[Kübler-Ross | Stage Two | Anger]

[daretodo]

The kitchen table's been overturned and the splintered remnants of a chair are scattered across the floor, along with broken plates and glasses, silverware. In the living room, a bookshelf's collapsed in on itself, the end table responsible for its destruction still hanging through the slats of one of the shelves. One of the couches has been torn

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[lucked]

Honestly, I'd never try to claim that I'm the brightest bulb around. Even back in Union Wells, there were some subjects that I just didn't get, or maybe didn't put enough effort towards. Middling grades in biology, slightly above average in math- school's something that's hard to put one's all in, because the end goal that you're working for, the carrot that they keep on trying to dangle in front of our faces? It's just far away. It's not something that you can bury your hands in, it's not something immediately gratifying. You try hard in high school, you get into a good college. You try hard in college, you get a good job. It's no wonder most kids my age don't have the patience for it

[daretodo]

It never occurred to me that anyone would knock.

In retrospect, that'll probably seem naive, but for now, the sound of it, short and sharp, startles me free from my train of thought. The wisps of an idea flee from my grasp, either a breakthrough or another dead end, and now I'll never have the chance to figure it out. Its only remains is the black squiggle I made instead of a sigma, and I swear under my breath, pushing a hand back through hair that's more grease than anything else.

For about a minute I consider ignoring it, but then I wonder if that won't do more harm than good, if they'll keep knocking or just barge right in, and so I toss the marker onto the desk, and stalk out of my workshop, ignoring the stabbing pain in my chest when I pass the never-opened bedroom door across the hall.

I steel myself for what promises to be a brief conversation no matter who's waiting outside-- Unless, I think despite my better judgment, it's Mary Jane, a thought I immediately send back to where it came from when I suck down a breath that's

[lucked]

It's immediately clear that he isn't okay. His hair's disheveled, his eyes rimmed with red and still kind of bright beyond that- like someone who's just on the verge of tears. There's a slight stubble growing along his chin. Maybe by most people's standards, none of that would mean too much, just another lousy day on the island where things didn't go quite right. But this is Peter. Maybe he's not my Peter, the uncle who was willing to risk his life for me even before he knew who I was, the one who'll always be my hero, but that doesn't mean that I don't think of Peter Parker as family as well. Maybe I'm closer to Mary Jane- or was, the pit of my stomach already tells me- but Peter's still someone I'd do anything in my power for

[daretodo]

The resistance of her hand against the door is so minimal that I don't know I would've even noticed had she not started to talk, though most of her words go in one ear and out the other. The few I latch onto don't make a lot of sense, but my gaze drops back to the basket of cupcakes, and this time my stomach lurches. I don't know when's the last time I've eaten -- if it's been days or just hours -- but I won't let my body betray me; company's the last thing I want, let alone that of a girl's who's barely lived. This isn't for her to see.

"I'm not hungry."

[lucked]

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't eat," I argue right away, brows furrowing together as I take the opportunity in Peter's momentary slack-jawed look and scamper inside, small as I am. I can't say that I've ever really dealt with people falling apart in the way that Peter seems to be, but I do know a whole lot about people denying themselves food, or just waiting so long to eat that the pang of hunger doesn't even touch them anymore. You still need to get them to eat. Otherwise, they start falling apart even faster, until they're like paper in your hands, just on the verge of ripping to pieces.

And when I see the disarray that the house is in? That only strengthens my resolve.

Maybe I sound a little braver than I feel when I cast a look back over my shoulder toward Peter. "I'm not leaving until I've seen you eat at least one," I tell him.

[daretodo]

She's just a girl -- a kid who doesn't know any better, who falls off roofs, and, apparently, comes into houses uninvited. Too aware of the uncomfortable position she's unwittingly put me in, I don't dare raise my voice, careful to make sure there's some distance between us. I keep the door wide open, hoping she'll get the hint to leave, but not liking my odds. I've never had very good luck. It always runs out at the worst possible time.

Still, as much as I hate ultimatums, the answer of what to do is clear enough; shove a cupcake down my throat and tell her to go.

"Fine," I say sharply, holding out my hand. "One."

[lucked]

The sad thing is, I can't help but think of what Mary Jane would say, if she saw this scene. Everything, from the way Peter's acting to the broken pieces of furniture strewn all around the house, it's wrong, it doesn't fit, it's the sort of thing that Mary Jane could have prevented simply by being. That's the effect that she always seemed to have on people, calming them down and making them see reason. It's something that goes underappreciated on the best of days. But pointing that out to Peter right now would probably only make it worse.

What I do know, though, is that he really shouldn't be alone right now. At least I didn't promise to leave after the cupcake, I think to myself, before I reach into my basket and hold out one of the cupcakes for Peter.

"And you need regular meals. I don't know what you're working on in here," I say firmly, holding my ground, even as something flutters in my stomach, nausea passing through, "but it's not going to get done if you pass out from lack of food."

[daretodo]

I take a bite out of the cupcake, but for all that my body needs the food, I don't really want it, and it's a struggle to swallow while Claire keeps nattering on. I'm starting to get the sense that she's not going to leave even if I finish this, and start to consider whether or not leaving myself is an option I'm willing to take; if it means getting away from her, it just might be, but the idea of getting run out of my house by a teenage girl grates, for obvious reasons.

"I'm not going to pass out," I say quietly, my gaze gone cold. "I know my limitations, Claire, and I'd appreciate--" I get a little louder on that one word, then force myself to rein it back in. "--if you didn't talk to me like I'm a child."

[lucked]

Sure, it makes nervous, getting a look like that from Peter. There's always been more of a gap between me and him than there was between me and Mary Jane (who I'm already starting to think of as gone, as much as it pains me, the corners of my eyes feeling warm). Sometimes, I wonder if I'm just some kind of burden that he's dealt with for her sake, family by obligation rather than sentiment. I sit myself down on the more worn down of the couches, on the less tattered armrest.

"I'm not talking to you like you're a child," I reply evenly, voice lowering in volume. "I'm talking to you like you're someone who's forgotten to eat. Strangely enough, that happens more with adults than it does with kids. I think you know your limits. I also think you're blinded by pushing them."

[daretodo]

"And I think you're pushing some of yours," I say, and it's a struggle to maintain some facsimile of calm when I have a half a mind to start screaming at her to get out, but I do. I manage. By some grace of God, I manage.

"I never invited you in."

[lucked]

"If we always waited for invitations in life, nothing would get done," I counter, trying to keep my voice even, though a slight waver slips through. Trying to make up for it, I cross my arms, furrow my brow- try to figure out anything I can say to convince him not to just shove me out of the door right here, right now. "You're not okay, Peter. And when that happens to friends or family, you skip past invitations."

I stare at him after, just waiting to see what kind of counter he has for that.

[daretodo]

"Are you-- I don't even know you!" I say, scoffing with disbelief, eyes gone wide.

Friends or family...? Out of what she's conjuring up this whole alleged relationship between us is beyond me, and in light of so devastating a loss, I don't want the audience for my grief be someone I don't even know -- and, moreover, someone who doesn't even know me. She's a student. Mary Jane's friend. She fell off a roof one time, I helped with the surgery -- but I help with all the surgeries, that's my building.

Blinking hard, focusing past my instinctive confusion and the anger that's not gone anywhere, I shake my head, and thrust a hand towards the open door.

"So here's an invitation you better take: get out."

[lucked]

It stings. Compared to everything else, maybe this is the time when that kind of statement hurts the least, just because it pales in comparison to losing someone who's been a sister to me (I won't even do Mary Jane the disservice of saying that she was like a sister anymore, because more and more I find myself wishing that I could just get a hug from her, hide from everything else around me). But let's be honest. No one wants to hear that they mean so little to someone that they care deeply for.

Sure. I don't know that much about Peter compared to... well, a lot of the adults on the island. I get that. But friends, at least, I figured he'd accept that much.

I'm trying to pin it all on his anger, but it's hard. Fortunately, I've gotten good at avoiding the whole crying thing; instead, everything manifests in a lump that lingers in my throat.

"No," I shake my head, quieter now.