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Peter woke up. He thought it was from a nightmare, but then again the wound at his side that seemed to have opened again was there, and it begged to differ. Maybe it was both really; not like he could remember. Still despite the pain, he managed to turn his head towards the clock.
**12:58 am**
Great. He had slept at noon. There were days when sleeping at noon was so rare. It didn't feel like he had a choice anymore. Most crimes happened at night. And the last two months, it didn't feel like he could sleep at night anyways. Not easily. But then again... He was tired. And as much as he didn't deserve one, a night off would do him good.
Lifting himself off the bed and onto the chair, the window letting the city lights shine through in front of him, as he grabbed a small med-kit under his drawer and started treating his wound. It probably said a lot that he owned a medical kit next to his bed, but it wasn’t like he had anyone to judge him for it. He remembered when Gwen used to do this for him instead. Back when he would go by her house. She would probably judge him for it. Or maybe May would judge him for it. Ben would probably not see it.
A look around even in the dark, Peter could tell his room was messy. Very messy. Bed sheets on the floor, as well as backpacks and some batteries. A couple sodas near the dumpster and a pile of broken cameras in the corner. All without mentioning his wall still full of papers and red lines and shit that he was too bored to take off. Now that he thought about it, they made it seem much more practical in movies. And he didn't have much hope for the kitchen either. Fighting crime, ordering food and working he could balance. Maybe sleeping here and there. But ever since May passed, the house was left to take care of itself. And it had become a beast of its own. One Peter was unwilling to manage. Or perhaps even unable.
But he still went down there. Careful not to trip on the out of place chairs, or stub his toe on the now oversized table. He poured himself a glass of water, because even he deserved that much, and grabbed some cold ice (not peas this time) to put on his ever growing selection of 'mild forehead wounds'. But hey, at least he still remembered his name...
God the house was empty. No matter the rubbish all over the floor, it still looked empty. It felt empty. So did his college apartment last year, sure, but at least that was meant to be empty. Peter couldn't say the same thing about May's house.
Grabbing the ice and the glass Peter made his way back upstairs, avoiding any dimly lit pictures on his way there. It had been long enough that it shouldn't have bothered him. None of them should. But it came and went. There came times when he missed Ben's schooling and care. Times when he missed May's soft talks. Times when he missed Gwen's... everything. And there were times when he missed all of them. Those were the worst. Those were tonight.
The thought of grabbing something to eat did pass his mind, but a certain bruise in his cheek advised otherwise. It was safe to say, his increased healing had probably saved Peter from a lot of stitches. After May, the last thought that had passed his mind was that he wouldn't have someone to treat his wounds, yet there he was. Worst thing is he never got to tell her the truth about those bruises...
In his room, the door quickly closed behind him. His force of habit told him that he should lock it with the little machine he built. His logical mind told him that the machine no longer worked after May accidentally broke it when he was gone. Plus who would he lock the door for?
Laying on the bed, his wound attempting to heal, the ice on his forehead doing little work. The real Spider Man would put on the suit, open the radio and jump at a crime right away. The real Spider Man would take better care of himself. Peter was not the real Spider Man. He had met the real Spider Man. Two of them, about two months ago. Heroic, full of fun and quips. Going against the worst of threats. Getting up even at their worst. Even if one of them shot webs grossly out of his body. He was Spider Man. They were.
Peter might've been like that at some point. Maybe he was like them two months ago. But he wasn't today. Spider Man was just another name to add to the list of the people he missed. It sounded quite poetic really, at least he had that going for him.
Throwing the rest of the ice on the floor with the hope 'it'll just melt' Peter made the foolish decision of attempting to sleep normally on a night like this. Suffice to say he failed miserably. He would get off the bed but had no will to do so. Instead grabbing a web shooter and aiming at his phone, hoping that it wouldn't be the 3rd to break this year. Thankfully the stupid attempt to save 5 seconds was successful.
Bright light blinding him, Peter for the fourth time this week shuffled on his consolation, deciding upon Gwen's graduation speech, for the fourth time this week. Putting the phone on the floor next to his bed, loud enough to hear the audio, Peter closed his eyes again. He didn't count sheep, or spiders for that matter, just calmed under hearing Gwen's voice. Like she was there. Like they were all there.
He never really understood crying yourself to sleep. Not until Uncle Ben. But now he did. Now he did too well...
5 Months Ago:
Five villains. Five villains he had defeated. All in the span of a few days. Peter could've only guest he was deserving of a vacation; but he never got to choose his battles, and neither was he about to. God that sounded cheesy even in his head. He had to finish what he started. Five out of six were already sitting in a prison cell somewhere, away from the light of day. Only one remained, and he was already beaten and retrieving.
"Hey Mister Chameleon!" He yelled. Well, half whispered really, but that wasn't relevant.
The villain had chosen a dark alleyway to hide in. It seemed he must've had a stroke of genius coming up with that idea. Peter was only beginning to comprehend the originality of the scene when he heard some woman crying. Oddly familiar as it was, he had his fair experience with Chameleon or whatever the dude called himself.
"Look I'm kind of burnt out with animal based supervillains. Can I just call you Dimitri? Or how about Jimmy? That sound better?" Peter thought it sounded better.
As he landed his feet on the ground, the crying became more noticeable. Admittedly so did the hairs at the back of his neck.
"Look I honestly feel like yall are copying me. Like, I get Dr.Connors, but what? Were you bitten by a radioactive chameleon?"
Obviously (and thankfully) that wasn't the case. If anything it was just a dude with a magical mask and a heavy punch. That could be his theme song now that Peter thought about it. The crying was getting louder, yet still was by all means quiet.
"See you still never told me where you bought that mask from. Was it custom made by Oscorp or what? Did they give you a voice modifier as well? Maybe on discount or something? Get two for the price of one?"
Peter wasn't sure why he continued with the banter. It was a sort of tradition but without the villain answering, it just made him look insane. Maybe he was a little. And he wasn't sure if...
"At least you're not pretending to be me. We all learn from our mistakes right? Now you're just some woman."
He wasn't sure if he was talking out of habit, or if he was trying to mask the increasingly uncanny crying. Because every time he fell to silence...
"Which look, I'm all in for Trans rights and all, but I'd say it's up for debate whether they apply here."
Every time he fell to silence, it caused his heart to beat considerably faster.
It was when he rounded the corner that it all went downhill. He slowly walked towards the figure. 'She' was turned with 'her' back on him, yet even so he could see 'her' hands that were covering 'her' eyes. He thought he should web him, but the Spider sense suggested otherwise. Plus it's just one dude. No traps were possible really. Nothing to be afraid of.
It's scary that he would consider the possibility this wasn't Chameleon even for a second, if it wasn't for the familiarity. For the cold sweat that was forming on his forehead.
"What the hell is this?" He mouthed with no full intention.
He couldn't see her hair well. All that he could tell was that it was sort. Not too sort actually. On second thought, it ended right below her soldiers. He was trying to recognize her but his mind was blank.
His spider sense. It was going off and off and off. His vision had tunneled, made the world feel blurry around him. It made no sense. None of this did. He knew the danger, he knew that was Chameleon. Why was it going off?
"What is this shit?"
He tried to let the thoughts trail without him. Pay attention to his surroundings. He thought it would help. It did. Until he once again heard the crying. It wasn't crying, no it was sobbing. Slowly he kept his distance while trying to circle her. Trying to get around her, see her face.
"Peter?" She said. HE said! It was he! But that voice..
One step, two steps, three and his hands extended forwards trying to keep his distance. As if every inch mattered. And he couldn't decide who would break that distance first. He still couldn't tell why he wasn't just webbing him already. Four steps, five steps and he was in front of 'her'. In front of him, but her hands were covering her face. He could see her hair now. It was blond. Blond...
"Peter?" She said again. "Why did you let me go?" She lifted her head. And she looked at him.
It was Gwen. Those eyes he could recognize anywhere. It was Gwen.
And the moment Peter paused, the moment he turned to stone is when he leaped to attack. That bastard!
Peter closed his eyes and punched. Punched as hard as he could. He had fought all these villains before. One too many times. And they all hurt physically. Rarely mentally. Not this. This was sick.
Chameleon fell to the ground, his mask shuttering. His laugh he was trying to fake echoed in Peter's ears.
"Did you like my new mask, Spider-Man? I made it especially as a last resort occasion you know, just-"
Peter didn't let him finish. He grabbed him by the neck and pinned him to the wall. He didn't kill. He couldn't kill. But he sure as hell punched, and punched, and he punched until his hand was hurting. He thought he was over this beating. Over Gwen.
"WELL DID IT WORK!?" He yelled but Chameleon had long passed out. "Did It Work?"
It hit like a train. Chameleon's unconscious body, his face covered in blood, the realization none of this was real. None of it.
Peter couldn't do anything. He just sat, next to the dumpsters, and he cried.
And he cried until his mask was wet and tasted like salt. So he took it off and cried even more.
And he cried until he heard the sirens. And when he heard the sirens he put on the mask and swung away, as fast as the string could carry him.
But he didn't stop crying. And when he got home he didn't stop crying. And when he fell on his bed he didn't stop crying.
It was Gwen. She looked real. Too real.
He couldn't stop crying.