Chapter Text
"I just kinda died for you
You just kinda stared at me
We will always have that chance
We can do this one more time"
Monday, November 30, 2015
The Parker's Apartment, Queens
4:13 PM
The door closes behind him, trapping Peter in an apartment with the chipped white paint that covers the walls. Thrifted blankets and old couch cushions surround him. The coffee table where a child, him, had run into and chipped a tooth. Pictures of himself and his aunt and uncle. The lone, reverent picture of a happy couple who he can barely remember with a newborn, him and his parents, sits above the key hooks.
Looking at this place, his childhood home, Peter realizes how close he is to losing this, everything.
He looks behind him, to Betty, and a thin smile graces his mouth, "Do you want anything? Water? Monster? I think we've got apple juice."
He really shouldn't be scared of Betty. Betty, who's obsessed with plaid skirts. Betty, who once swallowed a dime in second grade. Betty, who lets the academic decathlon team get free milkshakes at her grandparents' diner after they lose a match. Betty, who's skinny, and green-eyed, and blonde, and pretty like an American Girl doll. Betty, whose smile is sweet like honey. Betty, who Peter is pretty fucking terrifed of right now.
Betty, who smiles that honey-like smile and says, "Answers would be pretty nice."
Peter sighs, a deep, heavy sigh from deep in his heart, "Right." He gestures to the well worn, dark blue couch in front of them, "You, you should probably sit for this."
She gently pushes past him to sit on the ratty couch, dropping her messenger bag beside her feet. Even as she holds his fate in her nail bitter hands, Peter can only wonder why she's doing this. She's a good friend, sure, but why does she care so much? What dog does she have in this fight, his fight? Nonetheless, he sits beside her, tapping out a rhythm on his jeans that even he is unfamiliar with.
Betty keeps her silence, yet doesn't look at him for explanations. She stares at her hands folded delicately in her lap. Peter stifiles a sigh and opens his mouth to explain. Without warning, his throat closes up, and he's terrified he'll be sitting here forever clawing at his chest trying to dislodge the words out of his chest as Betty sits beside him still like a cemetery angel.
Yet, the words unfathomably tumble out of his mouth, "Ben's dead."
In his peripheral, Betty nods her head hesitantly, "I know," she says stiffly, "I'm sorry."
He nods his thanks. It's far from the first or last time he'll do it, but it still thorns his heart a little to hear the usual, pitied "I'm sorry" coming from her lips.
He takes a deep breath in and out, "Ben didn't have life insurance, or at least not good life insurance. Money was, is, tight. I guess life insurance was something we just couldn't budget for." Peter's face burns red, knowing that Betty has seen the harrowing effects of his family's financial misfortune not once, but twice.
"But, he, uh, he also left us a shit ton of bills," Peter continues, "Hospital funeral, the, uh, the other regular bills, and, plus, we don't have his income anymore considering, y'know, he's dead," he scoffs. There might be tears in his eyes. Everything feels floaty, like the world's been suspended in Jell-O.
"So, what? You're doing something, probably dangerous and stupid, to make some money?" Betty finally asks.
He chuckles self-deprecatingly, "Yep, that's the gist."
"There were no part-time jobs available? Nothing in that big brain of yours to make you some money?" she demands.
"No, there were. Just seemed more fun this way." he says sarcastically. He sighs again, "But, seriously, there were other things I could do to make money, but I, realistically, wouldn't get paid enough or work enough hours to help May, so I went the high risk high reward route."
She rolls her eyes, "And... you're doing what exactly? Selling drugs? The two adults you were with at my diner, are they your suppliers?"
"What?! No! No, Betty. Why would you think that? No, Marsh and Jenna, they're my... my..." He thinks for a moment, "Well, I mean, if I were selling drugs, then they'd probably be my suppliers, but I'm not, so they're more like... handlers? I guess?"
"Handlers for what?"
"Uh, how do I explain this?" he mumbles to himself, thinking. "Have you ever watched the Fast & Furious movies?" he asks her.
She looks at him for a moment and, for once, her eyes are hard as rocks. She pauses, as if trying to steel herself, reminding herself that Peter's bullshit isn't part of a crazy dream she's having. "Peter. Tell me you're not fucking street racing," she demands seething.
He flashes her a sheepish, slightly self loathing smile, "Surprise?"
Peter has only seen genuine, unadulterated fear in Betty's eyes once, when she had almost gotten run over by a speeding car in the third grade. Peter had watched from afar, unable to do anything. Now, however, he watches up close as her eyes go wide and her pupils start to dilate.
Despite her apparent fear, she goes off like a volcano, shooting out of her seat. "You're going to get yourself killed, Peter! Do you really want your aunt to bury another body? Is that what you want?!" Her voice echoes around a breathless apartment.
For a moment, he says and does nothing, shocked still as he processes her words. Then, "Would you rather me do nothing? Would you rather I watch as May slowly kills herself trying you pays the bills?!" Peter retorts, getting louder with every word. He steadily stands, matching her wrathful stance.
"So you get a job! You don't try to get yourself killed!" Betty retaliates.
"Do you know how much those fucking bills are?! Huh? No part time job is going to give a fourteen year old a couple grand!" He cries, desperately trying to get Betty to understand.
She frustratedly runs her hand down her face. "Jesus, Peter," she mutters.
She paces back and forth throughout his tiny apartment running her hands through her hair.
"What, Betty?! May is all I have left! My parents are dead! Ben is dead! And if I don't do something, May is going to be too!" Peter wails, breathing heavily. He pauses as his voice levels out to almost a whisper, "I don't care what I have to do if it means she'll be happy. Nothing's more important than her."
Finally, Betty stills, the couch separates the two of them. Her behind it, him in front of it.
"Killing yourself won't help her, Peter. Do you really want her to settle your debts too? Do you really want to leave her alone?" Betty asks helplessly.
"Why are you so sure I'm going to get myself killed? I can do this, I have been doing this just," he scoffs, "just have some fucking faith in me. Please."
From the other side of the couch, she stares at him incredulously. "Have some faith?" she sneers "Peter, you can't even catch a football in gym. How am I supposed to believe that you're not going to crash into a wall when you're going a hundred miles per hour?"
If Peter didn't have the abilities he has, if he was normal, he would probably agree with her. However, he does have these fucked up abilities. He can walk on walls and ceilings, he can hear shit from too many blocks away, lift more weight than any normal teenager reasonably could, and he can pluck a fly out of the air with just his fingers. He is far past normal, but he can't tell her that.
How can he make her understand without telling her? "Betty, I can handle it. Just-"
"No. No!" Betty cuts him off, "I can't let you "handle" this!" She starts pacing around his apartment running her hands through her hair again. "If I do nothing and you die, that's on me." Peter makes a small noise of distress at that because she's wrong. It wouldn't be her fault.
She continues, "That's my fault. I could've stopped you, but I didn't. That's your blood on my hands." No, she shouldn't have blood on her soft, nail-bitten hands. Not like him. She doesn't deserve that.
"And Ned?" No, he doesn't want to think about Ned. Not when she's talking like this. "Ned will think that this is his fault because he didn't see the signs. Hell think that he's the shittiest best friend in the world because he couldn't see past your fucking lies." His fists are balling up like pythons. He shakes his head, it wouldn't be Ned's fault if he dies.
Despite his hostile stature, she continues, "MJ would be pissed at you. That you're making such a stupid fucking decision. She'd call you a dumb fuck at your shitty funeral. But, damn, you know she'd blame herself too. You know damn well that she'd beat herself up about it every time she heard your name." He does know. He does know that for all her detached, cool girl exterior, MJ cares about her friends, cares about Peter.
Betty stops her pacing to face him, and he sighs in relief hoping that she'll stop her frontal assault on his heart. Unfortunately, she opens her fucking mouth again "May-"
"Don't talk about her," Peter snaps. "You can talk about anyone else while you're trying to guilt trip me, but don't bring her into this."
"Don't bring her into this? Peter, you just said she's the whole reason you're doing this!"
"Yeah, well, bringing her up isn't going to make me stop. All it's gonna do is make me more pissed at you."
'What would make you stop, Peter?" she asks desperately. They both know that she's grasping at straws.
"I don't know, maybe a couple thousand dollars landing in my lap." But Peter knows that, even with a million dollars in his hands, he wouldn't stop. Not after what he started. Not after he found those kids.
They stare at each other for a moment. Silent.
"You won't stop, will you?" She asks. Before he can say anything else, she barrels on, "You'll never stop. Not even with that bandage on your head. Not even with everyone begging you to. You won't stop."
The silence is loud as Peter nods, and that's all she needs.
"Why?" she whispers. "Why the hell are you throwing your life away to live in some stupid fantasy?!"
...And she's yelling again
"Betty, I can't stop!"
She scoffs, "So, you admit that you have a problem!"
"I don't have a problem!" Peter denies, "I found something."
"What do you mean you "found something?" What could be more important than your future?" Betty pressures.
"There's a.. Fuck. There's a..." he trails off, not quite knowing how to explain without Betty putting him in a psych ward.
"There's what, Peter?! Tell me what magical thing is keeping you there," she demands sarcastically.
"There's some really shady shit going on, and maybe," he hesitates, "maybe I can fix it."
Her face softens, and he can tell she's stifling a sigh. "Peter, it's not your job to fix it."
"Betty, I... I can do things, I can help them."
"Peter," she says again, "you can fix a lot of things. I've seen you do it, but whatever the hell you're talking about isn't one of those things."
Suddenly, there's a feeling in his chest. He wants to prove her wrong. Not because he's pissed or petty, but because he needs to tell someone. He needs her to know that he can fix it.
It's... scary knowing what he's about to admit to her. There's really no other word to describe it. It's not terrifying or agonizing or worrisome or any other synonym in the world.
It's scary because it makes him feel like a toddler who accidentally broke a glass. It's scary because it makes him want to crawl into May's lap like he did so often when he was little. It's scary because his whole life, he's tried not to be different. It was hard because he was small and skinny and smart. It was hard because he was an orphan and broke and sad. It was hard because he liked Fast & Furious and Star Wars and couldn't help talking about them.
So, what he's about to tell her is hard and scary and makes him feel like a toddler about to get in trouble because it's giving he the knowledge that he'll always be different.
He could just... stop. Stop talking. She wouldn't have to know. Nobody would. He could stay in the safe cocoon of his secrets.
The feeling of words in his throat surprises him. They're there. The words are on the tip of his tongue, antsy to tumble out.
He wants to tell her.
Betty's talking, but he can't hear her above the overwhelming need to tell her, show her, anything to get her to believe him.
"Betty," he softly interrupts. When she doesn't stop her terrified, pissed off, anxious rant, he tries again, "Betty."
She notices him this time and heaves softly, "Unless you're gonna tell me that you're gonna stop, I don't wanna hear it."
He knows that this isn't what she wants, and maybe it's not what he wants either, but it's his obligation.
Peter turns his back to her and faces the wall behind him. He barely hears his name on Betty's lips over the blood rushing through his ears as he walks towards the chipped white paint that covers the walls.
The first footfall that lands on his walls is careful, anxious. The second step is exhilarating, exciting. There's no noise, no smell, no nothing. There's nothing else in the world except him and the walls of his childhood.
Peter climbs the walls of his apartment like a ladder until he gets to his ceiling, then he calmly walks upside down across the popcorn ceiling like he does this everyday. Finally, he turns towards Betty.
They're close, at eye level even though Peter's on the fucking ceiling. His breath is mingling with hers, and he can smell her strawberry cheesecake perfume.
Her eyes are wide and her mouth agape as she stares at him. "Peter...?" she whispers, all the fight finally drained out of her.
He doesn't really doesn't know why he says what he says. Maybe it's because he's a socially awkward person. Maybe it's because he finally feels she's meeting the real him. (Maybe it's because there's a tiny, tiny part of him that wants to kiss her, and he needs to do anything with his mouth except that.)
"Hi," he whispers with a smile.