Truth By Omission
It was around 10 A.M. when they finally set foot and stick out on the street. It looked like it had snowed just the tiniest bit overnight, and by the looks of those dirty whites floating low over their heads, it probably rained too, earlier that morning. The clouds were just barely beginning their retreat, cracks of the lightest blue showing from between the thick blinding -now parting- puffy loomers, moving slowly through the skies above. The top of the Empire State Building was either relishing in its privileged above-the-shadows vantage point of immaculate direct sunlight or was yet to completely defrost. They walked and paddled in what Peter thought was companionable silence for a few blocks before Gwen spoke up.
“Where the hell are we?”
“2nd Avenue and 66th. See? Right there, you can see Central Park up ahead-”
“No. I can see where we are, but- This can’t be right. Are you sure?”
“What do you mean?”
“I recognize the streets, but these shops? Never seen those.”
Peter hadn’t thought about this. Damn it, Peter. Why didn’t you think about this? Of course, he completely overlooked the implications of going out.
“I’ve been down this street countless times and that boba tea shop wasn’t there a week ago. That vendor over there, that shoe store we just passed? All of it. These colors?” She shook her head, inconspicuously eyeing around her, keeping her voice low “This is so messed up. But the streets are the same, the buildings are the same.”
New York streets are brimming with points of reference, that’s how people get around with the dumb confusing nomenclature and block numerology. It made more sense in some places rather than others but still. He failed to notice how, given the fact that this was not her New York, there were bound to be -possibly very striking- differences that only she would be able to spot. He didn’t give himself the opportunity to think ahead. What should he have done? What can he do now?
“Maybe I got it wrong, it can’t be. Those graffities? What is that, even?” She said, making a gesture with her head towards somewhere across the street.
A sketchy red and gold bubbly illustration of Iron Man taking flight popped out from the side of a building, arms and hands to his sides, and a steely stare up towards the sky, the arc reactor spray painted like its glow was coming out in odd tentacles of light and enveloping him in white, giving him an aura akin to that of a warrior-angel. It wasn’t half bad. He preferred not to look at it, though.
Peter sighed. Welp, it was this conversation again.
“Remember that crash course I was giving you on the Avengers by any chance?”
“Ah, yes. The Advantagers. How could I not? They all vanished and came back, there’s a wizard and a space person, and then an evil visual effects-aided actor you allegedly didn't kill.” she listed, her tone dripping with skepticism on the last one and giving Peter a knowing side-eye. “Is that the Marvel space.. Power Ranger you mentioned?”
Apparently, he wasn’t that good at crash courses. They’d have to go a bit more in-depth eventually, go over some key details she had blurred. Luckily, he was pretty damn good at making Power Point presentations.
“That’s Iron Man. He’s the one that- was, uh.. Well, he’s gone now.”
“Right… Yeah, of course. You mentioned it, right.'' She seemed to be compartmentalizing her inner 'what's this one supposed to mean' struggles and opening a new division for 'Iron Man and Advantagers shenanigans'. "Were you close?” Not wasting a second this time.
“Yeah, we're close. Just a few more blocks.”
“Huh?”
“The Pharmacy." No way he was opening that door again right now. Had to remain focused. "Hope they don't ask for an ID."
"I- I have my wallet with me."
"You do?"
"Yeah, it was in my coat. You thought-"
"I didn't think you'd have much on you, to be honest. Anything, actually."
The question now was whether it was gonna be of any use to them or be flagged as fake since she was not… well, real here. Is there a system for that? To check for existing real-life people from one whole universe? For pharmaceuticals? Should they take the chance? Wait a minute, they're not buying drugs, just wound healing stuff. Why would they need to check for an ID?
"I mean, I was on my way to the airport before. Had to have my wallet handy." She supplied, "My Oscorp credentials are there as well.." then trailed off in the end, voice small, a slightly worrisome faraway look in her narrowed eyes.
"Right. Well, that's good." He decided to keep ignoring the Oscorp thing. He was sure he'd heard that name before but this didn't seem like the right time to ask. In any case, he doubted that credential was gonna be of any use here.
Hold up. On second thought, they might need an ID if she decides to pay with a credit card, or debit too. Damn, would those even work? With her not existing and all that.. "Let's use cash if possible, tho."
"Okay, sure." She nodded dismissively, swinging ahead on her not stolen crutches, suspicion burrowing her brows as she looked up and around them like any pedestrian could be the one responsible for orchestrating this twisted joke, and the rest were in on it.
Yet, as they walked on, he saw her deflate bit by bit as her guard was visibly folding, her cynicism taking the hint and its leave. He wasn't sure exactly what was crumbling down where inside her, but the fall left her looking miserable and lost. In ruins.
Probably seeing physical proof of what Peter had been trying to explain to her earlier was slowly working on cementing the fact that this was not a made-up thing, or him telling stories, or her mind playing games. She was starting to assimilate. Reluctantly so.
"So, these Advantagers… you work with them, then?"
"Uh, kind of. Don't really know what they're up to lately, or even if we're still a thing."
"What do mean?"
"We- well, the team.. was rendered sorta… a bit understaffed."
"Oh."
Peter cleared his throat and looked over his shoulder, suddenly a bit self-aware. He'd rather they had a tad more privacy to discuss this whole thing. He remembered S.H.I.E.L.D. and its newer more engaging relatives had ears everywhere.
"After his funeral, we all lost contact. 'Far as I know at least. We haven't been called to handle any sort of, uh... 'situation' as a team again, only individually." He tried to keep his voice down, a few rows above a whisper.
"You have been called 'to handle situations' on your own?" She whispered back, but loudly.
"It’s…” just the thought of having to get into his hijacked European School trip, which was the first domino chip to fall in the black and white board game piece avalanche that ultimately resulted in him having to settle with numbly going through the motions in this Aunt May-less unbearable pseudo-life he’d found himself in, and this early in the morning, was already weighing him down, making him drag his feet the last few steps to their destination. “..a long story. We're here."
She stopped abruptly, almost tipping forward and faceplanting on the sidewalk. Thank God for his reflexes. Wait a minute, scratch that. Thank him for his reflexes. You’re welcome, Gwen.
“This is the place, huh?”
“Yeah, I'm sure they'll have something.”
“Something like essential oils and rubbing cream?"
The place looked like a hole-in-the-wall wellness store that might've once been a hole-in-the-wall exchange library, that maybe could also have been a very well-hidden liquor store during the earlier Prohibition years. Through the dirty and aged glass windows, you could see the discolored wooden furniture with cracked edges, stained, bloated, and deformed with humidity, and shelves bent under the weight of a few small containers and a whole lot of dust and time. Peter loved it. It was vintage, right?
"I thought you meant a Rite Aid or maybe Diplomath Pharmacy.”
“Was that.. corporate brand loyalty?"
"Oh, come on."
"Why would you deny the small business the chance to-"
"Alright, Gavroche. Don't grind your milk teeth over this." Gwen said, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Peter, however, was not able to follow her likely outdated reference to some... old people thing. Yeah, she just aged herself, that's not something to take personal offense to, no sir. He defensively folded his arms over his puffed chest, convincing himself. It wasn't his fault he was young.
"Didn't take you for a capitalism apologist, that's all.”
"Jesus Christ, calm the hell down. I'm not- I just don't think we're gonna be able to patch my feet up with an incense stick, that's all.”
He snorted. “Prejudicial much?”
“I like things I can trust in.” she muttered.
Why did that one feel like a very on-purpose personal jab?
“Okay, whatever. So you don't wanna go in, see what they have?”
"Fine, let's!"
Inside, the place smelled weirdly comforting. Old as hell expensive wood, burnt tobacco leaves, and fireplace smoke; warm well-worn leather mixed with some sandalwood-ish-like scent. She could see what looked like but probably wasn't a cowhide rug up ahead, and yet another cowhide-like hairy leather, shaped like a very unlucky spread-eagle headless animal hanging from the wall behind the vendor.
The South Asian man with tired eyes glared languidly and unimpressed from above the rims of his half-moon glasses perched low upon his nose. He tsked and exhaled loudly, casting his eyes down as he turned the page of his book.
"Goat."
"Pardon?"
"Not exactly-" Peter chirped.
"It is goatskin." He said, raising his gaze again, looking Gwen up and down. "Not for sale. Medical sheepskin is, however, very much for sale. One hundred and two American dollars."
"Actually, Mr. Bhatt, Sir, we're here for some unguent-"
"Ah, gout."
"Yes, you said that. We're a little pressed for time-"
"Excuse my friend, she's not from around here…" Peter said with an apologetic smirk.
Mr. Bhatt glared unhappily yet patiently at Gwen and then softened his features as he addressed Peter, like a professor choosing to lead by example in the manners and attitude department.
"What were you looking for, Peter, son? What can I help you with this time?"
"We're just gonna look around." it seemed like Gwen was finding the interaction -that had just started, by the way- to be too slow. She started for the aisle of shelves behind her with a wince but kept going.
"So, uh.." they watched as she grumpily paddled along the aisle, slightly groaning with each step. "She stepped on broken glass."
"Ah." Mr. Bhatt nodded in recognition, bushy gray and black eyebrows raising and wrinkling his big forehead.
"Do you have anything that could help?"
The man hummed pensively and huffed as he carelessly closed his book shut. Without marking the page. Peter thought that would've made Gwen twitch.
Peter checked back on her to find her raising a few loose incense sticks, staring at him with a pointed look. He looked ahead just in time to see Mr. Bhatt coming up from behind the counter, shaking his head.
"Let me check the back."
By the time the man was out of sight, Gwen had paddled to a middle-sized metal elephant head with a raised trunk curled at the end. Peter saw her place one stick in the curled part and make a show of sighing in relief, resting her crutches on the shelf behind her, smiling wide and looking down pretending to be amazed and awestruck at the marvelous healing happening inside her borrowed shoes. She then pompously looked up towards the ceiling with extended arms and very clearly mouthed 'thank you, incense God'. Was this racist? Xenophobic? Oh my God, was Gwen a white supremacist? She wiped a non-existent tear. Oh, great. She was moved to non-existent tears with fake gratitude.
She was pretend-jumping in glee from side to side when Peter heard some clutter as the unknowing, nice old man bringing something to make her feel better finally approached him, visibly proud of his find and resourcefulness.
"Here, my friend." he rested his weight on his forearms atop the old wooden countertop in a conspiring fraternal manner like your oldest buddy cooking up some delicious mayhem he wants to sell you on.
"I think these could help." He held up three different types of small containers in one big callous hand: a little squared box, a dropper bottle, and what looked like a toothpaste tube. "Skin repair and healing; pain relief and numbing; and antibiotic slash anti-inflammatory." He pointed at each container respectively with his free hand before placing them all in a neat line on the counter between them. "Remember, always clean the skin first."
"So, all three? How much would that be?" Peter asked, backpack already in hand as he shuffled around its contents searching for his terribly light wallet.
Gwen paddled to them, her mighty incense sticks in hand along with a maroon incense holder and a candle. She suddenly looked very adult as she laid it all on the countertop pulling out her own wallet.
"I'll take these as well."
"You don't even know Mr. Bhatt. He's a nice man."
"I’m sure he is."
Peter made a turn on an alleyway, his steps resounding on the asphalt, like loud and ironic slow clapping. He barely allowed himself to think about their next stop after they exited the shop, absentmindedly aiming for a shortcut he almost routinely took, invisible tracks on the narrow roofless hallway made by his shoes over time, as if he'd worn the fake tiles down. He could make this walk in his sleep.
"He gave you all that incense and the candle for free."
"I know. I was there, Pete. I can remember two minutes back." Gwen was struggling to keep up with his pace as he continued to stomp on, going as fast as his own frustration was unraveling. "Can we sit somewhere?"
"Are you, like, racist or something?"
"What-" Gwen stopped struggling behind him and stilled with a whine, not taking his words as an accusation, but more like nonsensical blabbering she just couldn't make sense of. She was too focused on following his step to begin with, his train of thought much too dizzying.
"Cause, you know.." Peter turned around, the expression on his face hard, hurt, and anger highlighting the lines between his eyebrows and on his forehead; lines that shouldn't be on a seventeen-year-old's forehead. "..that whole thing back there?"
"What thing- I need to sit down." She paddled to a wall, a frown on her face as she tried to keep her hissing to a minimum for the last few steps. "What are you talking about now?"
"You! Back there, with Mr. Bhatt. You were so rude!"
"Ah... Hold on, woah. That's not a jump, Peter. That's a whole ass leap to conclusions."
“Then what the hell was that?!”
“Right. Yeah, okay." Leaning on the wall in what seemed like a very unsuccessful effort to get some of her weight off her feet, her face scrunched up like she had just tasted something unexpectedly sour, or smelled something foul (or stepped on it, most likely) she took a big steadying breath before addressing Peter, who could not for the life of him stand still. "I’m sorry I was rude to your friend. I guess I'm a bit on edge. It's no excuse to be a jerk but still."
"It's not. You got that right." He answered before giving himself the chance to take in the full extent of her meaning. She lay her crutches to either side of her on the wall, her mouth twitching in pain for half a beat.
"It's just- I still don’t know where- I don’t know what the hell's going on." She looked up and stared straight ahead, beyond the dirty and half-ass painted-in-white brick wall in front of her. There was an incomplete gang sign graffiti on it, black spray paint smeared over some of the letters with streaks running down under most curves, where they'd taken too long to move the can. But she wasn't looking at it, but through it instead.
Peter groaned internally in frustration, exasperated and torn between 'you can't use the i-was-snatched-and-yeeted-into-a-different-universe card for everything, Gwen!' And 'well, actually it's completely justified and understandable due to the fact that you never got to the goddamn point of actually explaining anything, really' mindsets. He paced the width of the alleyway once, twice, three times before faceplanting into the graffitied wall in his concealed version of a temper tantrum. So Gwen being a possible alt-right minion was his fault now? Way to Make America Great Again, Spiderman.
"Can't make sense of any of it, this very twisted fever dream where everything feels unbelievably so damn vivid and life-like."
Umm.. he didn't love where this was going.
"I get more and more convinced by the second that I must’ve had some accident on my way to the airport and I’m unconscious in some hospital bed- I mean, you can’t be real."
Oh, boy. He slowly spun around, taking a deep breath and leaning back against the graffiti, burying his hands as far down into his jogger pants' pockets as he could manage and spreading his fingers flat along his thighs. He didn't want to have the option to ball them up into fists. We're calming down, Peter. Just calm down. He dropped his head, his lips pressed together in a displeased grimace. Man...
"None of this is, so what difference does it make?" He watched her shrug from the corner of his eye, still staring past the black-on-white paint to his right. God, this was bad. He shouldn't have stalled for that long, but- it's just that- he got sidetracked! She stepped on broken glass, for f- Jesus! Stop clenching, Peter!
"But then again I’m stuck with Peter’s very unforthcoming mini-me on a quest to find a way to get me home and,- wake me up? Am I dying? Is that it?”
Ah, what the-
"No. Wait- no, no." He basically launched himself off his wall and to her, and was immediately confronted with her disturbed stare now completely and unmistakably burning a hole as big as his own sense of guilt right into his chest. "Gwen? You’re not dying, okay? It’s just- I- Listen. It’s just very complicated but.." Hold on, Peter. Actually… a floating lightbulb dinged alight over his head.
Completely out of the ever-loving blue, a sudden and very aggressive "Yo!" sounded off from somewhere above his head. "Hey! You, vandals!"
Peter flipped on high alert, turning his head from side to side, searching. As in backflipped, literally. The half-second he spent suspended in mid-air, cold cutting wind ruffling his hair and digging into his skin, as well as smacking his fashionably late self-consciousness down to the realization that no mask had been in place to protect his exposed whitening face, a very particular stomach-deep panic rose up to his throat. Did you know panic had a taste?
"Ya better keep your self-expression bullshit off my wall!" He looked up then in time to find a pair of pitch-black metal blinds of a second-story window getting shut closed, its rusted hinges squeaking as they shifted back into place. Then the alleyway got a tinge darker, the extra shadows of their frames disappearing in a blink.
So… Never mind. No floating lightbulb, just a service light.
He shook his head to recompose himself, but partly to shove away any chance to question whether his reaction was a fight response or a flight one. Whatever, New Yorkers are scary. That's the Big Apple for you.
Where was he? Right, unalive yet undead Gwen half a chapter away from figuring out she'd died. That's a big no-no. He wasn't- How was he supposed to- It was enough already- Babysitting her limping contrarian and pregnant rude ass was already such a chore! He currently had no answers to any of the questions she might ask along the lines of 'how?', or 'why?", or 'huh?!'.
But, come to think of it, her thinking she just might be half dead wasn't that bad of an idea.
"Okay, what if you are? What if you’re in a coma or something, right? What if- there must be a connection then to the real world. None of this would be random.”
“What? I feel like this is breaking some sort of fourth wall. You’re acknowledging it?"
He was going out on a limb, but what if this was his one single chance to maybe somewhat help ease the process and acclimate her to this… his reality?
"I'm just humoring you. But, just in case, for argument’s sake, play along." He could make things so much easier right now, find that middle ground point with a half-satisfying partial answer.
"I'm confused."
"I don't think this dream sequence you’re living in would be random. What if whatever happens here affects what happens to you on the other side? In real life?" Did he just discover he was amazing at ad-lib bullshitting?
"Are you-"
"If you get in trouble here, it might affect the real you." This was either genius or his biggest dumbest mistake of the week, so far at least.
"If I die here, I die for real."
Yes! "Exactly."
"But wait. You said you’re humoring me? What do you-"
"Let's take this as a hypothesis. This whole… concept." Maybe he'd screwed up with that.
"Ah." At least that she could get behind easily.
"I can’t prove to you that what I'm saying right now it’s true, and I also can’t prove to you that what you’re seeing all around you is the actual real world, with real-life people and real-life consequences... But within these parameters, there’s also no way to prove it isn’t… You know what I mean?"
"I'm in neither and both. Right. That's as good an approach as any." Hell yeah! He'd settle for nothing less than 'hypothetically better than nothing'. She pushed herself off the wall, and stared at the graffiti again, frowning for a few seconds before relaxing her brow with a sigh "I guess I'll take it, though."
He nodded and bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from gloating with a grin.
"Awesome sauce." Had to remain inconspicuous. Obviously.
"So…" she grabbed the crutches off the wall and placed them back under her armpits, hesitantly testing her balance a bit. She looked at her feet and asked them: "I just have to play along until I can get some sort of confirmation of which is which, then?"
"Or you wake up. That'd be confirmation enough. But until then.."
He saw her shut her eyes and absentmindedly rock herself back and forth, like an inverted pendulum that was close to coming to a final stop. All the things that could be dashing to and fro behind her eyelids. A deafening sensory overload, but mental. She shook her head lightly and exhaled as her eyes opened. She looked like someone who had just come to terms with the fact that they had gotten into an arm wrestling match they couldn't win, and the only way to come out of it was to give in. "Okay."
"So, act as you would in the real world. Real or not, Mr. Bhatt is just a regular man doing his job."
She blinked at him. Twice.
"That was the point you were trying to make?"
"I mean, am I wrong? Tell me I'm wrong." He snappily challenged in an even, patronizing tone. Yes, he leaned down a bit to double down on his condescending intent, his eyes wide as if he was explaining something very obvious to a not-so-stupid child. "Ah, see? You can't."
Her reddening cheeks were such a satisfying sight for his sore petty eyes, he couldn't help but smile to himself. Now she blinked at the ground and looked around, huffing, too embarrassed to face him. Oh, wait. Was that supposed to be an eye roll? Sad attempt. It only made it funnier.
"I should've gotten an aspirin instead."
"Yeah, sure thing, honeybee." He chuckled to himself when he saw her bite her lower lip and turn her face to her right, away from his mocking grin. "If you're done with your temper tantrum we can go get some breakfast."
"Okay, now. Being that high up on your horse must be seriously messing with the oxygen flow getting to your head."
"And you're a big grumpy baby. Let's go." He made a gesture with his head before turning on his heels and marching onward. Yes, he was high on those bigger-person fumes and basking in them. How often could he say he had been able to annoy someone into humbleness and embarrassment? He had never considered himself a bully before but it was at moments like these when he thought he could see the appeal.
"I'm not even hungry." He heard her mutter in a small voice behind him, almost drowned by the 'click-clack' of the crutches on the wet asphalt.
"Even if you're not… coffee might make you feel better anyway. Think of it like that two wolves metaphor."
"Which is…"
".. it's, uh-" what's this, an aptitude test? A psych eval? ", goes like 'the wolf you feed the most survives', or something like that." He was a high school dropout, details like ceasing to exist in the entire world's collective memory notwithstanding. Also, knowing old sayings from old people is her territory.
"Sounds very fitting."
Peter looked back for a second to find her smirking down to the ground as she padded along. She had his red wool gloves on and her hands kept slightly slipping on the smooth metal handlebar of their borrowed crutches. But she didn't look bothered by it, she didn't even look like she was registering it. Well, the metal should be pretty cold and at least it hadn't gotten the wool frozen and stuck to itself yet. Good, those were his last matching pair. He returned to his maybe not so sly attempt of reading and assessing her overall mental and emotional state, and was met with her cat-like eyes, wrinkled with the traces of a mischievous smile, appraising him back through her long lashes. She pressed her lips together as if that could erase the cheeky grimace.
"You know what I mean." He scoffed, turning his head around to hide his own complicit smile. She definitely knew what he meant. What a nuisance, can’t let him enjoy his single well-earned superiority complex moment. No, better smack him down back to the ground. Such a spoilsport.
"Not really." He heard her mutter again after a few beats, more to herself than for him to hear. It seemed like a loaded broader statement. Just when you think you’re out of the woods and have successfully managed to quell the shit-storm...
It was getting annoying. The inconsistency; this weird mood back and forth jumping thing she did. It was like a vibe Russian roulette. You blinked once and the atmosphere went from jovial to mournful to mischievous to heavy with anxiety to- Ah! The hormones. Of course..
"I'll bet I haven't even met your caffeinated wolf yet, only the Grinchy one."
"Well, 'tisn't it the season? A day ago 'tis wasn't even winter." She snapped back.
"I meant- it's a general rule, Gwen!” Peter could tell she ‘twasn’t feeling jolly at all. “Everyone is a bit less themselves when grumpy, with an empty stomach and eye gunk stuck to their tear ducts." A Christmas spice infusion might do her just right.
"Does that include you? Please tell me your post-coffee self is at least a notch more subdued."
The gall this one had. Hopefully, post-coffee Gwen was a notch more decent. And nicer. And friendly. And a better conversationalist. Maybe add a chocolate frosting-filled croissant, or a few fresh-out-the-oven cinnamon rolls to help simmer down her inner Scrooge.
"Only one way to find out. Come on, you're gonna love this place."