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Peter turned the water on in the shower and waited for it to slowly heat up. He swayed tiredly on his feet, staring numbly at the wall. Eventually the water turned to a serviceable temperature, as hot as he could hope for in this place anyway, and he stepped inside on shaky legs. He slowly sank to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees and letting the water wash over his head and down his body as he stared blankly at the blood lazily circling the drain between his toes.
Every inch of his body hurt. Bones that were surely broken. Wounds that would need to be stitched. And his head was pounding again, a worryingly common theme these days.
He really missed when he'd had someone in his corner to help with these sorts of things. He just couldn't reach that spot on his back that needed sewing up. Oh well. It would just have to heal on its own.
Peter hung his head tiredly, propping his pounding forehead on his bruised and bloody knees. The water felt good on the back of his neck, weak as the shower head pressure was. It ran down into his eyes and streamed down his cheeks like tears. Or maybe those were tears. Some days it was hard to tell.
Peter sighed and lifted his head to inspect his bruised knuckles. He prodded the torn skin, hissing quietly at the sharp stab of pain. Yes, he had super strength and enhanced healing. Yes, it still hurt. Peter felt the familiar stabbing pain of another kind, thinking back to that conversation with Happy all those years ago. Had it really been that long?
He shifted uncomfortably on the hard tile. His legs were losing feeling and the water was starting to run cold. He should get out. He should stitch up his wounds and get something to eat and lie down. He needed to sleep. He knew he wasn't getting enough sleep. Maybe that explained the headaches. He needed to take better care of himself. DeWolff kept saying it. He knew he should listen to her.
He also knew he kept her at arms length for fear of getting too close. For caring too much. For shoehorning her into a maternal role in his life that she hadn’t asked for and didn’t deserve. She had her own kids. Peter wasn’t one of them. He had to stay detached, to keep her safe. He wouldn't lose anyone else.
That didn't make her wrong about him needing to take better care of himself.
But it was so hard. To care. To try. To do anything really, besides fight crime, and bring flowers to the cemetery and do laundry. Hell, even doing the laundry sucked.
Speaking of which--he really needed to do some laundry.
Peter sighed again and rolled his shoulders, hearing a soft crack. His back. Peter Two had a bad back. Was that right? Was he remembering that right? It was so hard sometimes, to remember.
He was afraid he was forgetting things. Details. About his life, his friends, his family. Sometimes he felt like he was forgetting the way MJ smelled. The way May smiled. The sound of Ned’s laugh.
It terrified him, the thought of losing all that. The slow, inevitable forgetting. It scared him so bad he wanted to scream. Because what would he have left if he forgot them? Like they had forgotten him. All he had left were his memories. If he was alone in his head? He couldn't bear thinking about it.
Peter shifted again and groaned. He had to get up. He just had to make himself move his arms and legs and get up off the floor.
He had been falling tonight. He had jumped off a building, the ground coming up to meet him, the cold wind whistling in his ears, and he’d had a thought, just a fleeting one.
What if I just kept falling?
It had only lasted a moment and then he had reached out his hand and webbed to the next building and the next after that. All the way home.
But the thought remained. Dark in the back of his mind.
He knew it would surface again. And again.
What if I just kept falling?
Peter pushed himself to his feet, turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.