#tabby mitchell

@tabbyrp

Noknoknok-NOK… nok… noknoknok-NOK-noknok-NOK…

If anyone else bore witness to the way Peter rapped his knuckles against Tabby’s door, they would almost certainly think him mad, or at the very least attempting to playfully annoy the apartment’s lone occupant. But it was one among a series of cadences that they’d established to let each other know just who was on the other side. Who else in Tabby’s life was going to summon her to the beat of Papercut?

Even from out here, he heard her feet shuffling across her carpet and a quick stumble onto bare floor, and a series of rattling coughs that sounded like she was struggling to draw and hold deep breaths. Beneath the expectorating he could hear the shuddering of her heartbeat, though it was quickly overtaken by a faint whimper of discomfort and discontent.

From the other side, there were mumbles of protest, telling him now wasn’t a good time, she’d already texted him the symptoms, being here would only expose him to the gunk – all the things she’d already covered, all the things he knew she would say. Which sounded suspiciously like the sorts of things Aunt May would say, and it drew a quirky smile on his face. Tabby had picked up entirely too much from that woman, though it was certainly because May had been all too happy to teach her, and it spoke to how much she was adored by the Parker household. Even back to the days of Uncle Ben, Tabby had been a fixture in Peter’s life… and she was a stubborn reminder of times that were simpler and more carefree.

So how could he choose to not be here now?

“I mean, if that’s how you’re feeling about it, I guess I’ll take this soup Aunt May made back home with me,” he called through the door. “And all this pain relief and decongestant, what do you want me to do with that? Oh, and the chocolate, and the rental movies…”

He couldn’t be sure exactly which of his points inspired Tabby to pull her door open, but when the portal cracked and he saw the darkened bags underneath her bloodshot eyes, a measure of his playful snark dropped away.

“Wow. I thought I was the one having rough nights.”

Peter generally didn’t care for heavy amounts of eye contact, particularly not with those he cared about. Something in his heart told him it was a little too easy for his own eyes to betray him whenever he offered up an excuse for his flakiness. It was as good a reason for him to wear the mask as any other. Without that, he did have other methods… glancing about himself, finding spots of interest on the face or clothing of who he talks to, even pulling up his phone or checking his watch if it really came to it.

Yes, it was rude manners. But there was a reputation of obliviousness to maintain.

He held up the large paper bag, dangling it like a peace offering. “But like I said, I come bearing gifts, and if you don’t let me in, I’m just gonna have to play Linkin Park on your door until you do. Whole discography if I have to. You know, from the top to the bottom.”

@tabbyrp

The evening had been… everything Peter had hoped for.

It had also gone just about exactly as he'd expected.

In this moment, he's not entirely sure if the latter outweighs the former. But Tabby hasn't vomited (yet). Neither, though, can she keep her feet. Her arms are looped lazily about his neck, which could be construed as some manner of intimate gesture… certainly with him bearing her bridal style, the image invokes a variety of images. He's steadily carrying her up through the stairwell -- because there's no need for anybody to glimpse them in the elevator like this, and his stamina could handle doing this a hundred times before he would ever slow down or lose his grip.

But despite the initial hallmarks of this being something adorable between two more-than-friends, there's also the look on her face. She's a little cross, a bit put out. Depending on how well one might know her, they could call it a cute form of irritation, or they might call it "resting bitch face". It's not the latter -- Peter has known Tabby far too long to let that one pass. And he'll say it to her face, too, that she does have a slight case of RBF, and this isn't it.

No, he knows this expression. She's not even upset with him. She's annoyed that she's allowed herself to reach a point of inebriation where she needs help. And he doesn't blame her for that irritation. Neither does he blame her for getting to that point. How was she to know her body's limit on liquor without exploring it first? And she'd been reasonably responsible about the business. They'd been around friends, people they trusted, and in an establishment whose bartenders were experienced. They'd done everything they could to make it a safe and good time for her 21st birthday.

Someone had said she "overdid it". Not even judgmentally… just a fact of the case. With one hand braced against the counter, Tabby had restrained a series of belches, looking a little more green with each moment of bearing down against herself. When she'd swayed was when the barkeep had kindly, compassionately cut her off and wished her a glorious birthday night, as well as all the good luck (and even some advice) in figuring out what her particular hangover killer would be.

The corner of Peter's mouth quirks upward as he senses Tabby pouting a little more forcefully at him. Never once does he slow his pace, but he never quickens it by so much as a hair, either -- his movements are slow and steady, with her head near the outer wall of the stairwell so that she doesn't risk vertigo by looking over the edge.

He'd intended to ignore her question in the hopes that she would forget she'd asked it. But when she asks it again -- she wants to know why he isn't unsteady or smelling like a barfly, like most of the other men in the bar did -- he offers a faint, noncommittal shrug. "It's not my first time having a few drinks. I just kept things moderated with some water and some soda. See, staying hydrated, that's the key."

That much might be true, but he's evading a different truth that her inquiry is probing towards -- namely, that his consumption had rivaled hers, but he wasn't even close to bleary-eyed. Which is owed, of course, to his vastly accelerated metabolism… and the notion of saying that phrase aloud would make for a dead certainty of Tabby collapsing into a fit of hysterical giggles. He can already hear it -- "Oh, so that's why you can hoover a pizza and not gain an ounce of weight? You gotta tell a girl your secrets, Parker."

Tabby's initial retort caused Peter's brow to knit, and his lips parted in preparation for riposte -- but before he could ask her to clarify exactly what it was that made her think she got to claim sole ownership over the indignity of this moment, she was throwing a towel in his direction. He snatched it from the air one-handed with barely a thought and hastily wrapped it about his waist. It draped about four inches above his ankles, but it was at least a barrier of modesty more effective than hands with splayed fingers.

And already, Tabby was answering the question that had tried to form on his tongue, cutting him off before he could release it to the air as was its due. It was only logical that she would want to know what in the world had happened to him that would bind him in so many bandages, and there was really no way for him to play off that it had been an accident. The injuries were far too numerous and widespread across his body for that.

He watched her face go through a series of transformations as she processed her way through what she was seeing, each one of her words slower and calmer to exit her throat than the one preceding it. The initial shock was gone, now replaced by the fury known only to a select few. The anger, the incensed righteousness that was only stoked when someone close to her was in pain… and she hadn't the first clue how to make it right. But damn if she wouldn't try.

He pinched the towel in the back, fumbling to get one edge folded over and around the other with one hand while lifting his other in a halting gesture towards her. "No, no, you will not," he shot back, "because it's already been dealt with." There was no point in trying to wave her off the idea that violence had been committed upon him, but at the very least, he could try to minimize it. "Guy was blitzed out of his gourd on bad beer and God only knows what else, he had a broken bottle and was chasing ESU undergrads, all I did was tackle him and keep him from hurting anyone else 'til campus police arrived. He got a few lucky shots on me. Doesn't matter because it meant nobody else had to take 'em."

Even when crafting a lie, he still managed to shove his sense of responsibility into it.

He held his arm up and away, allowing her to peer at his torso and face. "Okay, so look, it's not even all that bad, no stitches, no broken bones, all right? I'm okay."

[ The Hearts We Hold / Accepting ]

"...yeah. Uh." Peter's hand shifted up to behind his neck and rubbed the base of his spine, his lips curving into a smile that bore more embarrassment than mirth. "I, uh... I kind of... lost my phone."

Not entirely the truth, not completely a lie -- but it was the best he could do under the present circumstances. Was he really supposed to explain to Tabs what he did during the moonlight hours? That he'd been chasing a purse-snatcher and had experienced the mortifying reality of having his discarded backpack disappear from the place he'd put it?

On the other hand, that last might be a little more palatable than just presenting her with the not-quite-facts. "It was in my backpack. Whole thing got swiped. But whoever got it, they got my pre-calc book and my gym socks too, so I guess the joke is on them?"

He tried to give her an expression that was maybe not quite so defeated, but allowed his shoulders to sag as he sighed only a moment after. His gaze swept across the baseball diamond, their respective teams already into the second inning by the time he'd found Tabs sitting in a corner all her own on the bleachers.

"Anyway. My aunt said I have to scare up the money for a new one on my own. Probably just try to get a flip phone, maybe. One of those burners like you see in the Bourne movies." His mouth twisted to one side in a not-quite-grimace. "And meantime, I've gotta interact with people like I'm normal. Who even does that anymore?"

He slid a little closer to her and leaned a shoulder into hers. "So how're things?"

[ Talk Dirty To Me / Accepting ]

The text message notification came with spectacularly right timing; New York's senior neighborhood wall-crawler had just finished trouncing a dozen rogue Maggia cronies holed up in a warehouse on the docks. Normally he might have considered allowing the mob to take care of their own problem, except that these guys had purchased tech from the Tinkerer to make a move against Tombstone... and that was asking for a bad time to be had. Best to destroy the artillery before anyone had the opportunity to pull any triggers.

Weaponry was said to endow man with half the power of God. In Spider-Man's experience, men rarely came equipped with the wisdom to exercise due discretion with that amount of power. Delivering that solemnity to them with a well-placed series of punches and expertly-timed cracks seemed like the only decent thing to do.

And so when his fist had connected with the last goon's temple and laid him out, he couldn't help the chuckle at the back of his throat when, without missing a beat, a faint alert sounded in his Bluetooth earpiece to let him know a message had just come through.

"Oh, a picture, is it?" he mused aloud, and he scanned the scattered supine thugs for any sign of movement. Beyond sallow breathing, there seemed none in the offing, and his spider-sense was settled at parade rest.

A quick web-yank to propel himself to the rafters, and he settled against a support while pulling his phone out of its pocket on his utility belt to check the image. Behind his mask, his eyes widened a fraction, and a smirk played on his lips.

[text: Tabs] Just a little cleanup on aisle 5. Be there soon.

Another text message was directed to his SHIELD liaison. There was a strange sort of comfort in having a handler assigned to him; it meant he didn't have to worry about bothering Fury or one of his subordinates at a bad time when something important came up. A reply of acknowledgment came swiftly.

He found his way back to the skylight through which he'd plummeted to startle the crew, and made a hasty exit.

[ Barely There / Accepting ]

Being a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man came with certain perks. Catching cars hurtling through the air at 30 mph? Knocked that one out when he was in high school. Leaping tall buildings in a single bound? A little on the Superman side, but hey, Superman's cool. Scaling sheer surfaces with nothing more than his fingers and toes? Cirque du Soleil, eat your heart out.

But even above these things was the extra sense with which he'd been endowed after that spider bite had unspooled and recombined his DNA. He called it his spider-sense. Some manner of precognition, lying in the strange space between clairvoyance and extreme attunement to his surroundings. It was an element he'd never quite been able to get a proper understanding of... but it had saved his life more times than he cared to count.

And as he emerged from the bathroom, he was in the midst of reminding himself that it had saved his life again -- which was why he was covered in shallow cuts and not skewered fully on the blade that had drawn them. His outfit had been a lost cause, shredded to tatters and already bagged up, ready to be incinerated when the opportunity availed itself (he'd learned to not be sloppy). After the shower, which had stung to every Hell that existed and back, he'd meticulously dressed each and every wound, knowing better than to take his accelerated healing factor for granted. Kravinoff was known to poison his weaponry.

Maybe the Raft would hold him.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, his intent was to slip over to the kitchenette to grab the half-empty bottle of grape juice from the door before heading to bed. His body was already long dry, and the gauze, medical tape, and butterfly stitches holding his skin together could have been covering nearly a quarter of his body.

But none of it offered him any modesty, and neither did the wide-eyed gaze of the woman standing just inside the front door, key still in hand.

The sight of her there caused Peter to very nearly leap to the ceiling. As it was, he yelled and twisted aside, turning his flank to her and inadvertently giving her a show of his backside that was only minutely more modest than what she'd just seen.