[Kübler-Ross | Stage Two | Anger]

[daretodo]

The kitchen table's been overturned and the splintered remnants of a chair are scattered across the floor, along with broken plates and glasses, silverware. In the living room, a bookshelf's collapsed in on itself, the end table responsible for its destruction still hanging through the slats of one of the shelves. One of the couches has been torn

Comments

[lucked]

Honestly, I'd never try to claim that I'm the brightest bulb around. Even back in Union Wells, there were some subjects that I just didn't get, or maybe didn't put enough effort towards. Middling grades in biology, slightly above average in math- school's something that's hard to put one's all in, because the end goal that you're working for, the carrot that they keep on trying to dangle in front of our faces? It's just far away. It's not something that you can bury your hands in, it's not something immediately gratifying. You try hard in high school, you get into a good college. You try hard in college, you get a good job. It's no wonder most kids my age don't have the patience for it

[daretodo]

It never occurred to me that anyone would knock.

In retrospect, that'll probably seem naive, but for now, the sound of it, short and sharp, startles me free from my train of thought. The wisps of an idea flee from my grasp, either a breakthrough or another dead end, and now I'll never have the chance to figure it out. Its only remains is the black squiggle I made instead of a sigma, and I swear under my breath, pushing a hand back through hair that's more grease than anything else.

For about a minute I consider ignoring it, but then I wonder if that won't do more harm than good, if they'll keep knocking or just barge right in, and so I toss the marker onto the desk, and stalk out of my workshop, ignoring the stabbing pain in my chest when I pass the never-opened bedroom door across the hall.

I steel myself for what promises to be a brief conversation no matter who's waiting outside-- Unless, I think despite my better judgment, it's Mary Jane, a thought I immediately send back to where it came from when I suck down a breath that's

[lucked]

It's immediately clear that he isn't okay. His hair's disheveled, his eyes rimmed with red and still kind of bright beyond that- like someone who's just on the verge of tears. There's a slight stubble growing along his chin. Maybe by most people's standards, none of that would mean too much, just another lousy day on the island where things didn't go quite right. But this is Peter. Maybe he's not my Peter, the uncle who was willing to risk his life for me even before he knew who I was, the one who'll always be my hero, but that doesn't mean that I don't think of Peter Parker as family as well. Maybe I'm closer to Mary Jane- or was, the pit of my stomach already tells me- but Peter's still someone I'd do anything in my power for

[daretodo]

The resistance of her hand against the door is so minimal that I don't know I would've even noticed had she not started to talk, though most of her words go in one ear and out the other. The few I latch onto don't make a lot of sense, but my gaze drops back to the basket of cupcakes, and this time my stomach lurches. I don't know when's the last time I've eaten -- if it's been days or just hours -- but I won't let my body betray me; company's the last thing I want, let alone that of a girl's who's barely lived. This isn't for her to see.

"I'm not hungry."

[wildlyconflictd]

In retrospect, the sheer weight of the news was almost as unexpected as the news itself. You don't get to be nearly forty and not have lost people regardless of how fastidiously you guard yourself, and this was far from the first time Pepper had her legs knocked out from under her by the reality of someone she cares about being simply gone. This was, however, the first time since perhaps her father's death that the knowledge felt so tangible, so heavy and sudden, stealing her breath and physically driving her down with it, onto the closest chair because she had abruptly lost the ability to remain upright

[daretodo]

I'm perched on the edge of my desk when I hear a noise at the front door, the end of the marker pushed between my lips, but I don't move until I hear my name. Then I jerk forward, feet slipping onto the floor to find my balance, and I half-stumble towards the hallway, stepping over discarded books and papers with a gracelessness born of anger.

The way Pepper calls out only for me says she isn't expecting to find Mary Jane, if her coming into my house uninvited wasn't evidence enough. She knows, then. Gossip travels quickly in a place like this, I shouldn't be surprised, but still I wonder who told her, even as I'm glad I don't have to break the news. Maybe that makes me selfish, but in this, I think I'm entitled, just as I'm entitled to my privacy. There's no law that says she can't come in here, but that doesn't matter. It's the principle of the thing. You don't go through a door that's shut without asking. Locks are made for honest people, but doors are kept closed for a reason. And as I pass by the bedroom I refuse to think of as

[wildlyconflictd]

The flicker of unrestrained emotion that crosses Peter's face before he catches himself absolutely breaks her heart. When he tells her to leave, she indulges in feeling wounded for a slim moment before her better sense kicks in and she levels him with a surprisingly steady gaze.

"No." Her tone leaves no room for argument, nor does the way she steps into the room and bends to pick up an upturned table.

[daretodo]

I get there before she does, kicking the table out of her reach. It spins towards the wall with a clatter, coming to an abrupt halt across the room when a leg snags around the corner of the couch. My breaths are labored, coming heavy and quick.

The effort of trying to keep it together is taking everything I've got, the strain evident in my voice as I bite out, "Leave it."

[notawastedlife]

He was not a man that did a great deal in the way of overt emotional responses. His parents, Yinsen, Duo, all formed a study of varying ways of partitioning himself, bringing something else forth to attend to. The later ones were, if unusual, perhaps stable, for him. Earlier, though, drinking had been chief among them, becoming purposefully dissolute.

It was not lost on him that the woman who had been tangible evidence, a case study in the impact that could have on others, the one he'd said the A-word to first was the absent party.

And that Peter was going to have a hell of a time dealing with this.

Of course, his own tactics had not left him in any particularly strong place to assist others with grief, so he'd let his contribution be... other. He was showing up, nonetheless, wandering in, words on his lips pausing once he noted what Peter was doing.

He'd wait for the equation to play out.

[daretodo]

"Pepper sent you."

It's not a question. Maybe it should be. Maybe things have changed enough that Tony'd really come here of his own accord, but it's too late now, my voice coming out both flat and hoarse. I can barely bring myself to look at him, my gaze flicking in his direction for all of an instant to confirm I'm not imagining things -- every movement in the corner of my eye is Mary Jane -- before I return it to the wall in front of me. Whatever momentum I had, though, is lost to the distraction of his presence alone, and I take a step back from the wall, my grip on the marker no less tight for the interruption.

I don't tell him to leave. With him, probably more than anyone, it'd just be encouragement to stay; I know him well enough for that. And while I can't say I want him to stick around, at least he's unlikely to tell me he's sorry for my loss; that's not a word he's big on. For the very first time, I'm immensely grateful for that fact.

"I should put up a sign. No one knocks anymore."

[notawastedlife]

"Would you have heard it over the property damage?" Tony said, nudging the overturned table with a foot. Admittedly, it had the appearance of something done not immediately before his entrance, since Peter had been at the wall with the marker, then, but he wasn't going strictly for accuracy.

It reminded him a hotel room after a bender.

Which would have been an option, only he wasn't couldn't just drag Pete along to get wasted, unfortunately.

[daretodo]

In other circumstances, I might have felt some sense of embarrassment, but there's none of that, now. I don't have to explain myself to him or anyone else, and I definitely don't have to stand here in my own house and be judged for how I'm choosing to cope with an impossible situation. I press my free hand to my chest, and through my shirt, run my fingers over the raised scar tissue that's still there months after the fact; Tony's done worse

[weary_head]

It's a guess.

It's not impossible that Pete could be sick. It doesn't happen often on the island, the climate in-conducive to illness, but it does happen. It seems strange, though, that he wouldn't alert his class, even if said class is scheduled for seven thirty in the morning. There's just something about Pete, a tenacity that makes Dean think that even wheezing, the guy would at least show up long enough to give them homework and go home.

He could be sick, but it isn't Dean's first guess. Maybe it's his own near constant state of mourning, the grief so thick that some days, Dean's not even sure he's breathing through it. Maybe he's jaded by a lifetime of loss, maybe he's come to expect it. Maybe it's just a hunch, but even so, as Dean walks towards the Parker home, the wrapped up dinner in his hands feels like a talisman against his growing fear. Food for the sick, casserole for the grieving. Dean's brought Pete a sandwich

[daretodo]

"...Dean?"

There's no hiding the confusion from my face, red-rimmed eyes gone narrow as I fix him with a stare. He's about the last person I would've expected at my doorstep, and there's a moment where I'm at a loss for any kind of explanation for his visit, my mind racing for reasons until I realize, right, I didn't go to class; I almost laugh, the notion seeming absurd that anyone around here would actually care about my absence, even though I know I would've myself as late as Sunday morning. Things have changed.

Without another word, I start to close the door.

[weary_head]

He doesn't know why he does it. Maybe it's instant confirmation in Pete's red eyes, the stone dropping in his stomach at the thought of someone else, anyone, a teacher who'd looked out for him, feeling what Dean feels his every waking moment since Angua left. Maybe it's a knee jerk reaction, Winchester stubbornness, but when the door starts to close, Dean shoves his foot in to stop it.

"I brought you some food."

[daretodo]

I look first to the foot, then back up to the face of the man it belongs to; my confusion hasn't gone anywhere, but neither has my anger, though it was forgotten, momentarily, in my surprise. Dean's not as tall as his brother, but he's still bigger than I am, broader than I am. Not that it matters; I don't know what, exactly, it is him and his brother did back home -- Sam's always been vague -- but there's not a doubt in my mind it doesn't compare to my job description.

"Great," I say, holding out my hand for whatever it is, though my appetite is more or less nonexistent. "That's it?"

[crossyourpath]

It is a dance, this thing. One where she knows the steps and might actually be kind of good at it, but it will never be one that she enjoys. Felicia Hardy has said good-bye to more than her fair share of people and missed her opportunity for a farewell with even more. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that something is amiss. That that something is bad, but in a quiet sort of way. The sort of way that Felicia hates more than anything else because it can't be fought against. It simply exists creeping in and ruining everything

[daretodo]

If only one of them had to stay, I would never have picked Felicia. The shock of white blonde hair that greets me when I stalk out of my workshop and down the hall to investigate the noise at the door should come as a relief -- I haven't lost anyone else -- but instead I'm struck by the unfairness of it all. That she should be stuck here instead of my wife is cruel. A mockery. Mary Jane had made a life here, with me but Cat's true home'll always be in the city, in the chase.

Left alone again, my every nerve raw from grief, I know it's where I belong, too, back in a world where my every day is a fight for people who'd rather see me persecuted than be saved. It seems so hopelessly naive now that I'd ever want to stay here, that I'd ever want to rest. I don't get a happy ending; it's a miracle I've lasted this long.

Standing my ground at the edge of the hallway, not stepping into the mess that is the living room, I look at Felicia, my gaze inscrutable for all that it's clear I've been crying. My voice comes out hoarse.

"Cat got your

[crossyourpath]

Felicia's always had a knack for surprising people. From time to time she even manages to surprise herself, to slip things in unexpected and unannounced. This isn't a place that she wants to be stuck in, a fancier sort of prison that seems to be missing its walls. Everything is so final, the people so oddly content it is enough to make her want to scream. But she's stronger than that. She's not going to let her expectations get in the way. This is the hand that she has been dealt. She might as well play it the best that she can.

He's been crying. She might occasionally run head first into insensitivity but she's not stupid. Who can blame for shedding tears? It's the normal thing to do. His words don't even make her flinch. She simply straightens her back an carries on.

"You see any cats besides me?" she takes a quick look around. "Don't be an $**#!@&, Peter. It doesn't actually suit you."

[daretodo]

The insult catches me so by surprise that, for about a second, there's little I can do than stare at her, mouth agape. I blink once, twice, and scoff, her absolute gall shocking me into silence. After a moment or so, I finally come to my senses, anger replacing my disbelief. I press my lips together in a thin line, and swallow, thickly. I'm not going to stand in my own house and be called names.

"Get out."