(no subject)
aefallen's birthday fic, with an alternate ending. hope you'll like this version too! *luffs*
Euclidean Geometry
It was simple enough, when he got down to it.
Picking himself off the floor the next morning, spine aching from being pushed into a dank corner, rubbing the grime from the corner of his eyes. The light in the living room was harsh as he made a few well-placed phone calls to suitably discreet people, and then he opened the door and walked out.
The following day, when he was chauffeured to work from the hotel, all that was left was a pile of rubble and a swarm of blue-clad construction workers.
He started with Aunt May. He always remembered her the way she had been twenty years ago - hair just barely graying, fingers smoothing down his hair and offering him thick slices of chocolate cake. She was more feeble now, hands a little more shaky, but there was a faint sort of nostalgia in the way she opened the door and shooed him in, and poured just the right amount of milk in his tea. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he preferred coffee, but there was something familiar, too, about the lingering taste of cream on the tip of his tongue.
She asked about his work, worried over his long hours, and by the time he finished his carrot cake, the strange steeliness in her eyes had melted into some semblance of warmth. Before he left, he gave her a hug, and quietly tucked a fifty under the clock in the kitchen. He wasn't quite sure what that said about him.
He picked Mary Jane up after rehearsal on a rainy night, and offered her an umbrella as she stood forlornly outside the theatre.
He suggested, coffee?
And she smiled, nodded as she grasped his arm. There was a Starbucks just across the street, and they sat nursing lattes over slightly awkward silences. He asked about her productions, out of politeness, and she invited him to one, out of obligation. He said he was busy, but he would try, and there was something pensive in the way she dipped her head to watch her reflection from the coffee cup.
She invited him to her apartment, after. It was in a seedier part of town, and she apologised as they climbed up the stairs, said she'd been landing fewer parts, joining smaller groups. Inside, she set out glasses of red wine for both of them, and when she sat down next to him, hand on his knee, he said - No, no. I'm sorry. I have to go.
He wanted to ask - what about him? - but there was something lodged in his chest; pity, maybe, or just horror, and all he could do was go.
He gave an exclusive interview to the Daily Bugle and insisted on paying a visit to their offices. It was cramped and busy, walls whitewashed, desks dull shades of grey, and he tried to imagine working there. Failed miserably.
There was a dark-haired woman sitting at the desk in front of the editor's office. She looked up as he approached, and she tensed visibly, eyes narrowed and back ramrod straight. He stopped beside her, intending to ask for Jameson, but she spoke before he did -
You're that boy, aren't you? The one who slapped -
But then Jameson came out, blustering gratitude and cordiality, and he was led away as she blushed, suddenly quiet.
He'd planned it in his head. The time, the place, the way he'd walk in and wait, and then apologise. The way he'd be forgiven.
He hadn't planned for the wariness. Hadn't expected the hardness and caution and suspicion that lingered in cold blue eyes. Hadn't anticipated the way Peter backed away as he approached, backed right up against the wall and then, jaw clenched, ducked out the window.
It was easy after that. Easier, at least, when he went back to work and faced pages and pages of reports, a series of white labcoats parading past him. He wasn't blind; he could see how they smirked at him, an ignorant little boy playing with weapons and technology, and there was a voice in his head, malicious as it urged him to work, to excel, to become even better than his father.
He was ready the day they came to him with plans for a new hovercraft. Paint it green, he demanded, insisted as they quirked their eyebrows, amused, then smiled indulgently and patted him on the back, reassuring -
Of course. Anything you want.
It was simple enough, when he got down to it.
Euclidean Geometry
It was simple enough, when he got down to it.
Picking himself off the floor the next morning, spine aching from being pushed into a dank corner, rubbing the grime from the corner of his eyes. The light in the living room was harsh as he made a few well-placed phone calls to suitably discreet people, and then he opened the door and walked out.
The following day, when he was chauffeured to work from the hotel, all that was left was a pile of rubble and a swarm of blue-clad construction workers.
He started with Aunt May. He always remembered her the way she had been twenty years ago - hair just barely graying, fingers smoothing down his hair and offering him thick slices of chocolate cake. She was more feeble now, hands a little more shaky, but there was a faint sort of nostalgia in the way she opened the door and shooed him in, and poured just the right amount of milk in his tea. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he preferred coffee, but there was something familiar, too, about the lingering taste of cream on the tip of his tongue.
She asked about his work, worried over his long hours, and by the time he finished his carrot cake, the strange steeliness in her eyes had melted into some semblance of warmth. Before he left, he gave her a hug, and quietly tucked a fifty under the clock in the kitchen. He wasn't quite sure what that said about him.
He picked Mary Jane up after rehearsal on a rainy night, and offered her an umbrella as she stood forlornly outside the theatre.
He suggested, coffee?
And she smiled, nodded as she grasped his arm. There was a Starbucks just across the street, and they sat nursing lattes over slightly awkward silences. He asked about her productions, out of politeness, and she invited him to one, out of obligation. He said he was busy, but he would try, and there was something pensive in the way she dipped her head to watch her reflection from the coffee cup.
She invited him to her apartment, after. It was in a seedier part of town, and she apologised as they climbed up the stairs, said she'd been landing fewer parts, joining smaller groups. Inside, she set out glasses of red wine for both of them, and when she sat down next to him, hand on his knee, he said - No, no. I'm sorry. I have to go.
He wanted to ask - what about him? - but there was something lodged in his chest; pity, maybe, or just horror, and all he could do was go.
He gave an exclusive interview to the Daily Bugle and insisted on paying a visit to their offices. It was cramped and busy, walls whitewashed, desks dull shades of grey, and he tried to imagine working there. Failed miserably.
There was a dark-haired woman sitting at the desk in front of the editor's office. She looked up as he approached, and she tensed visibly, eyes narrowed and back ramrod straight. He stopped beside her, intending to ask for Jameson, but she spoke before he did -
You're that boy, aren't you? The one who slapped -
But then Jameson came out, blustering gratitude and cordiality, and he was led away as she blushed, suddenly quiet.
He'd planned it in his head. The time, the place, the way he'd walk in and wait, and then apologise. The way he'd be forgiven.
He hadn't planned for the wariness. Hadn't expected the hardness and caution and suspicion that lingered in cold blue eyes. Hadn't anticipated the way Peter backed away as he approached, backed right up against the wall and then, jaw clenched, ducked out the window.
It was easy after that. Easier, at least, when he went back to work and faced pages and pages of reports, a series of white labcoats parading past him. He wasn't blind; he could see how they smirked at him, an ignorant little boy playing with weapons and technology, and there was a voice in his head, malicious as it urged him to work, to excel, to become even better than his father.
He was ready the day they came to him with plans for a new hovercraft. Paint it green, he demanded, insisted as they quirked their eyebrows, amused, then smiled indulgently and patted him on the back, reassuring -
Of course. Anything you want.
It was simple enough, when he got down to it.