|> Trigger Warning: Panic Attacks, Vague Mentions of Unaliving <|
"Fuck," Peter spits. He realises he's shaking. Damn it.
Does he have to be so emotional? Ms Potts only meant to comfort him. Harley didn't mean anything by it.
Morgan said it herself. He's really actually Spider-Man. So maybe, he should Spider-Man up and stop being such a baby.
Gah! What the hell? What is wrong with him? Ugh.
He'll never admit it, you could kill him and he still wouldn't ever, but he's so awfully, utterly, hopelessly and helplessly envious of Harley.
It's this feeling of bubbling horror, thick, boiling tar filling his lungs and creeping up his throat and pooling underneath his tongue. A piercing, burning cold spreading across his skin and freezing him over, turning him to crystal.
Oh, fuck, he thinks he's going to throw up.
He doesn't move from his place on the couch, curled up into a ball and shivering. He pulls his knees in farther, hides his head, hides from this, whatever this is. Or, at the very least, hiding from the outside so they can't see it, this.
Harley has everything he used to have, everything he wants, everything he wishes he could have back. A life, a family, a purpose. He has Pepper and Happy and Morgan. He has friends and family, he has a job, an education, something to remember him for and people who'll remember it. He'd do anything for it all back, but he knows he shouldn't. Turning time back to have them back, it's fruitless. Stupid.
It's been so fucking long since he's had one of these. Jesus fucking Christ. He forgot how absolutely awful these feel.
There's something weirdly beautiful in the way you found Harley, some part of his brain whispers to him through the tar. How a being so utterly alone and hopeless. Come across someone who has everything you want. Latch yourself onto him.
How the hell is that beautiful?
He balls his fists up until his knuckles turn ghost-white and his nails draw blood from his palms, bites his lip until he tastes metal, breathes so erratically he's probably getting zero oxygen, shakes until he's physically so tired he doesn't think he'll ever stand again.
He's so fucking lonely. It's unfair. Everything is so unfair. He didn't ask for this. He didn't want this. He hates everything. He's so fucking tired.
He's so tired.
He hates being tired.
Fuck this, he wants to say. Fuck all of it.
He'll just run away. He'll stop being Spider-Man. He'll fucking die.
Anything.
Why is he so exhausted all the time? Oh, he's not actually asking that question, is he?
This is a fucking joke. He's such a fucking joke.
He'd start pulling at his hair if he wasn't so vain about it. He doesn't want to get blood in it. What would pulling his hair out do, anyway?
That's right! Nothing.
"God-fucking-damn it," he mutters in frustration, opening his palm and watching the blood run down his wrist along his veins. The moment his nails aren't in the wound, though, it starts closing up and the blood stops.
He misses Ned. He misses MJ. He misses Happy.
He misses May.
He misses Mr Stark.
Fuck, he misses Flash. He misses Flash! It's the fucking end of the world!
Ugh.
No, he knows what he's supposed to do. Something May taught him. He loves May, he'll listen to her, even if she's not here.
He breathes in deeply for four seconds. Holds it for seven seconds. Realises he's been crying. Breathes out slowly for eight. Repeat.
One, two. Something inside breaks open. A dam bursts.
Three, four. He's crying harder now, but he's not bleeding anymore. The water washes it all away.
One, two. He can smell faintly the scent of oil that lingers in the lab.
Three, four. It reminds him of spending late nights in the tower with Mr Stark, just making gadgets and talking.
Five, six, seven. It reminds him of organising files with Harley while Queen plays on repeat in the background.
One, two. He likes how it feels when he's with Harley.
Three, four. It's like he has a friend again. Like he has someone.
Five, six. He does have someone.
Seven, eight. He's still crying, but it doesn't feel as bad now. Less bitter.
He shifts on the sofa and relaxes, letting his head fall back onto the arm of it and dropping his arms to his sides. (How did this start again? Whatever, not important.)
Peter stares up at the ceiling, counting the number of tiles from the walls to the skylights and feeling the tears on his face dry slowly.
"Twelve," he speaks out aloud, turning his head to look at the desks. "Twelve tiles."
"Did you say something, sir?" FRIDAY's voice pipes up from some point above him. He glances up at a camera in the corner of the roof.
"Ah, no, it's alright, FRIDAY," he says, speaking a bit louder. "Thanks."
"Alright, sir."
He stares at the opposite wall just breathing until FRIDAY pipes up again. "It's half past seven in the evening, sir."
Peter sits up, frowning at the clock next to the coffee machine. 19:31 flashes at him brightly. Oh.
He sighs, swiping his hand through his hair. Food. The bane of his existence. Standing and shoving his hands into his pockets, he makes his way to the exit. (He makes a mental note to clean the mug of coffee left on the desk tomorrow.)
okay yes i'm sorry next chapter will include Morgan 🥰
also yo i just realised this is the only chapter i wasn't obsessing over harley's eyes and it's only cos he wasn't even here kldflsdf
word count: 889 (i tried) (or maybe i didn't) (we'll never know)
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