Spideychelle one-shots

Dear Journal (Pt. 8)

Peter

Peter knew pain, knew the way it buzzed through his teeth, made his heart roar and his head sing. Pain was an old friend, a constant companion even with his advanced strength and healing. 

But Peter had never felt pain like this. This was meant to hurt, this was carefully thought out, every blow, every cut a statement.

This was torture. 

Peter had never been tortured before. Never had to deal with that. Never even really thought about it - one of his main strengths was his speed and ability to navigate the city which he most often operated and fought in. He didn't have to worry about traffic jams or crowds. He was above all of that. 

But not anymore. Now, he was a ball of pain, he was molten lava, he was melting away and reforming and every breath felt like it would be his last.

He didn't know how much longer he could go on and his only regret - his main regret - was MJ.  

He should have just told her - but there was nothing he could do now, and thinking only made the pain worse. 

Darkness stole over him like a blanket over a tired child, his bones sinking into softness. Even as he railed against sleep the pain stole him away and he wasn't sure if he could come back from this. 

He wasn't sure if he could wake up from this and oh god, help him because he was falling, he was falling and it had no end. 

It had no end but the darkness didn't care and it slipped into his mind, stole into his heart and shut him down, every nerve, every thought until there was nothing left - 

Nothing left. 

MJ

No. 

Peter

Time seemed to move strangely. His captors, whoever they were, never showed their faces; Peter supposed they were disappointed that their torture had not been more fruitful. Peter wasn't sure what they wanted. 

Okay, that wasn't exactly true. Peter wasn't 100 percent sure what they wanted. He had his hunches of course. 

And they all had to do with one person:

His father.

Peter could pull in a good ransom, if they knew who to blackmail. He'd been all the more certain when, after the final beating, one of the masked men had snapped some photos of his face. Which, if Peter was to go by feeling, was spectacularly bruised. 

Peter hated the small part of him that wanted to be rescued. That hoped that he was being ransomed off, that he didn't have to fight his way out alone. Again. 

He hated the small part of him that made him feel weak. 

MJ

Life drifted by like a dream. MJ felt like she was floating, numb, her life frozen below her.

Somehow, the world kept going. Somehow, the earth kept spinning. 

She thought it would have stopped. Why didn't it stop?

Peter was dead. Maybe if she said it enough times it would sink in. (Dead.)

He was dead, and there was nothing she could do. 

She didn't blame herself. The therapist she kept seeing even though she hated it was useless in that regard, going on and on about survivor's guilt and how it was okay to feel that way. No matter how many times MJ told them she didn't feel that way, that she knew  it wasn't her fault, they didn't believe her. 

MJ knew whose fault it was. And it wasn't hers. 

It was Spiderman's. 

He had saved her so many times. Saved so many people so many times - from things that weren't possible. But he couldn't save Peter from one measly fire?

Peter, who was the nicest boy MJ knew, who was one of her only friends. Peter, who made her smile and flirted with her clumsily, Peter her loyal Science Fair partner, Peter who deserved better.

Peter who had died alone and scared, just trying to help people. Selfless to the very end.

And then she was crying again, fat tears that rolled down her cheeks and caught in her eyelashes. 

She would've thought that she would be out of tears by now. She didn't know that it was possible for someone to cry this much. 

She hadn't been to school since it had happened. She couldn't bear the looks, the stares, the apologies; the pictures of Peter that were probably up everywhere. Their science fair trophy in the entranceway.

His funeral was scheduled for tomorrow, and MJ didn't know if she could go. She didn't know if she could pull herself through it. Talking to all of those people... Everyone knew she'd been the last person to talk to him. Maybe not the last person to see him, because he'd held the door open for others, but that didn't seem to matter to anyone. 

There was a picture that was plastered on the news when they talked about the "tragic fire at the Statewide School Science Fair this weekend..."

It was one of her and Peter, up on the stage, smiling so wide their cheeks are nearly cracking. Peter has the trophy in one arm, and with the other he's holding on tight to MJ's hand...

They'd been whispering to each other, something stupid, something fun and flirty and congratulatory. They'd been high with the win and the adrenaline rush of a stressful day.

She was in the middle of talking, her eyes sparkling and her lips quirking, and Peter was looking at her like she was his everything.

And she hated it, she hated it because it was supposed to be their moment. It was something private, something happy, and now everyone had seen it, everyone knew.

The reporters hounded, wanting the tragic story of young love gone terribly, terribly wrong. But MJ didn't have any answers. 

Her and Peter had been something else. Looking back, MJ could admit that maybe there had been the beginning of something between them. That maybe, without Spiderman, she would've wanted something.

That she could imagine going out with him with painful, beautiful clarity.

If it hadn't been for Spiderman...

If it hadn't been for her stupid, unrealistic crush. If they'd had more time. 

If, if, if.

But she didn't have that chance now. Now it was all over, and MJ didn't know how to move on. She didn't know how to come back from this.

Maybe she never would. 

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