does the working class hero see?

Is it people looking down, their nose in a phone or a book on the subway during morning commute?

Is it a bustling crowd, pushing and shoving its way to an unforgiving cubicle and disgruntled customers?

Does Spider-Man look up at a building as frequently as he looks down from one?

Is the ground as familiar to him as the sky?

For this to work, both perspectives should be offered, and here is where I have to confess to a not easily subdued fear of heights, one I had to confront on several occasions.

A silly thing to wonder is what might Spider-Man's favorite sight be. In a city of buildings that touch the clouds, does he hold a preference? And is it the clichéd Empire State?

Full honesty also entails confessing that while I was confronting my fear, I was actively dodging concerns about the legality of what I was doing. One can't help wondering if that's a thought he might've had way back when, in the beginning.

Had I been more alert and not completely focused on maintaining balance and a grip on the camera, I might have realized my approach was all skewed.

Only when I was crawling, quaking knees and gasping breath, over the south eagle adornment on the 61st floor of the Chrysler Building, did I realize that the view was not really the point.

You can't see what Spider-Man sees, unless you are determined enough to steal his eyes straight out of their sockets. I presume many have tried.

The only possibility of getting close to him is through the thrill of feeling what he might feel.

In the absence of superpowers or webbing to prevent a meeting with the ground, you can imagine the thrill verged on paralyzing fear.

New York's skyscrapers are not made for visiting from the outside, making the ease with which he glides between them daily all the more impressive. You see, it's not about the superhuman abilities. We all like to think we'd do the same, were we endowed with them.

But we have proof that he is special, and that what he does must be recognized as amazing once more.

New York has known many who've fallen by the wayside in their pursuit of mastering abilities they either searched for or happened upon. Unfailingly, sooner or later, those people turned towards us with anger and retribution.

Some were not entirely wrong to feel that way.

For all our unity, New York is still a cold city made even colder by all it has endured. It no longer flinches at destruction the way it used to, and some mistake it for resilience.

The truth is that we've been desensitized: to violence, to greed, to the ambitions of powerful men with ill intentions.

We've been happy to let Spider-Man bear the brunt of our ugliest demons.

Can we really be surprised when that inheritance claws away at the symbol we now identify with, the symbol etched onto his back?

Every morning when the sun rises, we leave the shadows of the night behind, knowing there is someone to keep them settled. We never imagine that the only way to hold back the darkness is to take it onto yourself, to keep it trapped inside your chest until it demands to be let out again.

So tomorrow, when the sun rises over a tired Spider-Man, I urge you to remember this:

If he falters, it is because he's doing the job we all ought to be doing, and he's done it for too long already without our participation. We need to help him in a way that matters, and maybe we can start by making the darkness a little easier to bear.

Spider-Man has made the city safer for us, and it's time we return the favor, so he can come back home… to the golden age of New York City.

---

The nausea gives way, and he succumbs to the shivers.

If the neighbors hear him scream, they don't make it known.

The photographs from the article dance behind his eyelids right up until he wakes, passed out on the roof of Mount Sinai Hospital. It's noon, and he should've been at work five hours ago. He isn't going.

The hole he tore in his throat seems to have healed enough that swallowing no longer sears, but his knuckles are still torn raw.

As he leans on his right elbow, awareness of the faint rumble in the sky brings some relief, though not much. At least he didn't scorch in the sun, because he isn't sure he would've felt it.

He lies there for two more hours, until the gnawing in his stomach and the weakness in his limbs become unbearable.

He checks on her before he leaves, and the daylight is unforgiving in its honesty. He departs as the first drops of rain hit.

Though he isn't hungry anymore, he forces down a meal only to return with some strength in his fist. It's on the roof that he makes new web shooters once the downpour lets up, and it's there that he puts another battery into his old police radio.

Trained as he is on any sounds emerging from her room two floors below, he jumps periodically when a nurse comes in to do their job. It always seems to be the same one, and soon enough he learns the cadence and the weight of her footsteps.

The fact that she comes in so often engraves a near-permanent frown into his face. It's not just once that he nearly goes over while she's there to ask for information on her state, but every time his legs won't move.

That night, when the officers leave their post, Peter's anger comes back in full force. Is that all they were affording her?

Twenty-four hours of protection, almost on the dot, after her life was nearly ended with brutality?

He wants to follow after them, but he ultimately doesn't.

Somewhere in his mind, he knows that even that little crumb they gave her was a move made out of pity. Ordinary citizens don't get police guards by their hospital room, unless they hold something of interest - influence, technology or a degree of relation to some actually important person.

She holds none of those things, as far as he's aware.

And in New York City, if you aren't graced with prominence, you get crushed by those whose ire you provoke.

He'll see to it that Fisk atones. Not tonight, or tomorrow - but his last day on this Earth won't come until the balance is corrected and the debt is restored.

They announce her survival on the news the next morning, and Peter knows that once they've done that, he can't leave. Not that he would have. He follows the broadcast on his phone and peruses articles here and there, and he finds that for once, Jameson has no criticism to offer.

No remark, no observation. Just an apology and a prayer.

He scoffs and grits his teeth, putting away his phone when the speculative articles start pouring in. The who and the why, he already knows. The 'what now' is solely his mission.

It's been over thirty hours since she was hospitalized, and if they were going to come back to finish the job, they would do it in the first forty-eight. It makes the most sense, as her condition would be the most sensitive. No one would suspect foul play, at least not twice over.

So Peter stays glued to the side of her window whenever possible, and keeps hidden when necessary.

She does not stir, and he pretends not to hear the nurse's sigh when she comes in to check on her one last time before shift change.

Nothing happens, and it's almost too quiet as they come up on fifty-one hours, but at 5 a.m. on Friday he taps out unwillingly.

His pounding heart is what wakes him at 3 p.m. inside the alcove on the roof. Although his eyes have been taking in her figure for almost two minutes, he struggles to resist the fear and calm down. Anything could've happened, and would he have heard it?

Would he have gotten there in time?

It was the presence of an unknown gait that made ripples in his senses and roused his consciousness, but a doctor is not a threat. He remarks with befuddlement how little time it took to anchor himself to this room and to that bed. He's learned the sound and all its patterns, knows all the visitors and their schedules - because they all have one.

No one has been at her bedside. No one but medical staff.

A thought strikes that hasn't in aeons.

He returns two hours later, having showered and eaten and called in sick to work. Maybe it's his voice that gives it away, or maybe the old man has been waiting for this, but Mr. Daniels hears only a line or two before he tells Peter to take care of himself and not show up until he's better.

He takes the advice along with a bouquet of daisies.

The nurses whisper among themselves during another shift change, but they keep the water fresh every day.

By Monday, a routine has been established.

Peter keeps watch at night and tinkers with devices during the day. Old junk that hasn't seen the light in years suddenly holds great interest, including a tracker that never made it past the design stage.

He remembers that he felt too much like Inspector Gadget when he was drawing up the sketches for the thing, and it immediately put him off further exploration.

Admittedly, it's not an award-winning invention. The idea was only to have something at his disposal that he could track over long distances when his powers failed him. Years ago he couldn't put together a small enough device that it'd be undetectable and easy to place, but technology has advanced even as he's stood still.

It doesn't take long to find what he needs and for cheap. In an afternoon, he's made four trackers, with nanosensors the size and weight of a fingernail, and in a bizarre way, he feels the need to share the small triumph with someone.

He's shaky and uncertain as he crawls to her window that night, and over the soft beeping of the machines by the side of the bed, Peter whispers the first promise made to another person in a long time.

On Tuesday night, as the one week mark approaches, commotion pulls his attention tightly, stretching every sense into a frenzy.

It's a miracle he doesn't burst through the glass when the nurse is just a little too slow to show up for his comfort, but soon he finds out the news. The triumph he experienced yesterday pales in comparison to the one she has today.

Breathing on her own is a monumental step, one Peter chooses to commemorate with deeply pink roses. The florist only asks him one question, and it's what he wants the blooms to say.

"Just that I… that I'm grateful," is all he manages.

Despite the breakthrough on Tuesday, nothing else happens for the rest of the week, plunging his mood into the subterranean. He'd thought recovery was on the way, but the nurses stop by at greater and greater intervals by the time Sunday rolls around. He wants to demand an explanation, something to justify this delay, but keeps himself in check for her safety. If word got out that he's inquiring into her condition personally, it might stir the calm.

He doesn't want calm, but it's what she needs, so he stays put.

In the meantime, he keeps tabs on the press and what details have been released to the public. An investigation of his own unfolds over the course of Sunday morning, and it hardly impresses him - the ardent desire of every newspaper to take apart her entire past and present. It's exceptionally deplorable how some don't stray from speculating about her future.

If they want to know, they should come ask him. He wants them to.

Peter notices how none of the publications he's looked at thus far have even attempted to make the connection between her words and their consequences. They all know it. They do. They all know who she pissed off, because it's right there in black and white.

All it took was a mention of campaign money and criminality, because the egos possessing New York's overlords are boundless and fearsome.

The police are hardly trying, he knows that too. They've been relegated to babysitters for those they're supposed to catch, but maybe they were never meant to do that in the first place. Maybe that's just what people are comfortable thinking, and Peter used to be one of them.

When he was younger, he wanted to believe in the sanctity of their mission, as nothing else seemed more important. His dream was to change the world with his intellect, but changing the world through progress takes time, and you need to be and feel safe while you're doing it. He used to believe nothing happens if the police don't do their job.

He's grown since then.

He understands hierarchy now, and the place from which crime springs forth is untouched still. Cleaning up the streets is a temporary solution, and the people he used to leave for the cops to arrest got less and less difficult to empathize with over time. He knows stories - has got nothing but stories. Desperate people stealing to feed their children, threatening pharmacists with empty guns to get their prescriptions because their insurance expired… the numbers grow, and it isn't because people are getting worse. They're not losing their principles, or their decency.

Someone else is taking their lives from them, one yard at a time.

It's something she knows as well, but speaking it publicly attracts penalties. He's looking at the result of defiance right now, watching through the window as the setting sun leaves a gentle glow over her figure.

Not a journalist, she said. The more he looks, the more he believes her. As the cuts and bruises subside with time, natural features reclaim their place and her face as he remembers it is revealed. Granted, he has only photos to compare to, but it changes nothing about his impression.

Gentle.

She seems like a gentle person, is all Peter can think. If he knew nothing about her, he'd assume kindness; yet he does know something - knows too much now. He knows too much to hold back the fierce protectiveness rupturing the confines of his chest.

She's so young.

They're the same age, but somehow she looks younger to him. Maybe it's the delicate skin around her eyes, having gone down in swelling enough that he can see their shape. Maybe it's the neck brace, making her look vulnerable and small. Maybe it's what little he can see of her fingers where the cast ends on her left arm.

Peter doesn't know if a photographer is supposed to look like anything, but he encounters no trouble in imagining a camera around her neck and grasped between her fingers. He wonders how the red light from a darkroom might reflect in her eyes.

He wishes she'd open them.

He wishes she'd open them, so his own wouldn't burn so terribly.

It's been years since he's watched someone in earnest, trying to picture their life, or personality, or struggles. It's been years since he's felt closeness or devotion to a cause, much less to a person. Spider-Man ended up being needed more by him than by the people, so he readily took the symbol for himself, to stall and mute the desperation.

Desperation that returns in a different form when the door to her room opens and a doctor comes through, spotting him behind the window before he can move.

The woman freezes, but her face remains composed as she shuts the door without looking away from him. Peter is also frozen in place, and his predicament is unknown as she steps closer and closer, until she comes to a standstill in front of him. He cannot decipher her expression, but he figures that if she wanted to, she would have called security already. The realization does nothing to relax his muscles.

She taps on the glass with an index finger twice, and to his surprise, lifts the frame all the way up.

Hesitating at first is reflexive when dealing with strangers, but this doesn't seem like a trap and she is a healthcare professional. They're usually decent.

Peter goes in legs first, the motion airy and quiet. In a moment that is eerily reminiscent of boyhood, the woman, mid-fifties, regards him stringently.

"You've been here before," she states, a sentence too simplistic to put his mind at ease. He can't see where she might take it next.

Despite his lack of confirmation, she continues.

"Why do you come?"

Peter almost backs away from the bluntness of the question; if it weren't for the soles of his feet sticking to the floor, he might've stumbled on nothing. It isn't an inquiry he can grace with truthfulness, but he has years of falsehoods under his belt. He knows how to lie.

"To make sure nothing happens..." he murmurs into the stillness of the room.

"You can speak normally. She can't hear us."

Recoiling happens automatically, and the window sill is at his fingertips. He could leave any moment. Yet, the look she's fixing him with keeps him suspended in time and space. He can hear his own breaths against the inside of the mask. The world is smaller.

"You're here to make sure nothing happens? Something has already happened. Where were you?"

This is how the walls close in and the temperature reaches a boil. He's spent months avoiding questions of any sort, and the first ones he hears unravel entire illusions he maintained with an iron grip.

"I have a daughter her age, studying the same thing she studied. She believes in you too. Will she end up like this?"

His heart touches a crescendo, and then nothing. To avoid thinking about himself, he focuses every ounce of strength into a question of his own.

"How is she?"

His voice is rough with disuse when he isn't whispering. He sounds much older than he is, but the woman is older still, and she has seen many more things than either Spider-Man or Peter Parker have. A suit cannot hide shame from the keen eyes of experience.

"I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to. I have a responsibility. There are laws."

Laws. Responsibility.

This did end up being a trap, of the sort he never expected. He's tumbling through a loop of his spectacular history, but nothing he finds grants solace. The guilt is blistering the surface of his skin.

"It makes no difference if you know or not. It won't change anything. Nothing I say will make her wake up."

Maybe it's something only mothers are able to induce, this peculiar dread. Of the multitudes roaming the earth, it seems only the best ones hold this power. There is immeasurable love in their eyes at all times, and when it flickers, so does the heart. Nobody wants to look, only to see disappointment - least of all, confidence lost.

There is a mother standing in front of Peter Parker, laying out all his faults with no cruelty. She doesn't look like herself anymore, but like his own mother, of brown hair and the kindest eyes he's ever known.

"Please…"

He doesn't know what he's asking. There isn't anything for which she could use his plea. It shows in her face.

"Her body is healing what it can. She needs time and freedom to recover. That's all that I -"

The doctor is left staring at the space where he once was, and in a moment of doubt, her eyes cast downward.

Spiders are not particularly effective trackers. Their strengths lie in attributes that allow for little expense of energy when setting traps. Great threads are woven in tantalizingly intricate patterns, seducing prey big and small and beckoning it forward. It need only wander in.

There are times, however, when spiders will choose to hunt.

Peter Parker is a sight to behold as he sinks further and further down the spiral from human to predator. Each sense is sharpened to perfection, and in New York City, that means it won't be long before his mind gives way from oversensitivity.

He doesn't have time.

416 East 117 St. is still delineated by yellow police tape. Inside, the door of apartment 5-b has been sealed off, but the impact marks around the hinges remain - a preview for what it might reveal.

Now that he knows which unit, finding the window is no effort.

The surroundings are quiet, even for a Sunday night. There isn't much chatter throughout the neighboring units, revealing perhaps an abundance of uninhabited apartments or - more likely - a frightened lot, as barely two weeks have passed.

He enters through the living room window situated on the west side.

The air is stale and impregnated with scents he is more familiar with than anyone should reasonably be. Acute as his senses are at the moment, the smell of blood is ferociously intense; knowing whose it is tips the edge towards unbearable.

As his eyes absorb the scene, his mind makes immediate judgments that have become second nature in the past five years.

The front door, which he can see from the edge of the room, was not kicked in, but rather out. He deduces they must've entered quietly, expecting her to be home. The door could not have been destroyed after the fact, only before. Did they do it to frighten her, give her pause? Make her wonder what could've happened to it before they grabbed her?

He knows Fisk likes playing mind games with whoever wrongs him. This is his signature, and the ravaged furniture reinforces his belief. It isn't indicative of struggle - it was just smashed up for fun, and perhaps as a false lead for the police to rule the incident as random thievery.

Yet a laptop is lying in pieces, underneath the crushed coffee table. Little fragments of it are tinged dark red among the shards of glass, and the images his mind conjures are expelled before they can seize too much emotion.

No thief would use valuables to inflict harm, least of all in the name of perceived symbolism, but Wilson Fisk is not a thief. He envisions himself a poetic emperor, delivering justice with awe-inspiring significance. At his disposal are considerable resources, many of them material, but a non-negligible part made of flesh and bone.

What the scene before him reveals above all else is just how entwined law-enforcement and the despots of New York have become.

Nobody has touched this place. No forensic experts have analyzed the scene or extracted evidence for an investigation, because none is supposed to occur.

Despite the expanse of blood soaked up by the carpet, despite the scratches on the hardwood nearby… nobody is looking.

Nobody wants justice. They want peace and safety for themselves.

There is an empty apartment at 416 East 117th that might remain empty. There are clashing echoes of words that might never leave. They will make a home of his agitated mind and tear it asunder, ceasing only when he is no more.

He holds off until he can't - and it's the snapping thread.

Vincent likes his job. After all, he gets Mondays and Tuesdays off, and there's nothing better than starting the work week in the middle. Everyone's already miserable by then, and it makes things easier for him.

He does, however, hate the paperwork of Sunday night, and it's just too bad his boss trusts no one else to get it done.

He sits at his desk, yawning and putting numbers together until the lines are blurred. There hasn't been any improvement in shipping costs, but the ease of operations could have a novice doing this on his first day. Or it would, were there any volunteers left. He had to provide many concessions for Bennie to take a job here, despite being cousins.

Everyone thinks only about themselves these days.

Vincent thinks of the comfort of home: the lush armchair he bought a few days ago, nestled in the warmest corner of the library that he's just finished renovating with wood from Japan; the Titanic model he promised his son they'd build together; the dinner they're all going to gather for tomorrow.

He thinks of all those things so ardently, that he has no chance to see it coming.

He's heard the guys describe it before - those that got away at least. The webs bind tightly. So tightly, in fact, that his lungs feel compressed against his back, and his arms and legs are getting colder by the second.

"Bah! You - you fu - you fuck - mmpf!"

His body collides with the wall, and there it stays. He can't breathe. He can't -

His airways clear.

Vincent gasps for breath, but there's barely any room for it in his chest. Despite what he expects, the spider doesn't bother with him immediately. No, he doesn't even spare Vincent a glance as he reduces the room to rubble. The computer he leaves untouched, and Vincent can guess his intentions. He'd been tallying up before this happened, getting ready to report a bottom line for the end of the month.

He likely won't come to know what it is, but even if he did, he won't be able to communicate it.

As he watches on, he can only await his turn, and it comes soon enough.

If the spider expects him to flinch, he's in for a rude awakening. Nothing Vincent can see coming has the ability to scare him - the only thing he fears is the unknown.

"I only want one thing," is what he says, but Vincent isn't impressed. This is a boy - he knows it is, however the stories portray him. The suit he's wearing is a sign of his inhumanity to some; they look like tights to Vincent.

"Your men - who are they?"

Vincent scoffs as best he can, and his lip curls into a scowl.

"I got many men," he answers.

The spider approaches him, steps light and careful. It's too quick for Vincent to make out, but the hand he feels at his throat cuts off the air supply completely this time. His heart has started the clock.

"The men who crushed her hands… who shattered her ribs… your men."

Head swimming and vision spotting, he can't make out an answer, but neither does he want to. Vincent won't protect his men because of loyalty, but because the spider doesn't kill. It's been his one weakness, and many have exploited it successfully. Vincent won't give an inch. He has principles.

When his neck is released once more, he chokes and heaves but welcomes the air all the same, even if it burns on the way both in and out. Only, without an answer, he isn't privy to oxygen for long.

Something is different about his grip this time. It's different, he thinks, because he can't see anymore. Noise would leave him, but he can't produce any. He has little feeling left in his hands.

On the edge of unconsciousness, there's almost relief, but it doesn't come. He thinks maybe he's dropped to the floor, or maybe he's been hit, yet can't make out which. He can hear his blood pounding in his ears, and all he has left for function in his throat is desperately trying to quell the burning of his lungs.

Gasping for breath on a Sunday night is not how he wants to go out, but now he can't talk. His tongue feels numb.

Though his lips mouth the names the spider wants, nothing comes out.

Just as feeling comes back into his hands, he wishes it hadn't, because he can't do anything to release the pain of bones breaking. He can't even scream.

"That's how it feels. That's what she felt."

His right hand follows, and for a moment it feels like his heart has stopped, but it doesn't last. It keeps going, and so does the agony.

"She couldn't scream either. They crushed her throat."

There are other noises he can't make out, and his eyes aren't focusing. There's color, but no shape. He doesn't know how much time passes, but for once, when he hears the spider talk again, he isn't certain of his future.

"You can't write. You can't talk. You can't see. I know you can't see, so you can't even point them out. But I'll ask again: the men - who are they?"

Even through his pain, it strikes Vincent that the spider isn't really looking for an answer. If he knows he can't provide it, then he's asking just to ask. He's asking as an excuse. He's seen men lost to rage before; they look for reasons to do what they were always going to do.

And as he tries holding himself upright on his elbows, he's got half a mind to crawl away. This isn't worth it. He's got to -

A weight on his back pushes him down bluntly, and his chin connects with the floor. Maybe some teeth break or maybe they don't, but he can taste metal now, and it makes it even harder to breathe.

"Were you there?"

Vincent finds himself shaking his head without even making the decision to do so, noises escaping that resemble only in vibration what he might've said with a usable larynx.

"Are they here?"

They are. They are, but so are seven others, and he can't point them out. Bennie's here tonight, but Bennie wasn't there. He had no part in it. He can't sell him out.

"Do you want to see what else they did?"

Vincent shakes his head again. He remembers some details, but overall he knows what he sent them there to do. It was only by happenstance that the woman survived, so no. Vincent doesn't want to see.

"…'ere… 'ehre'…" he rasps, blood dribbling down his chin.

"Here?"

He nods.

"Where?"

He can't think anymore. To be quite honest, he wishes he were unconscious instead of gasping and wheezing for air. Whatever the spider wants to do now, he should just do it instead of stalling.

But nothing happens for what feels like the longest time when one has only their ears to anticipate an event. Vincent waits, and waits and continues wondering, but no more words disturb the peace.

He's alone.

The months that former cadet Jimmy Larson spent imagining his first crime scene appear to have been for nothing. All the time dedicated to fortifying his mind in anticipation of what he considered true police work would have been more useful in the search of a different career path.

He's been retching since he got here.

How do the ambulances have anything to do? Who in that warehouse would want to live?

He understands it's their job, but were Jimmy on the other side of this intervention, he would have quit on the spot. As it is, he thinks it would be disrespectful to everyone else doing their best to manage. Manage the revulsion, the renewed disappointment.

It won't be long before the hunt for Spider-Man resumes with vigor. After tonight, even Jimmy isn't sure he'll have any more reservations with regard to the wall crawler.

Many of his colleagues hold a personal grudge against him for repeatedly busting friends involved in racketeering and extortion, just by virtue of them hanging out in criminal hotspots. It's not inconceivable that whatever public opinion might look like, the police will never really accept him, much less view him favorably. Though they are not a monolith, they're more of a monolith than most organizations. There are codes, and there are incentives to adhere to them.

Now an officer, Jimmy knows what happens to those within the group who don't follow the dogma. He can feel eyes on his back, casting a wave of disdain he tries to let roll off without absorbing it. Defending Spider-Man cannot be done this time, he understands that. But his colleagues haven't forgotten the times he did, and seeing the distress on the rookie officer's face must bring them great satisfaction.

Jimmy isn't torn up about the mangled bodies, however disturbing. It's the loss of hope that makes swallowing difficult and standing tall an unreachable prerogative.

Nothing is left of the man he used to look up to. In just a few years, what has become of New York's symbol should scare even the most determined idealists. Jimmy has been slowly leaving their ranks in the last few months, but tonight sees the door slammed in his face. He can't defend the indefensible.

Of the eight people recovered by EMS, three were on the brink of death, dangling from the ceiling like an art installation conceived in a sadist's mind and spelling a bloody epitaph on the skin of their faces.

Murderers, was the message requiring delivery.

This affectation of justice seems much too personal to be in any way comparable to his previous crimes. Whatever happened tonight, whatever they did… Jimmy knows.

The hero may never come back from it.

He's almost sure he's clean. The scalding water was serviceable enough to melt flesh, nevermind blood that had seeped into the lycra of the suit. In any case, he wouldn't dream of trailing any part of them into this room.

It's quiet. Peaceful. Void of darkness now that he's banished it.

The air feels different against his skin, against his clothes. It's been years since he was anywhere he wasn't supposed to be dressed like Peter Parker, and the cloth mask covering his face had to be dug out of an old suitcase he hasn't touched since leaving home.

He's breathing more heavily than she is, or at least it seems that way the closer he gets to the bed. Eyes catching on the wilting pink of the roses he brought six days ago, he pauses momentarily to remove them from her bedside. It feels wrong to leave them.

As he throws them in the trash, he notices for the first time the pattern of the vinyl flooring. There is nothing interesting about the beige and gray stains, but they're easier to look at while he gathers his thoughts. It's only her and the wind outside that he can hear the longer he remains unmoving.

One syllable harshly scrapes against his throat before he chokes it back. Time contracts and dilates irrespective of his wishes, awarding no relief. He tries again whenever his body allows.

"You're safe now," he rasps.

His eyes trail over the length of her forearm; the one closest to him isn't encased in plaster, but the jagged tear that starts at her shoulder and ends above her wrist is more striking. He can see the cruelty more plainly displayed than in a shattered bone.

"They're gone. Can't hurt you anymore."

It's a mistake he doesn't have control over, but his hand is now on the edge of the bed and he cannot retract it. His fingertips are only an inch away from hers, and if he focused hard enough, he could feel the warmth they give off. He doesn't know if he deserves to.

"I kept my… kept my promise. And you… you can wake up now."

If he dares look up, it's only once, and yet once is enough for his eyes to lock into place. His body reacts by tearing apart nerves that were barely holding on, and his left hand comes up to remove the mask before air runs out. Nothing happens despite his plea. Her eyes don't open like his mind said they would if he did the right thing. The doctor said she needed time and freedom to recover. He removed any obstacles that might keep her in this bed.

Whispered supplications leave his mouth dry and his eyes the inverse, but with each one he keeps hoping. A million ways to beg for redemption and he will go through them all, forwards and backwards. He just wants. He wants.

Peter startles himself into a sob. A tear slipped from his eye and onto her hand, splashing a dainty drop onto his own. When did he touch her? When did his fingers hover over hers? He stumbles backwards on legs not fully in his control, feeling weak for the shortest time.

It could level a city, this rage. It's tried. Peter is always the one devoured, yet so far he hasn't known it. A layer of isolation stood between him and the truth, and years spent avoiding his humanity dissolve as if soaked in acid. It stings. It burns.

He was begging to see her eyes, when until this moment he's put forth supernatural effort to avert his own. He didn't think anyone should look at him.

He doesn't want anything more. He doesn't want anything else.

It isn't a surprise that they have everything required. A local watering hole for addicts like himself would abound in illicit supplies, priced at whatever the highest bidder is willing to pay. Peter's last reserves are depleted for a handful of items, and he hasn't been at work for long enough that the only thing keeping him employed is the kindness he's yet to reciprocate. Perhaps he should've kept thirty dollars and gotten Mr. Daniels an arrangement. Alas, he's now broke.

He wouldn't be, if he allowed himself to use common sense. Why pay for something with money that's going to be seized in less than ten minutes? He tells himself he doesn't know, but it's been harder and harder to lie recently, even in the privacy of his own mind.

He knows why. Watching the red and blue lights flashing in the pharmacy entryway from across the street is only the beginning, and as pain snaps a band around his head, the road before him has never seemed longer.

The two remaining weeks of summer are devoured in a blink, and September continues stealing rest from Peter Parker. He doesn't mind, because there is an end to his obsession now, and he can almost taste it.

He's been staring at the purple substance long enough for his leg to fall asleep. There is nothing more to ponder, but something holds him back from accepting reality. He's succeeded, but his chest doesn't fill with pride like it once did. No rush arrives to carry him further down the planes of ambition, no wild aspirations take shape behind his eyes when he sleeps.

This victory is bitter. Whenever his mind wanders, it always falls to time. There is no changing the past, but the vial in his hands is definitive proof: things didn't need to be that way. None of the horrors that destroyed his youth had to happen. If only, if only.

He almost wishes it would fail, just to spare himself the pain he knows is coming. He almost wants to believe that living is meant to be a rigid thing, not subjected to his or anyone else's manipulation. But the truth reveals itself every hour he goes without the medication he's been dependent on. There are things that are true, and there are fantasies he's been suffocated by for years.

That he couldn't have helped Harry is a fantasy he's embraced in a frenzy. There was a way - it's peeking at him now from between bruised fingers, flowing peacefully inside the glass vial with every tremor of his hands.

The devastation caused by fear and guilt was never inevitable. It was Peter's selfishness that denied his former friend a chance to live normally, because he didn't want to create another Curt Conners. He didn't want the responsibility of dealing with those consequences, and consequences found him anyway. He's despised Harry for a long time. It was his face that he was seeing when delivering callous blows that more than once almost made him a murderer. Nothing's come as close as last month's events. No one has burrowed under his skin and made him feel deranged in the same way, but no one could have. He hasn't had anything of his to protect in a decade.

Gwen… Gwen used to be his hope. She used to be able to reset him whenever he malfunctioned, to reorient his moral compass whenever it strayed. She knew the right thing to do, and was more willing than him to do it if personal cost was involved. These days he won't even dare look at a picture of her. What he still remembers of her face is shadowed, and her eyes are never open. She isn't looking at him, and in his heart, embittered as it is, he knows that if she could, she'd look away. For her to see him like this would be the greatest shame.

Hold on to hope.

He denied Gwen her last wish, like he denied her father's.

Two weeks ago, he thought another promise would be reneged on through a sheer twist of fate. After all, how could he turn back time for her when he couldn't do it for the love of his life? It occurred to him on the night of his rampage, after shedding tears at her bedside - this wasn't about molding time so terrible things never come to pass. She doesn't need time, like the doctor said. Time can't provide solutions for tragedies. Only people can help by bearing the cost and sharing in the grief.

He'd take it all onto himself just so he doesn't have to walk in there with shaking hands and unsteady feet, but he's learning. He can't do everything all on his own.

This time, when the doctor is in her room, he's the one who taps at the window. He's caught her just after shift change, with sundown on his heels. It was the longest he could wait.

The woman proves difficult to surprise once again, but Peter's hesitation to meet her eyes has gone. He invites himself into the room, fully prepared to announce his intentions, but the doctor interjects.

"I thought you'd never come back."

It's a strange thing to hear, and he goes with the first instinct he has. He feels defensive every time he's in this space.

"I've been here every day."

Speaking truthfully is new to him, as is the way he tries watching her without suspicion. She's not that far away, but the room isn't that large to begin with. They are separated by the bed, with the doctor on the left side, doing what seems to Peter like nothing at all. What is she doing here? It's always the nurses doing the nightly rounds, and she doesn't appear to have a task at hand.

His body draws closer subtly, and he spots the name tag on her lapel. She didn't have one last time. Dr. Arnaud.

"Maybe you shouldn't be."

A familiar tension prickles at his jaw, and he does his best to force down the anger and let reality through. He doesn't truly care what she thinks. He only needs her help, and if she won't provide it, he'll figure it out. But, curiosity does invite him to ask.

"Why?"

"You've done enough. Don't you think?"

He knows what she's referring to. It's all anyone's been talking about since mid-August, and with the mayor's bid for re-election came a slew of vicious attacks by the campaign. The moratorium on his arrest at the beginning of Oswald's term was nothing more than a short-lived stint to appease a New York that still liked Spider-Man. He'd be lucky if regular people don't start hunting him along with police.

"I'm here to help."

The woman's furrowed brow and tough gaze are not assuaged by him producing the vial from a concealed pocket, nor is her presence less confrontational the longer he explains. He shouldn't be disappointed. She is a doctor, and injecting patients with foreign substances of dubious origins is at the very foundation of the oath she took. She will not help him, and it would've been a problem, had her assistance been beneficial to anyone but him.

The only thing he wanted her to do was be the one to press the needle into her arm. He doesn't think he can touch her again after the night when his fingers accidentally brushed hers.

"You can't just come in here and use my patient for an experiment you th-"

Peter interrupts her objections with a curt and near-hostile question.

"Will she recover if I don't?"

Dr. Arnaud's glare has little bite behind it this time. Despite her trying to uphold confidentiality, Peter knows that she knows - they're on the same page when it comes to understanding reality. There is no healing from this, not with medicine and not with time. This is her last hope.

"I won't have any part of this," she says harshly, but Peter reads the defeat in her voice before anything else.

"Fine."

"If this fails, and you make it worse, I -"

"You don't need to threaten me. If that happens, you won't ever see me again," he replies calmly.

Perhaps he was too nonchalant about this situation, but there was no other way to speak the truth. If the worst does come to pass, she won't see him again. Nobody will. This night may be the last one he has under the mask that ruined his life. This is Peter Parker's last hope too.

The doctor lingers for a few more moments that do nothing to steady his nerves. When the door finally closes, and he is alone with his fate, all at once a calm washes over his entire being. Time means nothing again.

Her face has healed of all swelling, he remarks with mild glee. It's only a superficial change, because the real trauma lies under the skin. The injuries she sustained have sunk too deep for modern medicine to reach, and even the treatments available for wealthy citizens can't heal this type of damage.

That she survived is remarkable all on its own. He'll meet the effort halfway and bring her back.

As he approaches the bed, he tries to imagine what she might've dreamed of this past month, despite knowing the state of her cerebral activity. If there is anything taking shape behind her eyelids, he hopes it's only good things.

Peter's breaths are heavier now that he's close, and his nose fills up with the scent of fresh shampoo. She's been here long enough that she had to be given a bath, but he doesn't like that her scent has washed away and been replaced by antiseptic. Nothing about these surroundings is welcoming, and her face in that bed simply doesn't belong. She can't remain here.

"You'll be okay," he whispers, a tremor in his voice that willed itself to the surface.

A rush of air escapes his lips as he touches her arm with gloved fingers. Even through the material, a live wire sizzles his nerve endings and rewires his brain to produce an involuntary smile. He's forgotten he can be gentle. He's forgotten that hands can do more than wreck and demolish. He's worked in construction for four years, and yet it takes a moment's touch to remind him life is an infinitude of perspectives.

"You'll be okay, I promise."

His words feel so small, resembling a prayer he hasn't uttered in years and wouldn't dare utter now that he's strayed so far from the right path. The needle finds the vein, just as his heart finds a way to drum an ever worse tempo. Seconds go by in a snap, and he retracts the syringe with care meant for things of high fragility. The room gets quieter over the next few minutes as his blood pressure stabilizes and no longer drowns his ears in anxious terror.

Silence.

It happens at midnight.

Three hours of careful vigilance dissolve like sugar in ice water, but midnight arrives with a quietude interrupted. A feeble note at once gets louder. If he hadn't been listening with unyielding focus, it would have escaped him.

Her heartbeat has changed. Not in rhythm, but in strength. A minute, then two, then ten - they all pass without latency, without illusions. What he heard at first, he continues to hear. No change is registered by the machines she's connected to, but he trusts those less than his own ears. He knows what he's hearing, because he hasn't ever heard it before in another person. No one's heart beats that strongly in repose, except his own. They've reached the point of no return.

It's raining.

Someone left the window open, and hefty drops grace the scorching pavement with relief it seldom finds. Summer rains never last enough to cool things down. If it's this frigid, it must be one of those rare July thunderstorms.

That particular smudge of paint was not there before. It only invites more determination to finally go through with the renovation project meant to be completed last year. Every inch of the popcorn ceiling must be scraped, lest she never forget the faces her mind conjures every night before bed. There are no faces yet, but it's likely because she isn't tired enough. It's also a lot brighter at this hour than usual, and sinister things don't have a chance to take hold in lit rooms.

A breath, then - several things happen with devastating overlap.

She sits up at once. The room isn't her own, and she doesn't know whose it is. There is no light source anywhere, but one is not necessary. Her neck is tilted at an unnatural angle, a definitive ache all around her throat. Her left arm is heavy, immobile.

It isn't raining. It isn't, but her ears won't stop telling her otherwise.

Something is wrong with the world. The panic in her chest flows beyond skin to infect the air, and it's in this state that reality finds her, splattering flashes of clarity over unfocused eyes. The arrival of her memories summons a buzz of rapacious intensity, consuming every effort to remain anchored in the present. Everything is too loud and bright to be subdued, smell and sound and rasping breath merging into discordant nonsense.

The neck brace comes off with a yowl. She hurt herself, but the relief is instantaneous as her mind stops playing a reel of disturbing apparitions. No sooner she starts to gather her bearings than a distinct sound draws her attention to the window.

Her first impression is soothing - this is a dream. It more than suffices as an explanation for the terrible ache in her arms and chest, and it also places the origin of the violent imagery firmly in her subconscious. It isn't real. She just had a long day in the sun, and as she'd been occupied with thoughts of him, it makes sense that he's now outside her window.

She should be careful. Every time she's had a dream where he appeared, she always woke herself up too soon. Nerves or excitement, the result was always the same: she gets close enough to make out the details on the fabric of his suit, but can never stop him escaping through her fingers. It's nice that he hasn't fled yet.

Now more calm, she removes herself from the bed despite the considerable pain of detaching the wire embedded in her right arm. The floor is too cold for bare feet, but the sensation of walking on needles is more curious than worrisome. Her calves are sore from rigid nodes that flare up and protest with each step.

She walks to the window in a breathless stupor. He is still there, unmoving and deathly silent. If she reached out, she could touch him - it's tempting, as dreams like this are hard to come by. She decides, instead, to say hello. She'd be speaking to herself, but it's no less interesting to see what may be heard back. Only, when her mouth opens and lips come together to form the words she intends to say, nothing resembling her voice comes out. She panics for only a moment, but remembers that things like this always happen when in the snare of such profoundly realistic dreams. They're all about nonsensical occurrences, and so far every requirement has been fulfilled: strange memories that are just a figment of her subconscious being most active, aches and pains that don't make sense, and a figure she's been wanting to see manifesting outside the window. Of course her voice is broken and unusable. Much like the desire to run away from danger in a dream is always met with numb legs, her voice has sizzled out into a whispered croak.

She wants nothing more than to speak to him, so why would it work?

As if ripped from the deepest confines of a mangled throat, a noise emerges that sounds enough like a greeting to relieve the fear of another dream ending without progress. At least this time, she has said hello.

The response is strange. Of all the things she expects him to do, getting closer is not one of them, and when he enters the room with languid movements, she watches in barely restrained awe. But then, he speaks - and it's like the oxygen leaves the same way he came in.

"I'm so… I'm so sorry."

Heart-wrenchingly young. No surprise that that's how she would picture him. But why is he apologizing? Why does her mind think he should apologize? If anything, she should be the one to feel weird, knowing that in front of her stands a figure she wrote about. At the time, she didn't consider that his eyes might flit across the text just like those of other New Yorkers. If this was real, it would be hard for her gaze to lock on so firmly.

He looks interesting up close. Taller than her, lanky and deathly still, her first impression is that he must be more solid than he appears. If she crashed into him right now, as the pain in her back implores her to do, would that be so bad? Somewhere in this dilation of time, she must have already decided - when else is she going to get this chance?

She steps into him with her eyes open, fearful of closing them when her heart begins a gallop. If she wakes up, it won't be before she's got her arms around him - a feat easier to brag about than to accomplish, as her left arm is still encased in plaster and her right won't obey commands as well as she'd like. Nevertheless, she's nothing if not persistent, and though awkwardly, the task is accomplished.

He really is more sturdy than he looks, but the speed with which his heart is beating makes worry flare up in her chest. How silly is she, that her feelings in the waking world translate so well even within the recesses of her mind? Of all things to be consistent about, caring for a stranger ought to be the least helpful.

"You should rest. There's still… there's a lot… you still have to heal," he says. His small voice is a booming echo up close, sending a shiver down her spine that makes goosebumps surge. Something akin to electricity buzzes in her ear.

Heal.

Her mind turns the word this way and that, trying to figure out its own riddle. Once more, the flashes from earlier return and she heaves a sigh against his chest. How horrible. She's never seen anything like it before, even in her most violent night terrors. One continuous narrative keeps playing in abundant detail, not stopping for any of the usual events that returned her to a wakeful state. All dreams, even the worst ones, have to trip and unfurl over something. Extreme fright is what usually does it. She wakes with a jolt, or a gasp, or some remnant of a yelp dying on her lips. In these images, though, nothing makes the violence stop - no plea, no pain and no amount of fear interrupts the brutality. Lying on her front, gasping for breath around the knife in her side and trying to crawl away on an arm that had been carved into with a different knife - she doesn't know why this sequence of events plays so vividly in her head.

Her dreams are never this detailed.

She can feel her cheek press harder into the intricately ribbed latex of his suit, leaving an indentation that stretches from chin to temple and making her warm all over. No. No, it's absurd.

This isn't real. The icy breeze that makes whatever she's wearing flutter against sensitive skin is not real sensation. The way she can feel her lungs expanding with each breath, the hypnotic scenery of dawn break in a strange room, in a stranger's embrace - none of these things can be real.

"Wake me up," she rasps, forcing her eyes to stay open and keep away the blunt vision of hands reaching for her neck. It isn't enough to feel a pair of far more gentle ones slowly caress her back. She repeats the coarse prayer with uncloaked misery, and each time it is met by ever-soaring desperation.

In matters of assuagement, Peter Parker is a few years out of practice. He hasn't comforted anyone in recent memory, and recent memory spans long enough to render his efforts frustrating. Despair is one more thing he cannot overpower by sheer force of will or wit, but knowing what is required of him on paper does not make providing it any easier. He needs help; this is too much, too soon and both parts of him are overwhelmed to the point of malfunction. She deserves better than his hushed apologies and reassurances. What good is promising she'll never come to harm again when knowledge of harm done is already consuming everything?

She thought she was dreaming, and for a moment after she touched him, so did he. Afraid to return any more than a fleeting gesture, he stood frozen for the longest moment of his life. Something important was happening without him. Or it had been, until, among whispered pleas and tears, three words plunged him into a barely faded nightmare.

Stay with me.

He's not left her side in two days.

Seeing her like this, Peter wonders if he did the right thing. It's not that he expected his blood would change anything about her mental recovery, but this is nowhere near a good start. Her body and her mind seem to have gone down different paths during the last forty-eight hours, and with the removal of the cast from her left arm this morning, she's fallen into an unnerving seclusion. It doesn't feel like she's there with him unless he's talking. He's been doing more of that than he's comfortable with these two days, but nothing brings her out from the confines of her thoughts. All things considered, she's done better than anyone could be expected to, at least according to dr. Arnaud, who elected to skirt around the details of her previous state and how it came to improve.

'This is your responsibility. You have to tell her.', she said to him. He failed to pick up on any vitriol from her words or her tone, and in the end, he was in agreement. He will tell her, in due time. Revelations of that magnitude would only serve to overwhelm her completely, and things are bad enough. The only saving grace has been the absence of a particular type of symptom, which he's been vigilantly looking out for whenever he wasn't thinking of what to do. She hasn't eaten much, and he can see in her thinning frame the results of an increased metabolism. She must be starving, but can't muster the strength to eat. It only reinforces the conclusion that he needs help; he can't do this alone. He can't. He couldn't do it for himself.

In any case, whether it be brief or extensive, recovery won't happen here. Last night, Arnaud warned him in hushed whispers that staff familiar with her case are beginning to wonder, and their theories don't stray too far from the truth. She can't stay here much longer, especially as there is now nothing left to treat but scars that can't be seen. As for the ones that can, Peter has seen worse, mostly on himself. However, he knows she likely hasn't, and once or twice he's caught her stealing glances at the mark that looks worst - the one spanning her entire right arm. The hospital gown covers only a small part, and despite the room being quite warm, she's spent the entire day with a blanket around her shoulders.

The thought sparks an idea. He excuses himself for one hour, and to keep it a surprise, he invokes personal reasons for departure. She doesn't protest, but she hasn't at any point, even if he can see her tense when he takes his leave. Her apartment is the same as the last time he was here, and he tries his best at the task he gave himself. It's hard not to feel invasive, rummaging through someone's belongings to hopefully pick out the things they need. Maybe, he hopes, the things that might cheer them up. He packs blouses and sweaters and a thousand different pairs of pants into a duffel bag he finds in the back of the closet, but though he understands those are not all the necessities, his hands don't dare venture into any drawers. These are big steps for him too.

Exactly an hour later, he returns with some renewed faith to find that perhaps he shouldn't have left in the first place. Alarmed to see the empty room, he drops the bag by the window and the toiletries he shoved inside unceremoniously clang together. Maybe he shouldn't have put perfume in there. The sound draws a response from the adjacent bathroom, and he relaxes upon realizing she hasn't gone far, only to tense back up when hearing the subsequent sniffle. A disaster. He isn't equipped to deal with this.

Peter knocks on the door with an almost feeble tempo, unsure whether he's trying not to startle himself or her. He fails at the latter.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the words feel like he hasn't uttered them a million times before.

No answer comes, and the longer the silence stretches, the more his mind conjures ridiculous scenarios. What if the thing he feared has happened? What if he was right all along? He can't bear not knowing. Calling out again, he listens with care for any sound of abnormal distress. On his third inquiry, a few words finally loosen the tension in his neck.

"You can come in… um, if you want."

He opens the door with light hesitation, stepping inside tentatively when he sees that everything looks fine. She hasn't grown scales. Everything is fine. She sniffles again, wiping at her cheeks and straightening her posture before glancing at him in the doorway.

"They said I can leave today," she announces quietly, eyes meeting his only once.

The most she's looked at him directly was when she stood in front of the window, convinced she was in a dream and he was nothing but a figment of her imagination. Peter figures his own impression can't have been largely different. Seeing her walk was enough of a shock to the system. Her eyes boring into his soul for those precious moments where she was unaware of the truth made it all worth it. He doesn't like that she won't look at him the same now that she knows he's real.

"That's uh… that's good. You don't have to stay here anymore, right? No one likes the hospital. You can go home," he forwards timidly, still looking her over in case he missed something and the source of her distress is elsewhere. His attention is not rewarded, because immediately he picks up on a cue he dreads. She curls in on herself before the sink, chest heaving painful breaths.

"I have nowhere to go. I can't go back there. I can't," she gasps out between attempts to calm herself.

She's trying so hard, and he's the world's most colossal idiot. When did he intend to tell her? Each time he's seen her on the verge of panic in the last two days, he's also seen her shove it down forcefully, undoubtedly for his benefit. And each time, he got just a little closer to being as brave as he imagined himself to be.

Be brave now, his mind says, immediately followed up by a reminder to also be normal. Show a regular amount of concern.

"No, no, no, no - no, you don't have to go. You never have to go back there if you don't want to," he says in a soft tone, carefully stepping closer. The bathroom is small. The distance he has to traverse feels longer than it should.

"There is - there is nowhere else. There's nothing. I can't - I don't… I don't have anyone," she sobs.

His hand comes to rest over hers on the edge of the sink, and the touch is a momentary shock that lifts her eyes to his.

"Yes, you do."

With care not exercised in years, he turns her hand palm up, delicately lifting it higher and higher, watching the tears in her eyes slowly retreat. Only once he's brought their joined hands to the invisible seam at his clavicles does he feel true fear.

"You do," he says again for them both.

Nothing of what follows is in his control, but it couldn't happen any other way. It shouldn't happen any other way. So many times the fates of others have been in his hands, mortal peril beckoning closer, and so many times he's succeeded in steering it away that he's forgotten a quintessential truth: people are afraid because they want to live. They close their eyes, like he does now, and like Gwen did, because the bridge into the great unknown can only be crossed blind.

His face is cold on one side and burning on the other. Shallow breaths mark the passage of time almost to the second, until another shock pries open his eyelids. She's holding his face in both of her hands. The cold has gone completely.

"I'm… I'm Peter."

It's what he imagines the voice of someone who's never hurt anyone would sound like, but it came from him. It's with hands that have done so much that he's now reaching out to her, and the knowledge of it all doesn't spoil reciprocation. Somehow, she goes into him like he's someone from whom comfort is worth receiving.

"Hi, Peter," she mumbles into his neck, arms tightening around his middle. The gesture elicits an involuntary whimper that he muffles into her hair, and when his own arms have caged her in, something within him finally ruptures.

Hospital smells, especially when not dulled by the mask, have always left him queasy. For Peter, although no strong association exists between the institution and horrible life moments, he still bristles in the waiting area as though someone dear to him is undergoing surgery.

She's only getting discharged, Parker. Relax.

It's been eight hours since he last saw her. He showered, changed and scrubbed every inch of his apartment clean before realizing how all this could backfire in an instant and become the biggest mistake of his life. How did he ever think he could guarantee her safety in a place that might get blown sky high any one of these days? He's been far from careful in his pursuits, seldom watching his own back when returning home - or whenever. He hasn't had a reason to until now. His apartment is off the table until he can make sure it's not a target.

Still, he made a promise, and the clock flashes in warning that he has only minutes to ensure he keeps it. His thumb hovers over the screen until it starts shaking; no initiative without remorse appears to be the rule for this new self. He's aware of every sound echoing around the mostly empty place as the call goes through.

"Peter?"

He has to move the phone away from his ear at first. He doesn't want to believe he's almost forgotten what her voice sounds like. Sweet. Comforting. The voice he clinged to, the voice that chased away nightmares until he was old enough to be embarrassed about it. He's not heard it in months, this treasured blessing he failed to honor. He still has family. He has people who care, and a life to live. He need only reach out.

"May."

"Oh, Peter. Sweetheart, I'm so happy you called me."

May Parker is a saint. Every part of her is too good for words, and Peter hasn't any to express what he's feeling, but his eyes sting and his voice trembles as he takes another step.

"Aunt May, I need your help."

Epilogue

For May Parker, this September morning is at once too short and too long. She's toiling away in the kitchen, her shift at work be damned. The entire world could be on fire, and she would still be where she is, because her house is about to feel like home again for the first time in years. She's chopped all manner of vegetables in a frenzy, unsure what to do with them now that she has an entire counter littered with ingredients. Which of her nephew's favorites should she make? There's no time for all of them. He's going to be here by twelve. The wait is too long to just sit around dilly-dallying, and too short for everything she feels she has to do.

I'm uh… going to stay for a while.

At least everything is clean. She can't imagine welcoming Peter home to a place that looks uncared for, especially knowing he won't be arriving alone. Utterly befuddled - she was and still is to learn that not only is her nephew alright, but he has a friend. Of course, the extent of this knowledge is frustratingly limited. Narrow insights spawn endless vexation, a colleague and fellow nurse elegantly told her before retirement a few months ago, along with a warning that she can't save every patient. May always takes advice with a grain of salt.

Goodness, she forgot to salt any of the food. Rushing to the table, she picks up the small container and almost makes it back to the stove before the doorbell rings.

"What?! It's only nine thirty!" she exclaims to herself.

It can't be him. Peeking her head out the kitchen door, she looks to the entrance, startled to find that it is actually him. Oh, this boy. He's going to make a fool of her and he hasn't even stepped foot inside yet. Her hair is sticking up every which way, and her clothes aren't as nice as when she put them on, but at least she has the wherewithal to remove the dirty apron. The distance to the door is so short. She can see their outline through the frosted glass.

Her eyes get misty without delay once the door is opened, and her arms work by themselves to gather her boy and hold him close. He looks so different. His eyes frighten her for all the things they must've seen.

"Oh, sweetheart!"

"Hey, May," he says softly, and it's all she's wanted to hear after an entire spring and summer of hopeless heartbreak.

Pulling away so soon is something she only does because they aren't alone, and her manners have always overtaken her needs. To Peter's right stands a young woman an inch or two taller than May herself, with hair pulled back and a hood pulled forward that she reaches up to remove somewhat awkwardly. May has been trying to break the habit of looking at people until they become self-conscious, to moderate success. Her curiosity just gets the better of her sometimes. She could swear the girl looks familiar.

"Hello," May greets kindly.

"Hi, Mrs. Parker. Pleasure to meet you," the woman says in return, voice a little raspy and deeper than May would have imagined it.

"Please, call me May. What's your name, love?"

"Um - I'm…" she pauses to look to Peter in a wordless prompt. Whatever they're communicating to one another, May isn't privy to it.

"We should go inside. Got a lot to talk about. You remember what I told you on the phone?"

She does. She's been pondering the words since the call ended.

We both need some time to get better.

"Well, come on in, then. I have meatballs on the stove."

Peter pulls a face that for a short moment makes him look as young as May knows him to be. They both look much older than they ought to.

"May, it's not even ten a.m."

"Peter Benjamin Parker, you told me you'd be here at noon, so don't go blaming me for your change in plans."

A soft laugh breaks their little stand-off, Peter turning to the young woman with surprise. May's eyes catch the fondness on her nephew's face, memories surfacing of a time when showing affection used to come easily to him. Perhaps it's time for that again, she thinks. Seeing how careful he is with her as he guides her inside, May imagines the days ahead might be the most important in a while. Maybe, they might even be less dour than she anticipates them being, as she overhears an amused whisper intended for her nephew.

Benjamin. That suits you.

Yes, May thinks - that's always been true. And now, he's home.

- fin -

A/N: Thank you for reading. Your thoughts are always appreciated, and I hope you are all doing well.

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