can you guess what Peter's doing to not be understood by the guards?

It's not easy, being crazy. There are expectations to run away from, a bar to limbo under, a specific number of people one has to betray and scar. The unknowable becomes knowable, so you have to skirt the edge of that Venn diagram very carefully. Or very recklessly. Either way, it's a complex thing except for when it's not. Jesus, how infuriating to think about. The point is, the paradox that crazies carry on their shoulders? It's a fucking hassle, a tricky one and Peter is tired of it.

He sighs, lets gravity bend him backward, legs slipping dangerously off the blanket he's hung as a hammock inside his cell. Act like a psycho and you're predictable, don't act like an ax wielding murderer and whoops! Predictable. It's the downside of being insane; you leave the weary capitalist consumer mask out in the world, probably set that shit on fire and make yourself sick with the fumes. But you just replace it with the one labelled 'danger to society' and get forced to play along with that. He did what he did to avoid the world and its predetermined fate, its standards.

Peter closes his eyes, thinks of the nauseating smell on his left. Rupert, the guard that dared graze him while he came back from the shower naked, has a broken nose thanks to Ned and his loyalty to him. The idiot barely cleans the open wound and the whole cell reeks of pus because of it. He does the math of how long it's been going on for and shudders in disgust. His bare calves slip a little more.

An inhale near the front of his cage. Slow, but controlled. Not the usual. Thank God for a circus family and heightened senses.

The doctor is paying attention to him.

"Doctor Stark. Gnittor gnihtemos llems ouy nac?" Rupert grumbles from his perch on the second floor, curses a hare brained psycho that's incomprehensible. Peter hums, pleased to know that after ten months, nine days, twelve hours, and...

Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on sinking deeper into nothing, into a yawning void. The blanket shakes and his thighs are starting to tremble. Blood is rushing to his head, veins most likely beginning to protrude. Irrelevant.

His favorite guard Stan wears a Swiss watch his wife got for him on their fortieth anniversary. It sings to him now, smooth and cool like a river. A skipping stone is thrown, tic, a fish heads towards the sound, toc. Above all the other stimuli in the room, the watch announces itself. Ten fifteen.

Ten months, nine days, twelve hours and twenty minutes into a game, his tiny gnat still hasn't caught on. Not like the charming doctor. He sees him then, behind closed eyelids, as clearly as a sweet nightmare. Tall, taller than Peter, but less strong. Wide shoulders that morph into a slim waist and a delectable ass he aches to sink his teeth into. Shapely calves from running, curiously delicate looking ankles.

Down and back again. A full head of dark hair with a dusting of silver. Dangerously clever mouth, what his aunt would call a noble nose. Agreeable cheekbones. Piercing eyes that tear his walls down, rip apart the bricks and mortar until he's scrambling on the other side, desperately, clumsily attempting to reinforce them for the millionth time. Those eyes saw the trick, the mirror reflection on his second day here, Peter offhandedly talking in reverse with Ned when they passed the new doctor. A dark gaze had pinned him in place, a spider fixed in place with its own silk against the cold dissection table.

Ned had rambled on, Peter had met a worthy playmate and the doctor had seen all he needed in that eternally prolonged glance. That very afternoon, a psychiatrist signed on as his very own voyeur.

Doctor Stark seems to be as interested in cutting him open to peek inside as Peter is in taking a dagger and comparing their hearts. He does this a lot; wonders how fate and the absence of lucky fate led them here. On opposite sides of a prison when perhaps it should be the other way around. Or perhaps there should only be Peter and Doctor Stark.

He feels himself falling, plummeting ever downward into fantasies and hazy dreams. It's not until the good doctor sharply calls out his name that he realizes he's also plummeting towards the floor. Now, MJ had warned him; had specifically said that the hammock being ten feet off the concrete ground was a bad idea. Ned had said he'd be fine and Peter loves the guy, ok? He has to do everything he can so that his best friend wins a bet over his other best friend.

Peter slightly regrets that when he's forced to arch his body backward, flip right side up in order to hit the floor on his feet instead of his face. The impact chokes the air right out of him, shakes his bones, but he doesn't react. Cracks his neck and that's all. Most of the guards were kind, some shade of understanding. They weren't harmless, though. He knows what he looks like, knows how many hours these men are cooped up with the scum of the earth.

"To answer your question," Peter leaps onto the bars of his cell, slithers higher than any sane person would and somersaults off the vertical slits, sinks into his trustworthy hammock with its trustworthy knots (MJ and Ned had tied them, one each), "yes, I do. It's less potent this time."

He stills, frowns. "How? There haven't been any changes. External or internal." No need to act like the Mad Hatter when the conversation could be had normally. Quicker and more reliable with meanings. But the doctor pauses, enunciates his next words slowly.

"Ti koot uoy erom emit yadot." God, he loved hearing Doctor Stark talk that carefully and smoothly. It was as comforting as it was uncomfortable. (He and sex don't particularly get along. It's like a headache that comes and goes; with the right medicine it can dissipate and evolve into something soothing, pleasant. With the majority of medicine, it blossoms into pain and soreness, a dry throat clogged by a thick syrup that won't leave him be no matter how much water MJ and Ned encourage him to drink. Peter isn't yet completely certain which side of his scale the doctor falls on, but he's guessing it's likely the first.)

(The man seemed to live in the grey areas; fitting that with this, too, he'd reside in the in between.)

The reverse effect is in play and he grins, genuine and wide, when he catches it. "Monsters are visiting more frequently, taking up space in the light." His nightmares had intensified recently, and they're starting to accompany him even in moments Peter knows are real; shapes drifting by the corner of his eye. As a coping tactic, he rips parts of his nails off. Not entirely, just the corners. His mind could concoct lots of things, but in his dreams his hands are always pristine.

(He hasn't caught up with it, hasn't noticed that although his nightmares have a clearness to them, a bright intensity, Peter can't shift enough focus to realize his hands aren't his own. They never are. But he usually has more pressing bodies to deal with than the good doctor's.)

Another pause, this one being done by Tony Stark, doctor and healer of men, instead of Doctor Stark, curious keeper of deranged souls. "I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe this will help." Peter peers over the edge of the grey hammock, watches with interest as the doctor approaches his cell with a glass bottle of clear liquid sloshing inside. The other man stops an inch away from the bars, looks up at Peter.

There's a slow tension simmering between them, something as thick and addictive as honey. There's scientific curiosity, a desire to seek out and maybe comprehend the unknown lurking inside their mirror image, as other and as alike as oneself. But there is also a gleam of something he's afraid of acknowledging in Doctor Stark's eyes. A madness once tucked away steadily unraveling itself with each glance they share.

Peter returns the look, unblinking and thinking. " 'If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.' " A lesson Nietzsche offered to those wise enough, sane enough to live blind.

The doctor raises an eyebrow, is otherwise still. Sometimes, if Peter considers their current predicament for too long, his grasp on his masks loosens, and the Spider begins to spin its deadly thread round and round its very own body. He sees a guard exchange money with a partner; the crazy quota has, he guesses, been filled for the week. And they had such a nice streak going on, too. Oh, well. This web is unavoidable anyways.

He pitches himself forward, is the one who controls the descent instead of gravity this time. Letting the air rush up to meet him, he inhales, tastes a distinct sharpness around him. Crouching, Peter takes it all in, every last detail. Looks, really looks, at the doctor and suspects.

As if he were none the wiser, he calmly heads to the front of the cell. Meets the doctor at the divide and wonders what it'll be. Wonders if he'll rise higher than ash and flame, an acrobat testing the fates by flying just seconds ahead of death. Doctor Stark hands him the bottle and he can see now, tiny pieces of lavender. A distraction for the guards. "That should keep the monsters in the dark. Use it before you got to sleep and tuck away your hair."

Like a schoolgirl with a crush, he self consciously brings a hand to his curls. They're getting a bit long, but the warden only allows haircuts once a month or two. "I don't have anything to use." Digging into his lab coat, the other man retrieves a single black stick.

Well, to everyone else it's a hair pin. Peter knows the truth though, can see it and smell it and very nearly touch it. As it is, he gently plucks the items out of elegant hands and refuses to look at them. Looking draws attention. Doctor Stark gazes at his face, eyes flickering in a rehearsed way around his own, but not into them. That's alright, he understands.

"The lack of movement around your face should also help." The question of why is out before he can reel it in and act as a sane, normal person. Christ, he could handle crazy, not rude. He would have to practice being in control so as not to slip up when the doctor is around. Said doctor cocks his head, doesn't have to do anything more for Peter to get the message: go on, ask the devil why he made the deal.

Peter B Parker does not back down when intrigued. "Why are you helping me sleep better?"

Why help me escape?

"It's my duty." Three words. Not the explicit declaration of affection typical, normal, dull people receive from an admirer or partner. Not a grand proclamation of wanting what the heart wants, or a sonnet regarding the connection between star crossed paramours. Simple, short, concise; enough to turn to religion, to sanctity and salvation if it means hearing it again. He'd do anything, including putting on a discarded mask from his past if it gets him what he desires. Peter would suffer through sanity for this man. He would if it means hearing what sounds silent to those around them.

You're my duty. Whatever happens tonight, Doctor Stark believes it's his duty to see it through. To see him through, in a way.

"Why would you accept?" Ah, silly doc thinking any of his principles have changed since the first time they met, since the first time he brought fire to life and gave death in return. Peter smiles, brings forth the prisoner that had not seen the light of day in almost a decade.

(His uncle often said Peter's greatest gift to the world was his smile, his true smile. His aunt said it was the final move needed to capture a king and make him his pawn.)

"Why, doc, you know I hate to be bored." Call him a psycho, a freak, a sick, pitiful creature. Call him anything and everything and maybe those words would ring true. But Peter will never allow himself to be bored, not when there's so much fun to be had. Especially with a doctor as crazy as he is. "This looks...promising."

" 'He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.' " The first part of Nietzsche's warning.

"Nietzsche didn't understand; those who fought monsters were already fated to become what they struggled to defeat. They believed salvation could be found by killing the monsters outside, but all they did was feed the ones inside."