[just for me the church bell rang]
It's not really a secret: I spend a not insignificant chunk of my time doing research. Partly because of my job, being a teacher and all -- not to mention a Councilman -- but I'd be lying if I said a lot of it wasn't just for personal projects. Granted, for a while there, most of those personal projects were actually Tony Stark projects, but thanks to his brand new ticker, so to speak, I've been able to focus my efforts on my work again -- that is, when I'm not busy helping out with the ongoing salvage of the space station. Looking around, it's hard to believe it hasn't even been a month since the sky fell -- since Duo stepped through that portal into worlds unknown -- but life here has a way of resetting itself to the status quo. Disaster strikes, and most people pick up the pieces, and carry on, leaving the burden of memory on the few who were stuck in the middle of it all.
Not that I haven't been carrying on myself, mind you. I've been moving between the kitchen and the Council office for the better part of the afternoon, plucking books from the Rec Room shelf without rhyme or reason to see if they're of any use for any one of my projects every time I go to refill my coffee. It's not until my latest trip, though, when I have to navigate my way through the dinner rush that I realize I'm running late for a date with Mary Jane at the Winchester. Muttering a curse under my breath, I rush back out into the Rec Room empty-handed, intent on making a dash to grab my bag from the office before I head out, but I can't help but spare one last glance at the bookshelf as I hurry past. It's been surprisingly forthcoming today -- I got a copy of Singin' In The Rain for MJ, even, and given that I'm definitely going to be needing some sort of a peace offering for my tardiness, I'll take it as a good sign -- and not wanting to waste its random bout of generosity, I figure it can't hurt to take one last quick peek.
Famous last words.
I'm greeted with the sight of a very familiar newspaper. Not familiar in the sense that I've seen this particular issue before -- I haven't, but I'll get to that in a second -- but familiar in the sense that it's The Daily Bugle, the newspaper I used to work for before I was forced to find employment elsewhere. With a dry laugh, I pull it from the shelf, too curious to not to at least read the front page; that laughter's necessarily short-lived.
CITY MOURNS FIRST LADY, the headline yells, and a picture of Marla Jameson is tucked underneath, right along with a story written by Ben Urich. There's a moment where I can do nothing but stare in mute disbelief, the noise around me fading into white noise as I race through the article, my heart pounding in my ears. The more I read, the less sense I can make of it, so much of it seeming absolutely wrong -- Marla's dead and Jonah's the Mayor of New York City? Confusion gives away to dread as I spot a pile of Bugle editions resting on the topmost shelf, and without thinking, I snatch every last one, clutching them to my chest with both hands as I stride back into the office for some measure of privacy; once inside, I drop, bodily, to the floor, half for the convenience, and half because my legs were about to give out either way.
Unmindful of anyone who might be around, I tear through each issue -- some of them, it turns out, aren't even the Bugle proper, but something called The DB -- exhilarated and horrified in turns. There's a piece on Flash Thompson, no longer in the coma Norman left him in, but now, apparently, a paraplegic from his most recent tour overseas. There's another on Harry Osborn, American Son, that makes my heart jump up into my throat; he died years ago, I want to scream, but instead I stay silent, too hungry for more information about a future I'll never get to live to do anything save read. Some of this I've already been filled in on -- Bucky told me all about Norman's so-called 'Avengers' months ago, not to mention what eventually came of them -- but most of it comes as a surprise, spurring me on to keep reading.
And I do just that, plowing through story after story of life at home, of disasters and triumphs, not stopping 'til I'm about halfway through the pile, when I come across another headline that turns my blood cold. My hands start to shake to the point where I can no longer make out the words of the article, and I let the paper fall the short distance to the ground, from where Johnny Storm's face now stares up at the ceiling, his obituary taking up the rest of the page. I murmur "no" over and over again under my breath, shoving my hands back through my hair, fingers curling tightly around the nape of my neck. He disappeared from the Island months ago, right after my wedding, but I'd told Mary Jane then that it was okay, that he'd be happier at home, that he wasn't dead, even if he wasn't here, but now--
Now, I'm faced with the realization that if he'd never disappeared, he'd still be alive. A part of me wants to believe that maybe this isn't from my universe, that all of these deaths and resurrections are part of some other Peter Parker's story, but while there's plenty that doesn't make sense, there's nothing that's inconsistent with what I know of home -- that sometimes it's cruel and bizarre and unnatural. Marla and Johnny are dead, but where the hell was I? Where was Spider-Man in all of this? Denial twists into anger, and I make to stand on unsteady legs, silent fury fueling my movements as I shove the stack of papers into my bag, not wanting to leave them out for just anyone to see, not wanting some stranger to infringe on my grief.
Only half-closing it, I sling the bag over my shoulder, and stalk out of the Compound, letting the door slam behind me as I jog down the steps, and into the darkening night. My jog dissolves into a run, but I have no clear destination in mind, letting my feet take me wherever it is they think I need to be, because it's too risky to make for the trees in an area so populated. I should go find MJ, apologize for having stood her up, but the thought of having to break this news just makes me want to run in the opposite direction, avoid that inevitably just a little bit longer. Maybe that makes me a coward, but I can't be there for her until I have myself under control, and right now, I'm anything but. We just talked about the average life expectancy of someone in my line of work, and Johnny--
Johnny was my age.
A sob catches in my throat, the sound of it harsh to my own ears, but I ignore it, fighting back tears I don't want to deal with as I come to a halt in a clearing I haven't been to since September. The same old punching bag I once took to task still hangs from a sturdy looking tree, its outline visible even in the low light of dusk. I step towards it, shucking off my bag with little care for where it lands, loosening my tie, fumbling with the knot. My breaths are labored from running so hard, but the burn in my chest feels too good for me to be bothered, a distraction from the unfounded guilt gnawing at the back of my neck like a dog and his bone. With a snarl, I let loose with a punch that would've rattled the whole tree at home, yet only serves to test the chain here. Dimly, the thought occurs to me that I should wrap my hands before I really get into this. Instead I strike the bag again -- no fancy tricks, no clever quips for my own amusement. Just one solid hit after another in an attempt to soothe my frayed nerves, to funnel away some of my rage, but it doesn't work. Two more people are dead, and here I am, stuck in another universe, and powerless to do a damn thing about it.
Laughing bitterly, I stumble back from the still-swinging bag, burying my face in bloodied hands to keep my expression from crumpling. I must've been making a lot of noise, though, because above my panting, I hear what's unmistakably someone approaching -- curious or concerned, both or neither. After a second of blind panic at having been caught, I become eerily still, my breaths leveling out through sheer force of will, the line of my shoulders turning tense.
My face obscured by a convenient shadow, I call out in a cold, mechanical voice, "I'm fine."
Closed to new tags.
Not that I haven't been carrying on myself, mind you. I've been moving between the kitchen and the Council office for the better part of the afternoon, plucking books from the Rec Room shelf without rhyme or reason to see if they're of any use for any one of my projects every time I go to refill my coffee. It's not until my latest trip, though, when I have to navigate my way through the dinner rush that I realize I'm running late for a date with Mary Jane at the Winchester. Muttering a curse under my breath, I rush back out into the Rec Room empty-handed, intent on making a dash to grab my bag from the office before I head out, but I can't help but spare one last glance at the bookshelf as I hurry past. It's been surprisingly forthcoming today -- I got a copy of Singin' In The Rain for MJ, even, and given that I'm definitely going to be needing some sort of a peace offering for my tardiness, I'll take it as a good sign -- and not wanting to waste its random bout of generosity, I figure it can't hurt to take one last quick peek.
Famous last words.
I'm greeted with the sight of a very familiar newspaper. Not familiar in the sense that I've seen this particular issue before -- I haven't, but I'll get to that in a second -- but familiar in the sense that it's The Daily Bugle, the newspaper I used to work for before I was forced to find employment elsewhere. With a dry laugh, I pull it from the shelf, too curious to not to at least read the front page; that laughter's necessarily short-lived.
CITY MOURNS FIRST LADY, the headline yells, and a picture of Marla Jameson is tucked underneath, right along with a story written by Ben Urich. There's a moment where I can do nothing but stare in mute disbelief, the noise around me fading into white noise as I race through the article, my heart pounding in my ears. The more I read, the less sense I can make of it, so much of it seeming absolutely wrong -- Marla's dead and Jonah's the Mayor of New York City? Confusion gives away to dread as I spot a pile of Bugle editions resting on the topmost shelf, and without thinking, I snatch every last one, clutching them to my chest with both hands as I stride back into the office for some measure of privacy; once inside, I drop, bodily, to the floor, half for the convenience, and half because my legs were about to give out either way.
Unmindful of anyone who might be around, I tear through each issue -- some of them, it turns out, aren't even the Bugle proper, but something called The DB -- exhilarated and horrified in turns. There's a piece on Flash Thompson, no longer in the coma Norman left him in, but now, apparently, a paraplegic from his most recent tour overseas. There's another on Harry Osborn, American Son, that makes my heart jump up into my throat; he died years ago, I want to scream, but instead I stay silent, too hungry for more information about a future I'll never get to live to do anything save read. Some of this I've already been filled in on -- Bucky told me all about Norman's so-called 'Avengers' months ago, not to mention what eventually came of them -- but most of it comes as a surprise, spurring me on to keep reading.
And I do just that, plowing through story after story of life at home, of disasters and triumphs, not stopping 'til I'm about halfway through the pile, when I come across another headline that turns my blood cold. My hands start to shake to the point where I can no longer make out the words of the article, and I let the paper fall the short distance to the ground, from where Johnny Storm's face now stares up at the ceiling, his obituary taking up the rest of the page. I murmur "no" over and over again under my breath, shoving my hands back through my hair, fingers curling tightly around the nape of my neck. He disappeared from the Island months ago, right after my wedding, but I'd told Mary Jane then that it was okay, that he'd be happier at home, that he wasn't dead, even if he wasn't here, but now--
Now, I'm faced with the realization that if he'd never disappeared, he'd still be alive. A part of me wants to believe that maybe this isn't from my universe, that all of these deaths and resurrections are part of some other Peter Parker's story, but while there's plenty that doesn't make sense, there's nothing that's inconsistent with what I know of home -- that sometimes it's cruel and bizarre and unnatural. Marla and Johnny are dead, but where the hell was I? Where was Spider-Man in all of this? Denial twists into anger, and I make to stand on unsteady legs, silent fury fueling my movements as I shove the stack of papers into my bag, not wanting to leave them out for just anyone to see, not wanting some stranger to infringe on my grief.
Only half-closing it, I sling the bag over my shoulder, and stalk out of the Compound, letting the door slam behind me as I jog down the steps, and into the darkening night. My jog dissolves into a run, but I have no clear destination in mind, letting my feet take me wherever it is they think I need to be, because it's too risky to make for the trees in an area so populated. I should go find MJ, apologize for having stood her up, but the thought of having to break this news just makes me want to run in the opposite direction, avoid that inevitably just a little bit longer. Maybe that makes me a coward, but I can't be there for her until I have myself under control, and right now, I'm anything but. We just talked about the average life expectancy of someone in my line of work, and Johnny--
Johnny was my age.
A sob catches in my throat, the sound of it harsh to my own ears, but I ignore it, fighting back tears I don't want to deal with as I come to a halt in a clearing I haven't been to since September. The same old punching bag I once took to task still hangs from a sturdy looking tree, its outline visible even in the low light of dusk. I step towards it, shucking off my bag with little care for where it lands, loosening my tie, fumbling with the knot. My breaths are labored from running so hard, but the burn in my chest feels too good for me to be bothered, a distraction from the unfounded guilt gnawing at the back of my neck like a dog and his bone. With a snarl, I let loose with a punch that would've rattled the whole tree at home, yet only serves to test the chain here. Dimly, the thought occurs to me that I should wrap my hands before I really get into this. Instead I strike the bag again -- no fancy tricks, no clever quips for my own amusement. Just one solid hit after another in an attempt to soothe my frayed nerves, to funnel away some of my rage, but it doesn't work. Two more people are dead, and here I am, stuck in another universe, and powerless to do a damn thing about it.
Laughing bitterly, I stumble back from the still-swinging bag, burying my face in bloodied hands to keep my expression from crumpling. I must've been making a lot of noise, though, because above my panting, I hear what's unmistakably someone approaching -- curious or concerned, both or neither. After a second of blind panic at having been caught, I become eerily still, my breaths leveling out through sheer force of will, the line of my shoulders turning tense.
My face obscured by a convenient shadow, I call out in a cold, mechanical voice, "I'm fine."
Closed to new tags.