#rebuildtask3

trish,

you goddamn promised. you swore i wouldnt lose you.

but i guess we’ve broken a lot of promises to each other over the years. like when we were sixteen, and i promised i wouldnt let your mom find out about that party you threw when she was gone. but at least then i was there. i stopped her. kept you safe.

im sorry. christ, trish, im so goddamn sorry. and if you could actually read this stupid bullshit pointless letter, you’d tell me i have nothing to be sorry for. but i do. i heard it, i heard you say my name, and i wasn’t there. i wasn’t there to be the hero you wanted me to be. the hero you always thought i could be.

idk if i can. idk if ‘heroes’ are supposed to write letters like this on a legal pad, with hands that wont stop shaking. (idk if thats bc i havent had a drink since that night or if its... shit.) idk if heroes are supposed to be this goddamn screwed up. you werent. whatever you mightve thought. i know you, i know you still thought you’d never be good enough, that you never quite got her voice out of your head (i know how hard that is, too, how loud they can be). i know you wanted to save all those girls, all those people suffering and lost, because you were still so ashamed of what you went through. but it wasnt your fault. it never was.

i dont think i told you that enough. idk if a thousand times wouldve been enough, bc jesus, how many times did you tell me reva wasn’t my fault? that hope wasn’t? or ruben or wendy or his parents, or him. and i never believed you. i didnt listen. you were trying to pull me out of the water, but i was too busy drowning myself in goddamn pity.

christ, i still am. but im trying, trish. i really am. im sorry, sorry i was too -- whatever, stubborn or stupid or blind, sorry i didnt do this earlier. im not drinking anymore. trying not to. i know it bugged you, but we didn’t talk about it. i used to downplay it around you, believe it or not. i didnt want you to know what a goddamn mess i was. 

you probably did anyway. you knew everything about me, even when i couldnt say. christ, theres so much i didnt say. so much i didnt say enough.

i love you.

im proud of you.

i missed you too, all those months you were missing me. 

you were my hero.

you still are.

i googled this twelve steps shit. i didnt remember them from when you used to go. but this one, this thing about a ‘higher power?’ thats one ive always had an issue with. but this one site, it said a higher power doesnt have to mean god. it can mean ‘recovery itself’ or the meeting, or your support system -- whatever you need it to mean.

my higher power is you, trish. it always has been. i ask myself all the time, what would trish do? you were always so much better than i was, better at comforting people, better at being a person. hell, you were a better hero than i was too. you had the heart for it. you believed in it, more than i ever did.

but you believed in me, too. and thats going to have to be enough, at least for now. bc im gonna be the hero you wanted me to be. im really gonna do it. im not wearing the stupid costume, i still say jewel is a stripper’s name... but im gonna do it. shit, i might even use the name. just for you. 

im gonna find who did this to you. and im gonna do what you wouldve done -- im gonna do it right. im gonna make it right, trish. you deserve that. you deserve so much more.

you know the one thing i never told you, about kilgrave? (his name isnt so goddamn terrifying in my head anymore. his ghost doesnt even goddamn matter.) he got me pregnant. right before the bus crash. i didnt even know at first, but i figured it out. and i took care of it myself, made the appointment, because i couldnt look you in the eye and tell you about it. i’ve never told anyone, but i especially couldnt tell you. bc i know somehow, you would’ve found a way to make even that okay, you probably wouldnt have even been mad that i lied to you about why i was so goddamn sick back then. you always knew exactly what to say. im gonna miss that. 

im gonna miss a lot of shit.

i used to think those street names, main street, birch street, higgins drive, cobalt lane, that those were the only happy memories i had left. but they weren’t. i had you, too. sitting on your couch and throwing popcorn at the screen. growing up with you, breaking god knows how many of your hair brushes. the way you used to look at me whenever i showed up on your balcony. that little smile like you were trying to be annoyed, but you really goddamn weren’t. the way we used to pretend id eventually buy you dinner one day. how you kept fixing my door, even though it’d just be broken again two weeks later. listening to you on the radio. falling asleep on the couch, in the middle of gone girl for the thousandth time. 

i’d give anything to watch it one more time with you. i’d stay awake the entire goddamn time.

but that’s just what if, if only. and i know how pointless that game is.

thanks for trying to put me back together. for never giving up on me, for always giving me whatever i asked for. for being there, that night on the docks. for driving me around in your car and not caring when i bled on the seats. for wrapping my ribs and tucking me in on your couch, and for never letting me throw my life away completely.

thanks for being the best goddamn sister i could’ve asked for.

i love you. 

im still pissed that you died, but i love you. so much.

maybe i’ll even take your other bit of advice sometime. maybe after this is done, i’ll let myself be happy. it’s hard to imagine that without you. you should be here for it. 

your sister,

We fucked up again, kid. Really big this time, too. So I’m gonna give you some advice and hope to God I never crack time-travel, because this shit would break the space-time continuum and then we’d all be dead. Maybe the world would be better off if I was.

First things first: Dad. He’s a dickhead. I’m picturing you as maybe fifteen, just finding out you got into MIT. He won’t be pleased for you. In fact, he’ll act as if it’s about goddamn time you got off your ass and got a degree, started building things that weren’t already invented. Mom will give you a hug, though. It’ll be fucking amazing. She’ll even say she loves you, that she’s proud. Please say it back. I didn’t, and I regret it damn near every day.

You only have about six years left with them. Wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t have to, but for you to understand any of my next advice, you gotta know. Dad’s gonna make a fucking stupid decision and Mom’s not going to stop him (as usual). They’re gonna die on the same night, just before Christmas. You’re going to get angry at their funeral because the priest hardly mentions Mom. Please say something about that. Get up and talk about her, even if your voice shakes. I wish I had.

Second: Ty. He is also a dickhead. Maybe more of one. I know you’ll get mad on his behalf, but trust me. The guy you think is the world right now? Will sleep with your girlfriend the second your back is turned. So yeah. (Also, don’t propose to Rumiko. Won’t end well. She’ll just sleep with your best friend.) The good news about this whole thing? You won’t ever talk to him again. He won’t be able to hurt you anymore, and you’ll thrash him in business. Plus, hold on for a couple more years and you’ll meet your real best friend. He’s a super cool guy. Indulge him, and put on the goddamn dress. Let him take pictures and put them up around the school. Don’t be a ballbag like I was. Don’t push him away before he has the chance to get close.

Third: Pepper. Or Virginia Potts, as you’ll know her. You’ll spend a decade making Rhodes want to strangle you, and then when you’re just about to turn thirty, Potts will walk into your office, threaten your security and tell you your maths is wrong. Then she’ll fall in love with you. Just fucking notice, for Christ’s sakes. She’ll be one of the only ones who gives a shit about you when you come home.

Fourth: Captain America. You’re gonna meet him. He’s alive. Yay! Childhood hero arrives. He is also a ballbag, just as much as you. But he’s a good person. Sometimes you look at him and think you don’t even deserve to. He won’t agree with you, but maybe he has a point sometimes. Anyway, tell Dad he’s alive. Tell him the coordinates at the end of this letter. Just for God’s sake bring him home sooner, before Peg loses more of herself. Give Dad a chance at redemption. Give Mom some fucking peace and quiet.

Fifth: Don’t go to Afghanistan.

Fifth: Stop drinking now.

Fifth: Just fucking kiss Tiberius Stone you little coward.

Fifth: Punch Dad in the face.

Fifth: Propose to Pepper.

Fifth: Get a better therapist. The old one slept with Dad.

Stay alive, kid. I know college is tough, but it is for everyone. Those kids who beat you up? Don’t know the half of it. Someday you’ll be in a metal suit kicking ass, and they’ll want to be you.

Dad was right about one thing. Stark men are made of iron.

We met in high school. I was a nerd. Like, really a nerd. Tripping over my own feet, unable to string together coherent sentences, you know the drill. I’m assuming you had your own Peter, and he probably wasn’t a football star or anything (I mean if he was, good for him, I’m impressed!), so you probably have a good idea of what I’m talking about. We had chemistry together--the class, not the other kind. That came later. I was too shy to talk to her, so I’d just kind of stare, and laugh a bit too loudly, and try to be helpful during labs.

I might have taken some pictures of her, from a distance, before I really knew her. In retrospect, it was probably a little creepy. God, she was cute. She always wore these little headbands and sweaters, sort of looked like every teenage boy’s librarian fantasy. (That’s a thing, right? Is that weird? That’s definitely not just me.) She had a habit of biting her nails when she thought--only her thumbs. You’d look over at her during class, during a particularly boring lecture, and there she’d be, taking notes with one hand, absentmindedly toying with her left thumbnail. That’s how you knew she was working on something genius.

MJ was her friend first. Everyone was friends with MJ, but I doubt I need to tell you that. She’s the best. Anyway, we were running in the same circles, sitting at the same lunch tables, asking each other for notes on the homework, that kind of thing. We started talking, eventually, really talking, arguing about books and movies and Schrodinger’s cat and renewable energy cars. I think MJ regretted picking scientists as her best friends. I still blushed every time Gwen talked, but it was less, a little. Maybe. I hope.

And then I got bit. It was a class trip to Oscorp, I got lost (I’m an idiot), ended up with a hitchhiking arachnid, who was probably just as unhappy to be there as I was to find him. So then I stopped needing my glasses, and learned to stand up a little bit straighter. That’s when I started doing the whole Spider-Man thing. Petty stuff, really. I was full of shit and trying to make a quick buck to buy a car. I wanted to impress her. I was still an idiot. An idiot with superpowers, but still an idiot.

I asked her out. We got coffee. She wore a blue dress and I paid for her latte, and we walked through Central Park and made jokes about being Typical Angsty Teenagers, quoting the Catcher in the Rye at each other and thinking we were the coolest people in the world. We never did decide where the ducks go.

We had fun. We saw movies, went to bad restaurants, played video games in my basement (for the record, she sucked at Assassin’s Creed, but was surprisingly good at Tomb Raider). We talked about traveling after high school: England, Spain, Belize, Thailand. Anywhere and everywhere. It took embarrassingly long for us to become Official, but, by the summer after junior year, Gwen Stacy was officially my girlfriend.

Then, that August, my uncle Ben died. I don’t really want to get into the details right now, but it was rough. There was a break-in, I could have stopped it, and I didn’t, and it was my fault. I’d been some variant of Spider-Man since that May, so you could say I was still getting my sea legs, but I should have known better. I was a mess, Gwen and MJ were there for me. I don’t know that I would have gotten through it all without them. It was a bad time, and something I’d rather not relive right now, if that’s okay. This letter is hard enough to write as it is.

I could tell you about the time we went to Coney Island in the dead of winter, and she kicked off her boots and pulled me into the water. We were both sick for weeks. I could tell you about the way her face crinkled up when she laughed, or how she’d tuck her hair behind her ears when she was mad with you. I could tell you about how she hated root beer and always ordered pistachio ice cream. Little things, Gwen things. I don’t know how many of these things you two have in common, at the end of the day. Her dad was a police chief, and she had kickass taste in music. She was not a drummer. 

She was brilliant, though, and figured me out pretty much immediately. Like, late September of senior year, after I’d finally gotten out of bed and back into school and started really trying the whole hero thing. She noticed I was always a bit bruised, would show up to dates late or too fast or from entirely the wrong direction. There was no hiding from her. I think we were getting pizza when she told me she knew. I tried to deflect, but she was adamant, and she was right. So we finished our slices, and I showed her the suit, the web shooters, the whole shebang. Mind you, this was pre-Stark Tech, so it really wasn’t that much to see. I don’t think she was as impressed as I’d expected--something along the lines of, yeah, I already knew, dumbass. 

On the flip side, it meant I had a hell of a good time promposing that spring. We’re talking PROM? written in webs, me swinging onto her fire escape to kiss her. It was flashy as all get out, but she said yes, so. I did something right. 

She was our valedictorian. Headed to Oxford, of all places, brilliant as she was. She gave the speech at our graduation, and I hate that I don’t remember what she said. I was too distracted by her in that stupid blue cap and gown, thinking that somehow I had conned this incredible person into maybe liking me. Were we soulmates or madly in love? I don’t know. I thought so at the time, but I was seventeen, and, honestly, what do seventeen year olds know? (Nothing. They know nothing.) 

It all went to shit a few weeks after graduation. You know, that hazy time between college and high school, when you feel so old and indestructible and so small and broken all at once. Everything and nothing. In-between time. Gwen and I spent a lot of time together; MJ’s mom was sick, she’d had to go back to Pittsburgh, but I’ll let her fill you in on all that. And then there was this guy, he called himself the Green Goblin, it was a whole big complicated to-do honestly not worth telling. He was bad, it was a mess. 

But he took Gwen. He was showing off, probably. Wanted to lure me out to a big macho standoff. I still don’t know how he got her, and I don’t want to know. I don’t want to picture her screaming, ripped from her bed in the middle of the night by a really unfortunate looking green man. I don’t know if she cried.

It was an off day for me to start, which isn’t an excuse, just a fact. I’d been up all night watching Game of Thrones and freaking out about housing assignments for next year--I was due to start Columbia, and really didn’t know how to hide a superhero alter ego from a roommate. So I didn’t bring my A Game to the George Washington Bridge, and I paid for it. 

He threw her. Right off the bridge, down, down, down into the Hudson. There’s a good chance we were on the Jersey side, too, to add insult to injury. I panicked, I threw a web out to catch her just before she hit the river. I thought I was so clever, I was making jokes about it as I pulled her up. Not only am I the most dashing hero on two legs....

At first, I thought it was the impact, but, looking back, it was whiplash. She would have died either way, but it was my rope that caught her. I snapped her neck. And it’s my fault. The monster got away, too. I lost her, and I lost him. Talk about a shitty day.

So, this is getting stupidly long, and my hand is cramping up, so I’m going to stop here. I guess, if you have any questions or anything, I’m here to talk? To summarize, I dated Gwen Stacy. I think I loved Gwen Stacy. I killed Gwen Stacy. It sucked.

Just, thought you should know. If I start staring at you weird, that’s why.

Okay, starting over.

I miss you. Every day, I miss you. I thought it would hurt less by now, that I could go whole days without it hurting. It’s more like a dull, constant ache than a stabbing pain now. I guess I’ve just gotten used to it by this point. It’s weird, the things you can get used to: waking up some mornings and expecting to see you downstairs with the newspaper and some new cliche to send me off to school. You and Aunt May bickering over who gets to pick the TV show. Tripping over your shoes in the front hall. You tripping over my backpack, but somehow never getting mad (I would have been mad with me every day, to be honest. I was kind of the worst.). The lines on your forehead. The way your shirts always smelled like peppermint. 

I remember the little things, I guess. But I’m starting to forget others--what did your laugh sound like? What happened when you went a day or two without shaving, did May ever complain? Were your glasses always a little bit bent, like mine? 

Why did we fight, that last day? 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not saving you. I’m sorry for being a spoiled brat. I’m sorry I ever called you not my real dad. Because you were, you absolutely were. You raised me, you picked me up when we both realized I couldn’t ride a bike, or throw a baseball, or run a mile. You bought me my first microscope--do you remember that? I didn’t leave my room all weekend, I was too busy looking at everything I owned up close. You brought me pizza in my room, and I put it right under the lens, determining the exact molecular makeup of cheese, or something. I don’t know if I ever thanked you for that. So, thanks.

Anyway, I need some advice. I’m not expecting you to answer, or anything. I don’t think there’s any way you’d even see this, but I needed to get it out, and I don’t know how else to say it. Mr. Stark would probably just throw some money at it, he’s so blinded by all the Big Superhero Stuff. Oh yeah--I met Tony Stark. He’s kind of a mentor, I guess? I don’t know, it’s weird. You’d like him, I think. You might hate him, he’s sort of arrogant and is probably trying to take your place, but he’s brilliant, and he means well. He’s helped me a lot. 

I don’t know how I got here, Uncle Ben. I’ve taken the semester off of school--why did I do that? It felt like a good idea at the time, but remember when I told you I was going to get two PhDs and cure cancer? Yeah, right now I’m selling pictures of myself to a local paper and getting verbally abused by a chainsmoker with anger management issues. So that’s good. I did move in with Mary Jane Watson from next door, though, but we’re just friends. Which is okay, I think. It is what it is.  She puts up with me, and I like spending time with her. I go back to Forest Hills to see Aunt May most weekends. She’s still in the same house, but she got a dog, named Ms. Lion (who is actually a guy dog, it’s a long story). She’s doing alright, all things considered. I think we’ll both be okay. Tony Stark definitely has a thing for her, so take that as you will. 

And you remember Gwen, right? Blonde, brilliant, gorgeous, into me for some reason? Yeah, so we were a thing. We went to prom together, she was beautiful, we had a good time, and then. Well. I fucked up, big time. It's still hard to talk about. I miss her, almost as much as I miss you. And she’s back, sort of? Except from an alternate dimension? And I sound absolutely batshit, but I guess that’s not the weirdest thing going on these days. Girl drama and the Parker luck don’t mix. 

But, anyway, I remember what you said. With great power comes great responsibility. I’ve kind of buried the lead here. I’m a superhero now, I guess. Basically an Avenger (if they hadn’t pretty much just broken up), which is cool. It actually happened before you died; I should have told you. I got bitten by a radioactive spider and got weirdly toned, which sounds almost as crazy as my alternate universe undead girlfriend (or my clone brother, but maybe it’s better not to get into that right now). I’m Spider-Man, I wear spandex, it’s all weird and generally good fun.

Except people are fighting now: some people want heroes to be registered with the government and held accountable. I signed. I just want to help people, like I couldn’t help Gwen, like I could have helped you, but didn’t. And I think they’re killing us now, and I’m scared. I’m so scared. I just wanted to help, and now I have a target on my back. “Kill me, I’m an idiot.” They’re all scared of me, and I don’t know what to do, because they're not wrong. Some of them have good points, and they killed Trish Walker. It's Patsy! Trish Walker, who had a weirdly good radio show, just because she was standing up for us. It was on air and so, so brutal, and I'm terrified.

What do I do? Do I keep fighting, do I stand by my choices and the government? Do I pull away? Did I make the right choice? Mr. Stark said I did, and I didn’t see why not, but I think I messed up. I think I really, really messed up. I’m trying to be responsible. I need to be responsible. I don’t know what I’m doing. 

Also, the toaster’s broken. How do I fix it?

Love,

Pep,

I know it’s hard to believe, but sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing.

Two months ago I would’ve said I knew exactly what I was doing. I would’ve fought for the Accords, would’ve taken on everyone I cared about, would’ve done anything. Cap said to me once that I only fought for myself, and lately that’s been true. I’ve been fighting my own guilty conscience all along.

Ultron was my fault. Granted, won’t happen again. I can’t help but imagine what the world would’ve been like if I hadn’t been allowed to do that, to play with life. I’m guessing that the chances of Sokovia still standing in that universe would be high.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t step up to every fight and trust myself to make the right decisions. I thought so long and so hard about this, and I believed in my heart it was right. Then Walker died, and it hit me that I don’t give a shit what’s right anymore. I give a shit about Peter and about Rhodes and about Carol. About Cap, Clint, Natasha, Bruce, Thor.

I give a shit about you.

I have a question for you, and I know I’ll never be able to say it loud out and I’ll never be able to send this letter either but it’s important to me.

When did you start loving me?

I don’t understand how you did. I don’t get where you saw goodness in me all those years while I reaped the benefits of destruction and crawled into bed with anyone who would have me, but never with the one person who actually wanted me. I don’t get it.

You’re the smartest, strongest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. You stuck around when the press was questioning your qualifications, when I asked you to kick women out of my bed for me, when I came home with bullet holes in a giant red suit I’d created without telling you.

You deserve better. That’s basically what it boils down to. I’m your best friend before anything else, and I should want you to have better. But the truth is I want you to keep sticking round. I want to prove to you and to everyone that I’m more than what I’ve been.

I want to prove to you that I’m worthy of all this. That’s all.

Still love you, and probably always will,

I’m not really very good at the whole ‘face your problems’ bullcrap. You know right? You sucked at it to, so did Mom and Jeremy. We still carry on the way you showed us, giving love through dinner compliments and big hugs. I could have used a big hug today. I mean Thor, I told you about him, Asgardian Prince, huge hammer, bitchin hair? He gives good hugs but they're not like yours. 

See, there’s all this bullhonkey going down in NYC, like a political three-way but with superpowers and lots of fighting. And I dunno what’s gonna happen. I’m not scared of those people Papa, I know them and I know who they are. I’m scared about what they’ll do. I dunno that. And if anything happens to Janey (world’s best astrophysicist, you better be telling telling Einstein about her up there, cause I’m pretty sure God would let the guy in, c’mon he didn’t complain about the hair the Big Guy gave him, that’s gotta earn browny points) then I dunno what I’d do. She’s my friend.

And I still have trouble making those. You know I’m weird. You used to call me the Odd Duckling for Odin’s sake (yea I Asgard curse now, it’s pretty fun) anyway, I guess Thor, Janey, Erik and me, we work well together. And the scariest thing is that The Syndicate, The Accords or hell, even a bad Wednesday could take them away.

I guess... 

Papa, I wanna ask a favour. You’re up there, playing strip poker with Lincoln and Washington like you always said you would, and if umm... it’s not much trouble, mind keeping an eye on my friends? You know I can look after myself, I’ve got my taser. But they’re all awesome, and I don’t want anything to happen to’em.

Thanks Papa,

Still love you, everyday.

Your Odd Duckling, 

Darce

xxx

P.S