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022. vengeance
𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐓. Their sanctuary — the rooftop of Midtown High — had always been their safe haven. A hidden escape from prying eyes, from the relentless media, from the suffocating weight of expectations that came with masks and powers. It was their place. Together.
But tonight, Peter sat there alone, hunched at the edge of the rooftop, silhouetted against the faint glow of the city. His posture was all wrong — rigid with pain, his shoulders trembling ever so slightly. Even from this distance, Ingrid could sense the quiet devastation radiating from him. Her chest tightened as she clutched the cold metal of the ladder, her instincts warring with her guilt.
The sight of him under the pale light stole her breath. His suit was a mess of tattered fabric and bloodstains, torn open to reveal raw, angry cuts underneath. Glass shards glinted in his skin, and his face — God, his face — was streaked with a mixture of blood, rain, and tears. The late autumn wind whipped around them, chilling the night, but Peter didn’t seem to notice. His head hung low, hair plastered to his forehead, tears pooling in his lap as though the weight of everything had finally crushed him.
Her hesitation shattered. Ingrid let go of the ladder and leapt from the higher platform, landing hard on the concrete with a dull thud. The impact jarred her legs, pain flaring momentarily, but she didn’t care. She had to reach him.
Ned and MJ followed closely behind, their footsteps echoing softly in the night. None of them said a word. There was an unspoken understanding among them: Peter didn’t need words. He needed them.
Peter flinched at the sound of their arrival. His shoulders stiffened, though he didn’t look back. He didn’t need to; he knew who it was. He kept his head bowed, his gaze fixed on the rooftop’s edge.
Ingrid knelt slowly beside him, careful not to scare him further. The artifact in her hand felt heavy, its importance now a distant thought. She placed it gently away from the ledge, out of harm’s way, before returning her attention to Peter. Her heart ached at the sight of his trembling frame, and she couldn’t stop herself from reaching out.
“Peter,” she whispered, her voice soft yet heavy with emotion.
He didn’t respond, but his jaw clenched, and his eyes squeezed shut, a single tear slipping free and trailing down his bruised cheek.
Ingrid’s fingers hovered for a moment before she finally cupped his face, coaxing his gaze toward her. When his red-rimmed eyes met hers, the anguish in them almost brought her to tears. She wiped the tear away with her thumb, her hand trembling slightly as she smeared blood across his cheek in the process. She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering for a heartbeat longer than intended.
