Numb
The moment Ned left, Peter scrambled for his backpack. He rifled through his notebooks until he hit the Decathlon folder. There, between notes on King Henry VIII and a doodle MJ gave him of Mr. Harrington sleeping during practice, was the crumpled, mildly abused permission form.
”Aw man...” Peter groaned and flopped back on his mattress. Already, he could picture a dozen possible scenarios, and all of them ended in complete disaster. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
“Kidding you about what?”
He jolted at May’s voice, then relaxed when he remembered the giant mess of webbing had dissolved.
”Oh. Hey, May.”
Her eyes narrowed. Leaning against the doorway, she studied him closely. “Don’t hey, May me. What’s going on? Rough day?”
”Erm...” He shuffled through the papers, desperately trying to hide them from her. He wasn’t quite ready to talk about the field trip. “No, no, no, I’m good. How-how was your day?”
No dice. She immediately spotted the papers. “What’s that.”
Resigned, he sat back on his heels as she strode over and began flipping through. She held up the permission form accompanied by a raised eyebrow, and he winced.
She sighed and knelt down next to him on the floor. “Kiddo, you love going to the Tower. This isn't much different."
He groaned. “I know, I know. It’s nothing, May. I’ll be super excited at some point, but...gah.”
She gave him a don’t bullshit me look. "Don't shut me out. Spill."
The sigh was soul deep. "My classmates. Somehow they're convinced I conned the entire last year of internships just to, I dunno, look cool."
"You can stay home—"
"Never. Just...I'll go. It'll be great. Totally."
She looked at him for another moment before leaning down and placing a kiss on his head. “Okay. I’ll sign, then leave. But try to put your best face on and remember that nothing's gonna happen. It's just a walk-around with a lunch.”
”Okay, May.”
”Keep your chin up, honey. I larb you.”
"Larb you, too."
***
Peter stared at his phone, debating. To record or not to record? On one hand, it would be really fun, and he’d have a little souvenir in his pocket forever. On the other, Mr. Stark might think he was more immature if he did.
Ah, screw it. He was Spider-Man, and he was about to film the hell out of this. Not only that, he'd be helping bring in Captain America, too. Might as well violate international treaties in style.
Holding up the phone, he pulled up the camera and pointed it away from him, a la vlog post.
He'd like to think his commentator voice sounded deeper than usual (T shots for the win) as he cleared his throat.
”New York,” he began. “Queens. It’s a rough borough, but hey, it’s home.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Crap. He forgot about Happy. “No one. Just making a little video of the trip.”
”You know you can’t show it to anyone.”
”Yeah, I know.”
”Then why are you narrating in that voice?”
”Uh... Because it’s fun.”
”Fun.”
Peter wondered quietly if Happy even knew the meaning of the word. Maybe he was allergic to humor. Peter decided that he didn’t care. He shifted forwards a bit in his seat and poked the sleeping bear. “So, uh, why do they call you Happy.”
The reflective partition separating the front from the back slid up, and Peter sighed, shutting his phone off. “So that’s a nope, then.”
Eh, whatever. A grumpy Happy couldn’t ruin the best day of his life. He was going to Germany, and for once in his life, nobody was going to judge him for being a kid (he hoped), or for being a nerd, or, most importantly, for being transgender.
As far as he knew, Mr. Stark had no idea that he was trans. Peter sure as hell hadn't told him, and he trusted May not to out him under any circumstances.
She was cool like that.
***
Peter snapped back to focus when the limo swerved onto a cement landing strip. He peered out to where a large private jet sat parked in the middle of the runway, sleek sides shiny in the sun.
The limo jerked to a stop, and Peter heard the door and the trunk pop at the same time.
Happy was all business as he bustled to the trunk, scooped out Peter’s bags, and plopped them on the ground before grabbing his own. Peter clambered out after him, flicking his phone back on.
He wanted to keep this vlog forever.
Happy hit some remote controlled button, and a set of steps swung down from the side of the aircraft. “Come on. I’m not carrying your bags. Let’s go.”
“Hey, should I go to the bathroom before?” Peter called after him, stumbling up the stairs after him. He saw that in a movie somewhere.
”There’s a bathroom on it.”
Peter ducked under the plane’s doorway. In the cockpit, there was no pilot or personnel or anything.
”Whoa,” he breathed despite himself. “No pilot? That’s awesome.”
If only Ned could see this. He would flip out.
Happy eased himself into a chair near the front. Peter stood, unsure of what to do.
Was there a certain plane etiquette you followed? Could you stand or would you fall during takeoff? Did you act differently when there wasn’t a pilot?
Not really sure of what he was doing, he plunked in the seat across from Happy.
Apparently this was the wrong move. Note to self: buy Plane Etiquette 101 for Dummies after the trip. Happy glowered. “Is that where you’re gonna sit?”
”Yeah.”
”This is your first time on a private plane?”
”My first time on any plane,” Peter admitted honestly.
Without saying anything else, Happy got up and moved to the cluster of seats diagonal Peter.
That was fine by Peter. He propped his legs up on the now vacant seat across from him. The seats were super comfy, but a little stiff.
Wait. There was a dial up by the button with the picture of a little person waving their hand. He turned the dial, and his seat slid back. Vsssshhh. Forwards. Vvvvvssss.
He giggled despite himself. This was so cool. Backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards. He could even adjust the firmness with another switch on the armrest.
Another switch, and the seat went squishy. He giggled again as he sank deeper into it.
Nothing but a Happy eye-roll. Eh, whatever. Nothing could pop Peter’s bubble today.
Then, the plane rumbled like an earthquake. ”Should it...? Should it be...? Should it be making that noise?”
As the plane lurched forwards, Peter lurched with it. Weird. Take-offs never looked this violent in movies.
Just to be safe, Peter slid his phone into his pocket so it wouldn’t fly across the plane and smack Happy in the head. Though that wouldn’t be the worst thing if it did.
***
Ok, ok, quiet, be quiet, and....
Happy twitched, and Peter jolted away, fumbled back to his seat, bumping into another on the way, all the while suppressing a wave of laughter.
Payback, he grinned as he watched the footage. That’s what you get when you mess with Spider-Man.
Happy should count himself as lucky that Peter wasn’t allowed to post this on YouTube. He totally would if he could.
“Peter?”
He grumbled as a faraway voice pulled him up through the fog and mist. “Huh?”
”Peter!” Ned hissed, elbowing him sharp in the side. Ow, that hurt. “Dude, wake up.”
”Mr. Parker?” someone asked drily. Crap—Mr. Harrington, he thought, and bolted upright. The decathlon coach pushed his wire-rim glasses further up a disgruntled nose. “Care to join us again?”
“Sorry, sir. My bad.”
Mr. Harrington shot him a pointed look before turning back to the rest of the team. “Okay. Now that the whole team is back with us, let’s continue. Round 1. Easy questions, guys. What is the capital of Bangladesh?”
Ding.
“Cindy?”
”Dhaka.”
”Very good, Cindy."
Flash, who was (unfortunately) sitting on Peter’s other side, leaned over and whispered under his breath, so quiet that almost nobody else would be able to hear it:
“You ready to see the Tower, Parker?" he snickered.
"Yep." Monosyllabic answers, no eye contact.
"Got your fancy-pants internship badge or whatever? Man, will you ever grow up? News flash Parker: nobody believes you."
"Thanks, Flash. Hadn't noticed." Fine, polysyllabic, but only because he didn't have enough brain energy to deal with this crap.
Then, Flash scooted his chair, angling his head and leaning closer under the guise of sharing Peter's answer sheet. "Can't stand not having the attention, can you Emily?"
Peter ducked his head, feeling a numb flush crawling up his face, but he quickly tamped down his anger.
Emily Elizabeth Parker. A little girl who never was. The name stamped on his original birth certificate, before May took him to the civil courthouse for a legal name change.
At the time, he had thought that, by doing that, he could leave Emily behind for good. A magic bandaid, of sorts, but whenever he started getting comfy that freaking name came back to bite him in the shape of good ol' Mean Eugene.
He hated it. It was stupid that Flash could get under his skin so much. He was Spider-Man, after all, and Flash practically kowtowed the ground Spidey touched. But every snide, sideways comment from Flash dropped another straw on his creaking back.
Flash scooted back, and they both went back to ignoring each other, ignoring the way MJ stiffened mid-doodle and shot eyeball daggers at the small of Flash’s back, ignoring it all in favor of the unspoken treaty between them.
Flash had the upper hand, had the ace in the hole, could and would topple everything he’d built here in an instant. And they looked each other in the eyes, and they both knew it. And Peter kept his mouth shut and stewed.
Three days later was a Bad Day. Peter was proud to say that he'd grown quite the thick skin over the years, but it still freaking grated after a while, wore him down to nubs. Some days were easier to brush past, others turned rock-bottom balls-up.
Some days went like this: his concentration going into keeping his breathing even, controlling the shaking in his hands, ignoring the numbness in his chest. Flubbing easy questions to keep the storm at bay. But some days, the capital of Ukraine just wouldn’t show itself in his brain.
Emily. Emily. Emily. Flash wasn't even the problem anymore. These kinds of days, he barely felt Flash bump into his chair hard on the way out. Just himself and his stupid meat-bag.
He was so, so numb. Imagine leg falling asleep but, like, emotional damage.
A hand grabbed his arm, and MJ yanked him to his feet. “Up you get. There we go.”
The Terrible Trinity of MJ, Peter, and Ned walked out of the auditorium. As Flash passed by, MJ stuck her foot out to trip him.
Flash stumbled head on before righting himself indignantly. “Dude!”
”Dude,” MJ sneered back. Then in a lower voice that didn’t carry: “Cut the dead-naming, will you? You’re not half as funny as you think you are.”
She turned and grabbed the two of them by the arms and marched them out the door. “Let's go, losers. We have periodicals to read."
Some days, it was just plain hard. Hard to get on slotted into a body that didn’t match his brain. Hard getting called a fraud and a pansy and a million other less savory things on the daily, then turning on the national news networks to find out that, actually, most of the country thought he was trying to corrupt the youth by taking a piss near a urinal and he couldn’t complain without leaving his back open to attack.
Some days, everything felt completely, utterly wrong.
The numb wrongness spread to his chest, his legs, his arms. His clothes were coarse to the touch, baggy or skintight, and clung all wrong. His face lost all structure, his chest was misshapen. He couldn’t focus to bring oxygen into ribs that were squeezed vice-like and lungs the size of walnuts.
Why did his legs feel so bulky? Surely they were thick stone columns. His too-long hair scratched at his neck and he pictured a haystack on his head. His arms so skinny, they felt like oars swimming through space.
He sucked in a deep, shaky breath.
Why couldn’t he feel his face? It was like all the nerve endings had been cut off from his brain, all sensation stopped.
Nothing felt right.
Those days he locked himself in his room, buried his face in the mattress, and ignored any pleas for him to open the door, to let her in, let her talk to him.
“Leave me alone,” he mumbled into the pillow. The feeling of fabric against his skin was rough and suffocating. He lay there anyway, unwilling to move.
The knocking stopped.
There was only one fix for a day like this: to take himself away from this part of his life, to leave behind all of the baggage from the day, to become someone stronger, someone better, someone who did good in the world instead of sitting still and watching life pass by without doing anything.
Yeah, math homework could wait. Tonight he was going out as Spider-Man.