[for Peter] Get me pictures! Pictures of dinosaurs!

[notaparker]

It hasn't missed my notice that Peter's been kind of terse and distant in classes, that something is up; something happened, and he hasn't taken it well. Maybe I should have asked about it, given him a chance to hash it out

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[daretodo]

There's absolutely no reason I should be at home right now, other than the thought of pushing paperwork across my desk in the Council office strikes me as a horrible way to spend the afternoon when I'm on the verge of a breakthrough with one of the upgrades on my suit. That I have no desire whatsoever to suffer through another day of inane small talk with strangers doesn't play an insignificant part in that decision, either, but that goes without saying. I haven't exactly been fit for public consumption lately, and the less time I'm forced to spend around other people, the better -- for everyone involved.

My workshop is a literal web at the moment, various lengths of wire and machinery supported in the air by a complex network of longer-lasting webbing I whipped up just special for such momentous occasions as science and the odd stargazing date with Mary Jane. I'm in the middle of weaving a particularly delicate wire through the fabric of one of my gloves when there's a knock at the front door that startles me enough that I accidentally cut it in half with the pliers. Swearing under my breath, I throw the pliers onto my desk a little harder than's called for, pushing a hand back through my hair in frustration. Carefully, I navigate my way out into the hall, ducking and weaving through various strands of webbing until I'm home free. Well, in a manner of speaking.

Not in the habit of receiving a whole lot of company, I've got no real idea who to expect as I stalk towards the door, though I'm hoping whoever it is isn't expecting a friendly neighbor to lend them a cup of sugar. Schooling my expression into something a little less homicidal, I let out a short, sharp exhale, and open the door. When I see who it is, I don't even bother biting back a laugh. Of course it's Jessica. The ol' Parker luck strikes again, albeit repackaged as a Drew.

"What, no rocks this time?"

[notaparker]

"I'm branching out," I say, which is an unfortunate verbal reference to my run in with the local flora recently, from which I still have a mark on my forehead. My hair covers it most of the time, fortunately. "Wouldn't want to get predictable."

Maybe this was a bad idea. That certainly doesn't seem to be the best of moods. Distance, that was a great idea.

[daretodo]

"In the middle of the day, too," I note, folding my arms over my chest. I realize only belatedly that I should invite her in -- if she came all the way here to talk, chances are it isn't something I want anyone to eavesdrop on, not that there are any other houses in the immediate vicinity -- but I eventually get around to stepping aside in the doorway, leaving her with enough room to get by.

"You're right, it's like a brand new you."

[notaparker]

That'd be far funnier if I wasn't already the brand new me. Newly minted. Still under warranty, probably, although I hear sourcing replacement parts is a- okay, that line of thought is way too off-putting, carried that far.

I hesitate, and then step on past him inside. "Well, you know, when you run out of sugar, it doesn't pay to wait around," I say. "Is this a bad time?"

In your life, say. Possibly could have asked that before I stepped inside. That might have been the more sensible order of events.

[daretodo]

"If you're really just here for sugar?" I say, considering the question. "Yes. But seeing as the last time you made a house call was when a space station fell out of the sky, I'm gonna take a wild guess, and say that's not why you trekked all the way out here."

I close the door behind her, then wander towards the kitchen, expecting her to follow. Really, what I'd like to do is get back to my workshop, but I'm not sure I'm ready just yet to start exposing all of my top secret projects to a person who's neither friend, stranger, or acquaintance, especially when said projects are nowhere near to done. Besides, like I just said, her visit's unusual, and in my experience, unusual usually means something's afoot. My sense of dread is officially on standby.

"What's up?"

[notaparker]

Now I feel kind of bad that one of the reasons I trekked out here is actually pretty mundane, on the surface of it.

"Well, now I feel underwhelming," I say. "It wasn't sugar, but close. I remembered seeing you had a camera, and was wondering if, uh, if I could borrow it. For science."

Now I really am thinking it was a mistake. In saying it I'm reminded that the relationship between us, while complex and indisputable, is nonetheless kind of tenuous, in its own way, and probably doesn't extend to lending each other stuff, as it were.

Which just leaves me with asking after his personal life, which, again, similarly, strikes me as potentially kind of an overstep. Great work, Drew. As if your life wasn't awkward enough already, you had to go seek brand new opportunities for discomfort.

[daretodo]

"...you're serious," I say flatly after a very long and very awkward moment of silence. It's important that I establish that part first -- that she is, in fact, serious -- because it'll form the foundations of the rest of what promises now to be a pretty painful conversation. Not that Jessica and I have a history of unpainful conversations, but she was supposed to be a brand new her, and now we're just retreading old territory.

"And you couldn't've asked me this after one of my many science courses that you already happen to take why?"

[notaparker]

"It only just came up?" I say, wincing. Obviously that would have been the preferred option, but I already said I'd meet Olive and head out there tomorrow, which sort of ruled out waiting until the next time I had a class with him. "Sort of at the last minute."

Now I definitely feel like kind of an ass. So much for the brand new me, improving the way I approach life due to the amount I have to examine the way I think.

Maybe I just need to do more of it. It gets tiring, though, vetting every thought. Not that that's any excuse.

[daretodo]

"We're in a pocket dimension whose official pastime might as well be sunbathing, not New York. Nothing here is so pressing that you couldn't've waited a couple of days," I say, hopping up onto the counter. I don't even really know why she wants the camera yet, and already I'm annoyed enough to say no without hearing her out. I frown.

"Try again."

[notaparker]

Absolutely, positively did not think this through sufficiently. I rub the back of my head. Time for the other approach, I guess.

"Okay, I know you're not this much of a grumpy-guts about people stopping by generally," I say, "probably," because actually maybe he is, I don't know that, "so this clearly is a bad time. As you said. But, um, in the wider sense. So... what's up?" My voice goes up maybe even higher than is usual for the end of a question, there. This is not exactly solid ground I am treading, and by solid ground, I mean the side of a skyscraper.

[daretodo]

The question scares another laugh out of me, one that's as surprised as it is mirthless. I don't know why; I mean, she's hardly the first person to ask. I've been in enough of a mood to draw all sort of unsolicited attention lately, but I've never dealt with grief particularly well. It's not something I like to discuss, preferring to keep it bottled up, because the chances of anyone else actually understanding what the hell it is I'm going through is so slim that there's no point in putting myself through the added trouble of spilling my life story. Then again, she is my first would-be clone to ask as much, and even if I suspect she has an angle -- she's already admitted she came here to borrow my camera, not inquire about my well-being -- I'm curious as to why she's bothering.

"Do you actually care?"

[notaparker]

"Would you?" I say, which isn't throwing the idea back in his face; I'm not accusing him of hypothetically not caring, or stating that I don't. It's rather a sort of roundabout way of putting it out there that my being a clone means we share a few things, and maybe one of those things is that, sure, we care about things. We're people who care. We're carers.

[daretodo]

"Yes, but that's not what I asked," I reply, and while I can see the point she's trying to make -- there's a big neon sign, actually, it's impossible to miss -- I don't know that it's the right one to be making.

[notaparker]

"Yes, okay?" I say, pulling myself up to perch on the kitchen table and swing my feet under me, kicking fruitlessly at nothing. "Something's wrong, and for whatever messed up reason that is my life I might be equipped to understand and help out, in whatever way, and so, you know. Here I am."

I can just imagine Aunt May or MJ -- the one back home -- prodding me into doing it sooner, as being the right thing. Not that either of them know who I am. But in theory. And not that that's why I'm here, the imagined figures of someone else's past moving me to action. Except in broader the sense that that's a part of why I do anything, of course.

[daretodo]

"Here you are," I mutter, drawing up one knee to wrap my arms around, purposefully changing my posture from hers since it's always a little uncomfortable once a teenager girl starts telling you how alike you are to her -- or, rather, how alike she is to you. You, in this case, being me.

If she'd asked me even a week ago what had happened, I might've given her the same run around I put most of everyone else through, but enough time's passed that I've come to some reluctant sense of acceptance about the news, though it doesn't make it much easier to bear, let alone talk about. There's a long beat where I don't say anything else at all, instead swallowing, thickly, as I look away from her, my gaze fixed on a point over her shoulder. After mulling over the pros and cons of talking to her, I ask, "Do you know who Johnny Storm and Marla Jameson are?"

[notaparker]

Oh, that's ominous. That's a lot of ominous.

"I know Johnny," I say. I can say that. I do know Johnny, as Jessica. I can think that without checking myself, looking over my own shoulder to make sure it is my shoulder I'm referring to. "I don't know a Marla Jameson. Related to JJJ?"

I don't tack on some joke about our favorite newspaperman. Not entirely the time or place.