Sep 04, 2010 21:26
Showering does little to improve my mood, though I can't call the experience a complete wash -- at least I don't smell like Doc Ock's armpit anymore. The hut's quiet save for my muttering when I emerge in only a towel, distractedly reaching for a pair of pants to wear and little else.
It's an hour before there's any movement on the porch. I've only just taken a break from running a hole through the floor with my pacing, instead drawn in on myself on the foot of the bed. My fingers are wrapped around my ankles, my bare shoulders hunched forward so that they're touching my knees. I turn at the sound with the sharpness of a pointing dog, eyes narrowing as I wait to see who's about to come in, like it could possibly be anyone other than Mary Jane, finally back with food from the Compound.
With the rate this week is going, though, I'm not about to take anything for granted.
Standing up, I step off the mattress, the floorboards groaning under the sudden weight as I stalk over towards the front, too exhausted to bother with anything resembling grace. The door swings open just as I reach for its handle, leaving me with my hand outstretched in thin air.
"...hi."
mary jane parker,
peter parker