Misunderstandings
The churning yet constricting sensation deep in her stomach was what woke her up. She'd almost confused it with vertigo, given the altitude dream she'd just had, but immediately discarded that thought as soon as she felt more than heard her own belly growl under her palm. She was famished. She was also inside a bed that wasn't her own. Was she in London already?
She blinked rapidly, studying her surroundings, the night before very slowly making its way to the forefront of her memory. Not London.
Her body was outstretched in a way that positioned the headboard of the Queen-sized bed to her back, a bedside table above her head with a little wristwatch on it marking 5:37 AM in bright green, the bedside table to the other side of the headboard had yesterday's led lamp still on and aiming at where her feet possibly rested at some point, sheets and a set of comforters draped over her and a series of pillows cradling her torso and head.
She sat up, trying to sort out why she felt so vexed. She wasn't happy about being inside someone else's bed. About being moved from the couch where she'd felt safe enough to let herself fall asleep on. About being relocated without her knowing so. Without her approving so. She wasn't a kid, she made all the calls regarding herself- except apparently for the last god knows how many hours where all the moves have been made for her without there being squat she could do other than be unconscious.
Yes, she was frustrated. But, taking a deep breath, she forced herself to acknowledge the care young fake Peter put into his vague ministrations. He even left her feet uncovered as per her wishes, even though in her sleep she seemed to have curled into herself, her feet searching for the warmth she kept denying them.
And although she was immensely grateful the prepubescent hadn't bothered with her dirty clothes, she low-key wished he'd woken her up and maybe offered a change of clothes for the night. Her pantyhose, although not wet anymore, were completely ripped and broken by now, up to her thighs. Her skirt and blouse fit uncomfortably, and she was worried about unintentionally ripping them as well. That was all the clothes she had.
Another growl snapped her out of her unnecessary overly critical dissection of the situation and reminded her of the actual reason she wasn't gonna fall back into a deep slumber. She honestly couldn't remember the last time she'd had a meal.
She scooted down, closer to the side with the lamp on and, as she grabbed her left ankle and tried to pull her foot over her right thigh in an attempt to check the sole and assess the progress of yesterday's work, she heard the thin nylon fabric of the pantyhose rip. Suddenly she could now feel the cold sheets under her left thigh as well. She sighed. This was getting ridiculous. After probing at the delicate skin on both her feet and coming to the conclusion that they, indeed, still hurt, she shimmied herself out of the raggedy, no longer functional pantyhose under the covers and tossed them onto the floor to the side of the bed.
Well, now she felt colder and exposed. She wanted to get to the kitchen but.. that'd be so rude! Don't be rude, Gwen. Kid Pete had invited her into his home and she wasn't about to ransack his fridge while he slept! Gwen Stacy was not a raccoon. Her stomach seemed to immediately disagree with her, voicing a demanding growl. Okay, fine. She could be a raccoon for a minute.
She folded the covers off of her, determined to make of this a quick and efficient affair, then delicately -or as much as she could- dropped herself on her knees onto the hardwood floor and crouched down, her bangs sweeping the floor as she searched under the bed, hoping this Peter was the 'might live alone and on a tight budget but still gonna invest in slippers' kind of guy- infant/guy. Behind a few lone socks she knew well enough to leave alone, she found one hotel slipper. The other was at the foot end of the bed next to some strange gadget with thin and small wires coming out of it.
After dusting both slippers she decided she should borrow some CLEAN socks if she wanted to avoid having to disinfect her soles with ethyl alcohol again. Who was she kidding, she probably was gonna have to anyway, but even under the not so strong light the bedside table lamp offered, she could easily tell those slippers were supposed to be white. Would have, had it not been for the dense layer of dust trapped inside the thick fibers of the slightly fluffy fabric. What the hell, kid?! There was no way she was not wearing a layer of protection herself against those bacterial colonies. Come to think of it, a sock might not be enough. Maybe a surgical glove on each foot.. she looked up at the bedside table. Would he have condoms? He did say he was seventeen.
She shrugged to herself as she reached up and sat back up on the bed, shushing the very judgmental Gwen in her head frowning down at her for going through a younger boy's things while he slept. Well, karma is a bitch, Pete. She opened the drawer and started shuffling through some papers and trinkets. Lots of wires and loose buttons, and a lot of candy. Not surprising. But no condoms.
She found a slightly crumpled up handwritten note addressed to an M.J.. Giving in to her curiosity, she tried flattening down the edges of the little worn-out paper to give it a glance over, wishing to get a better sense of the boy whose bed she had ended up in, but his penmanship was that of a 12-year-old, lots of frustrated scratching lines over some text and small scribbling around the edges, and, honestly, she didn't have it in her to make an extra effort to concentrate when her clouded mind kept redirecting her attention to how damn hungry she was. She'd lost her momentary drive to snoop any further, her patience waning already. She crumpled the paper a bit again before dropping it back in and closing the drawer shut with a defeated sigh. Simple socks will have to do. It wasn't a good idea anyway, chances were the condoms he'd have were lubricated, and with her luck, with an added extra something. Besides, she was about ninety percent certain they didn't manufacture condoms pre-lubricated with aloe vera.
She unhandily yanked the comforter off the bed and threw it across the room, doing a victorious little bounce on the mattress as it landed right before the dresser. Her stomach growled loudly and painfully. "I'm working on it!" She quietly hissed down at her rather verbal gut. Her legs dangling to the side of the bed, she stretched one out to fish back the mess of ragged dark fabric that'd once been a perfectly good pair of pantyhose and tested putting some weight on her feet, experimentally pressing down on the unsalvageable thing, lightly, then harder, until the sting became quite difficult to bear. How much would the pressure of her own full weight hurt?
She didn't give herself time to mull it over. Took a deep breath and stood up. Much, she answered, as she sat back down with a grin and a string of colorful curses trapped behind her thinly shut lips. She groaned, already dreading the next few steps, and proceeded to crawl across the bed over to the edge that was closer to the dresser. Biting her tongue, she held her breath as she painfully padded towards the comforter spread on the floor. Goddammit, Peter, this is ridiculous! Why can't you just wash your slippers more often! God knew she was trying to keep quiet, but a squeak escaped her nonetheless as she did everything in her power not to drop like dead weight onto the comforter and relieve the pressure off her feet at once. Instead, she carefully lowered her body to a sitting position and swiped at the sole of each foot with the edge of the soft material before finally kneeling in front of the dresser.
Luckily, enough is enough, God had apparently said, as the first drawer had not only the socks she needed, but all the underwear, undershirts and pajama pants she could have asked for. But, she wasn't just gonna take the pants. She wouldn't be caught dead sneakily trying on a young little boy's clothes. No, she'll wait for the little boy's permission. She grabbed a pair of socks and ungracefully let herself drop back down onto her rear. Which didn't hurt before then. Ouch? Her stomach seemed to protest in solidarity, weakly but for what felt like an entire minute, like an actual toddler throwing a moderate tantrum. She rolled her eyes at her own empty yet demanding pain while she carefully fitted each sock on.
From her place on the floor, her eyes easily fell again onto the strange wire-y gadget thingy under the bed. It didn't look like it had a coat of dust on it, which meant it had been dropped recently. Maybe he'd misplaced it. In all honesty, she just wanted a reason to grab it and check it out. Which she immediately did, her curiosity again taking the wheel as she reached for it, laying flat on her stomach on the floor and turning the.. thing over between her fingers as she tried to figure it out. It had little screws in it but she didn't think it operated on any type of batteries. And thus, the copper loose open ends of the wires didn't feel threatening. There wasn't enough light down on the ground to inspect the thing properly, so she sat back down onto the comforter and leaned her back against the dresser's lower drawers. She wasn't sure whether it was a shadow or dirt but just when she thought she'd read the very small word 'STANK' carved out in it, her finger seemed to graze some sort of button or trigger or.. something, because the next thing she knew, half her face and head had been sprayed in random sticky yet surprisingly rough strings of white, gluing her to the dresser behind her.
Ah, she bitterly thought. The web-shooters look different as well. Why on Earth not? Her stomach pathetically protested, ripples of a painful twisting tugging from inside her abdomen had her hugging her middle in an attempt to comfort her fitful gut. "I know." She sighed. Now what?
This was just great. She patted around uselessly, knowing damn well there was nothing at hand sharp enough she could use to cut through the webs. She reached up from her spot on the ground to the top of the dresser, bending her arms backward, her hands blindly ferreting shakily -and frankly, a tad desperate-, hoping to knock down something with a pointy edge at least. A tennis ball fell onto the comforter and rolled all the way to the other end of the room. A few heavy physics books fell as well, along with what looked like a Family Game console -already busted, mind you-, which bounced loudly and ended up too far to her right. It, and all of its useful loose parts, visibly unreachable. Nicely done. Fine, what she’d have to lose by trying? She gripped at the web with one hand, her fingers feeling about, trying to find nooks and holes to hook themselves through as the other hand tried to secure the top of her head, and sending a little prayer out for her hair, she lightly pulled. Nothing. Pulled again, a little harder this time, and only managed to rattle the drawer the back of her head was attached to.
Defeated, again, she let her hands fall to her sides. “Well, guess you’re just gonna have to stay hungry, ‘cause we ain’t going nowhere.” She said, rubbing at her stomach over her now wrinkled button-up blouse. Curiosity killed the cat, after all -raccoon, in this case, she interjected. Might as well have been of starvation.
Now, the way her scalp stung as she instinctively jumped in her place, the half-there impression of how her very own spirit had tried to leave her behind to find cover behind the dresser the moment a knock on the door disturbed her three seconds of resigned peace, that had her begging for both NOT-a patch of baldness on the side of her head, and a bat to reduce the kid to a pulp. Only in the event of her baldness, of course.
“Hey, Gwen? Is everything alright in there?” she heard him hesitantly ask from the other room.
She draped the ends of the comforter she was sitting on over her mostly naked legs, for modesty’s sake, before pressing once more on her grumbling stomach, feeling under her palm the way it shifted in protest to the lack of food and attention. “Behave.” she whispered downwards with a frown.
“What?” Peter asked from behind the door.
Oh, God. If he was able to hear that..
“Just, come in, Peter.” She said, projecting her voice outward, probably unnecessarily.
The door opened and in walked the kid, his sock-covered feet dragging as he looked around the room with an apologetic expression already fixed in place, which was quickly replaced by an utterly dumbfounded one the minute his gaze fell onto her form on the floor.
“What-?”
“How long have you been listening for?” She cut in, purposefully ignoring the question surely on the tip of his tongue.
“... about fifteen minutes?”
“Are you kidding me?” She deadpanned.
“I would’ve asked if you needed anything sooner but, uh..” He shifted his weight from foot to foot repeatedly, his head downcast and ears red. “I heard some grunting and thudding, and the bed is noisy, so that’s on me, but..” Her eyes widened as realization sank down on her. “Thought I shouldn’t- Uhm. That I should wait”
She breathed in, quickly collecting herself before he could look back up at her. He slightly cocked his head, squinting at the white webs spread across the side of her cheek, all the way up to her temple and then backward, covering the side of her head and sticking out behind her on the front face of one of his drawers.
“That doesn’t explain, though… Do you need a hand with that?” He asked, vaguely pointing in her general direction.
“Nah, I'm just chilling. What do you think, Wonder Boy?" She challenged, doing her damn best to tone her death stare down a notch. "Get over here.”
“Yep.”
He scurried toward her before stopping halfway, his upper body tilting to the side to assess the mess she’d made from where he stood, and swiftly changed directions. He rounded the bed and crouched in front of the bedside table that had the wristwatch on it, presumably shuffling through the contents of its drawer, then charged back at her as he unfolded the scissors from a swiss army knife.
“Right.” He said as he kneeled next to her. “You seem upset.”
Gwen promptly swatted him over the side of his head.
“Fifteen minutes?! Fifteen?!”
Another swift flat blow followed, tumbling him down to his side onto his butt. “Did you really think I was getting busy with myself in your adolescent room?” As Peter saw the next blow coming he covered his face, resulting in a quick burn to the side of his shoulder as her fingers angrily bounced off him. “So you decided to listen in? For FIFTEEN MINUTES?!”
By that logic, he admittedly had the next series of purposefully stinging slaps to his arm coming, yet she heard him muttering muffled excuses along the lines of ‘you're misinterpreting the whole thing’, that he was ‘giving her privacy’ and ‘being a gentleman’. Gwen called bullshit on his perverted ass.
“Who the hell do you take me for!” She half-heartedly shouted, giving the pounding a rest, having tired herself out, when a silent complaint from deep within her gut forced both her hands to retreat and go back to pressing down on her stomach.
All the while, Peter collected his bearings next to her, rubbing at his arm as he shuffled about on the ground, trying to find a comfortable sitting position that would allow him -safe- access to the webs across the side of her head. He shyly chanced a look at her. The way she was frowning, her eyes closed as she seemed to focus on taking slow deep breaths; she wasn't just chilling, alright. She heard him clear his throat to call attention to himself and his proximity.
"These are pretty sharp, so please, be still." He said close to her ear as small tugs on the web slightly made her head move. "And, you know, cease your fire." She heard him mumble at the end.
High pitched snipping sounds started to fill the mostly welcomed stretch of silence, her eyes remaining closed, her palms outstretched over her stomach, fingers absentmindedly caressing her belly over the fabric of her button-up and above a crumbled up portion of the comforter hiding her legs. She hummed to refrain a whimper as another silent twitching ache made her feel like there was now a grown man's hand under the layers of muscle of her abdomen, grabbing at her intestines and doing a very sloppy job at braiding them. She felt her forehead start to get clammy, as well as the nape of her neck.
"You look pale." She heard him somewhat muffled.
She opened her eyes and could basically see the gears turning and spinning inside his head. What was he up to? She could also see whiter. Too light and white. Crap. Her vision was tunneling. Fast.
"Blood pressure drop." She lowly disclosed as she heard a muffled and distant series of fast and sharp snips, followed by the faint feeling of her head briefly regaining movement before being securely cradled and escorted downward. "Do you have something I could eat? A-" She swallowed, annoyed by her sudden over-salivating. "-a strong flavor."
She knew that'd help, but in the meantime, as the presence of Peter in the room couldn't be assumed anymore, the ringing in her ears was becoming deafening with no other noise to drown it. She'd be worried about throwing up on his floor but, what was in there for her to throw up?
Time folded in on itself and blurred into a very abstract concept at the sudden and incredibly fast sensory deprivation, at least to external stimuli. She rolled onto her back and laid there with her knees bent. She pictured herself propping her legs up atop the dresser, knowing full well she didn't have the strength to lift them an inch off the ground at the moment, as shapes and silhouettes of what must be in her direct line of physical sight started to get outlined. Yet, an overwhelming mix of sensations, all inside, had her getting hot flashbacks to middle school. All those times she'd had to fast overnight and not have dinner for a medical study to be performed early the next morning, and how she'd then show up to school immediately after, skipping breakfast on her urge to get to class as soon as possible, too excited to catch up with her friends and show off her non existent needle scar under her cool Powerpuff Girls bandaid to care about her cereal. She'd pass out before lunch every time, but not before having one of these episodes first. Hot around her head and neck, cold inside her stomach, shaky and clammy extremities, ringing in her ears, overall weakness, lightheadedness, nausea, sweating.. your common low blood pressure symptoms.
She felt thudding on the hardwood floor beneath her head, and Peter's hesitant hands on her shoulders as he seemed to make quick work of bolstering her back up onto a sitting position, a cushion carefully being slipped into place behind her neck. She could barely make out the fact that he was talking to her, he sounded distant and muffled -and maybe a bit alarmed-, but nodded nonetheless, assuming his rambles were a variation of 'are you any better', or 'what are you doing', or maybe a 'that's a good idea, Gwen, you're so smart' as she leaned forward and dipped her head between her loosely comforter-covered knees.
"Hold my head down." She commanded. "I'll try to push up."
She heard more mumbling but eventually felt his hands on the back of her head. She summoned as much strength as she could and all she managed was a small shove upward. She tried again. Pushed up against his palm and held for a few straining seconds, until it felt like her ears had unplugged with a hot breathed lick deep within her ear canals. She shuddered at the sensation, pushing his hand out from behind her and blinking away the residual whiteness as the capacity to see color -and lack thereof- returned to her.
"..so much sense now. Of course, I should have known."
She shook her head and blinked a few more times, looking around the room. Blood was pumping and circulating better but- ah, there it was. A tall glass filled with orange juice and a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich right next to it on the floor, between her and the still yapping boy. She dove right in. After a few big gulps of juice and with a mouthful of PB&J, she contently sighed, feeling herself already halfway back there. Now, this was what she truly needed. She wasn't happy about the surprisingly hard bits of peanut, never a fan of chunky peanut butter herself, but the smooth strawberry jelly mixed wonderfully with the pulpy orange juice, so it kind of made up for Peter's bad taste in peanut butter, specifically.
"What are you even going on about?" She asked before stuffing her mouth with more PB&J, having noticed the kid had never really stopped talking.
"Did he-? I mean, he must have known. Man, he looked so upset, still after all that time.., it's so clear now."
She quirked an eyebrow at him and nodded as she chewed on, wondering what the hell he was talking about and hoping he'd get to the explaining part soon. "I don't follow."
"And all the rude ageist comments, I totally get it. I won't mind anymore."
"Where is this coming from?" She wanted another sandwich and for him to start making some sense.
"I wish you had told me- I understand why you didn't, though. One hundred percent. But-"
"Hey, ADHD. What are you talking about?" She asked after downing what was left of the orange juice in one chug. He was all over the place.
"Your baby." He awkwardly said, gesturing down toward her middle, as if it was the most obvious thing. Gwen blinked at that. "I mean, how far along are you?" What on Earth? What-
"Jesus Christ, Peter. I can't-"
Pinching the bridge of her nose she calmly put her glass down, trying to convince herself that homicide was probably very much still illegal in this New York, be it a fake stupid teen or not. He went in and tenderly grabbed hold of her hand, urgency and a nervous yet determined energy radiating off him, his movements rough in an apparent attempt at providing comfort in his own state of spiraling anxiety.
"But you can trust me!" He started "I know now, and it's okay. We'll find Peter three, and you'll be together and that kid will have a nice happy family, and- It'll be alright, I promise."
"There's so much to unpack here." Gwen looked back at him, trying to sort out how to best approach this situation. She didn't have the heart to- scratch that, right now she didn't have a heart at all. She slapped his hand off of her's. "Okay, where do we even begin?" She asked, more putting the question out into the universe rather than expecting either of them to actually have an answer. The universe didn't answer either, though.
Peter seemed to be making a conscious effort not to reach out to her, opting instead to lay his hands down protectively near her blanketed feet, presumably trying to convey a sense of security her way. "I know you wish things were different, and believe me, I'll do everything in my power to get you guys home-"
She raised a hand to his face. "Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up?"
"But-"
"No. To all of it. Everything you said. Wrong. Hard no." Even though it stung a bit to see how supportive and sweet he was being about it, she wasn't gonna play along.
His expression as she shut him down became solemn and uncertain, making him look both younger and older at the same time, like that of a kid who knew he shouldn't be surprised after his parents announced they're getting a divorce for the third time that same year.
"...So you don't want it?" He sounded smaller as well.
"You're not listening." Tread lightly, Gwen thought to herself, confused about his reaction. "What I want is another sandwich, so its twin, the only thing in there, doesn't get lonely."
"Right, I'll help with that." He said, ever the diligent scout, selflessly willing to move on for her sake.
"Good boy." She appraised as he got up and started for the bedroom door.
"You guys are safe here. I'll… I'll figure something out." Nope. Didn't move on. This hard-headed son of a-...
"Stop that. Bad boy. Two more sandwiches." She said as he disappeared into the living room that shared the space with an open kitchen. Then thought back to the string of nonsense that'd come out of his mouth from the moment she could properly pay him an ounce of attention, the nagging impression of mishearing an unsettling comment resurfacing. "and a rewind. Did you say 'Peter three'?