nightlogs | talking to ghosts

Gwen arrives back a little later than most of those who went off to handle the witch problem. But then she'd left sooner, too; by the time the witches were an issue she was already tangled in the familiar task of defeating one of her very own villains who'd been pulled in to cause havoc. Doc Ock had certainly delivered that, him and that... creepy, super-powered octopus that he was bonded to (seriously, why did she have to get the weird Doc Ock... she never thought she'd be so jealous of people who only had to fight mechanical tentacles).

Harder fight than it used to be, took longer than she would have liked, and Gwen wishes the weird sucker marks from the attempts to crush her would fade quicker, but it's dealt with now. He's gone again, and she's back at the pole. She even had the foresight to leave herself a sweater and comfy pants to pull on over her suit on her way to the bedrooms.

She starts with every intention of heading right back to her own room to crash for the next twelve hours, but she has to pass Miguel's space to get there and...

She can't help but stop, when she catches sight of him in front of that altar. As if suddenly rooted to the floor beneath those faithful chucks she still wears like they're part of a battle uniform, not just a pair of shoes stolen from a friend.

Her lips press together, her eyes squeeze closed, she breathes deeply, and says: "...sent good ol' Octavius home with his tentacles between his legs again. So that's one more problem off everyone's plate."

—as if making a report like any other report she's made before. A mask of familiarity. Structure. Easy to dismiss her from, if he'd rather she not intrude. For all that there's still those threads of tension, she knows a personal moment when she sees one and isn't going to just barge right into it.

By the time Gwen rolls around, Miguel seems to be mostly waiting for sleep to take him as he sits at the corner of the mattress, watching the remaining candle lights. The candles were all reduced to stumps of varying heights, wax melted in a spreading curtain of little dribbles caught in brass bases. He was hunched over, arms resting tiredly on his knees.

His relationship with rest had always been a troubled one, but he had a much easier time of hiding it from other Spiders when he was on his home turf. Out here, it was a bit more neutral ground, and he couldn't hide behind several levels of access doors and elevators that can be locked on a whim.

So, with a reaction thats a little more sluggish than his usual snap to the nearest object of attention, he finds Gwen there. He was too much of a workaholic to ignore a report.

"You're back."

One eye gets the sleep rubbed out of it, and he returns to the stiff-backed leader he always tried to project to the others. Though, still one sitting on his mattress.

"And he didn't give you too much trouble...? Any injuries?"

A quick look over seemed all right. No blood.

The response is enough to unglue her feet from the floor so that she can drift into the doorway. The way she leans shoulder-first against the frame, arms crossed loosely, is a far cry from the more deliberate posture she used to have when standing there in his boss lair.

"More trouble than he used to, thanks to how our powers have been affected, but nothing I couldn't handle. Really just some aches and weird marks that'll be gone by morning."

Not necessarily an answer you should trust from Gwen, admittedly—she always was resistant to medical attention even when a fight did go wrong, would hide injuries if she could—but this time it's the truth.

"... Markings?"

He crosses his arms, gears ticking more quickly now that he was fully awake.

"Are we talking Runes? Poison? Some octopus are venomous and the variants of the squishier kind get inspired."

Follow up questions. Gwen had been one of the most consistently on-mission Spiderfolk the few months that Jessica had mentored her. Things like 'tends to underplay injuries' has a way of floating up to his ears. Though that wasn't exactly an uncommon trait among them.

She didn't seem to be ill from any other effects...

"No, nothing like— it's just, you know," she makes a sort of pincer motion with one hand, as the closest approximation she can make, which really isn't close at all, "the suckers are all... sucky. Super-powered sucky. Makes for some very weird skin damage even through the suit. Nothing dangerous. See—"

She tugs her gloves off and a sleeve up, showing the raised red irritation on her arm. Annoying, but not dangerous. Simple enough for even her slowed healing factor to heal up by the next day.

She pulls her suit and sweater sleeve back down afterwards, stuffing her gloves into the pocket of her sweats. "If his octopus was venomous I'd definitely have learned the hard way a long time ago. Believe me."

His eyes narrow as she shows the light bruising. Nothing major, like she said. That seems to satisfy his suspicions.

"Sounds like it's mission accomplished, then. You should go get some sleep. It's late."

He will, of course, not be following his own advice. Miguel instead turns back around to the arrangement of marigolds and the very engaging activity of watching wax melt over the course of the night. His obligations back home seemed to never allow him to be this idle - though, that was most certainly by design. Better to be busy than confront whatever it is he was mulling over.

"I'll need some help with all the candy tomorrow." he adds, facing away from her. Whatever the ghosts don't take is free for the living. So the 'rules' go.

"You're still up."

Not that she isn't exhausted. She could lie down and be out like a light. But she's still on her feet, and so long as she's on her feet, she's alert. That's how it's always had to be, with all those nights out in the mask where she still had school the next morning. No such thing as a consistent schedule with supervillains.

(The Society was almost easier, in that way. Even though it was busy, even though anomalies could happen at any time of day, at least she didn't have to worry about splitting time with her civilian life anymore.

And Hobie always let her sleep as much as she could, once she inevitably crashed.)

She gnaws at her bottom lip for a moment, then says, tentatively, like offering a hand you can't be sure won't get bitten for your troubles: "...this is for her, isn't it?"

"Nngh.." he growls out the noise in a half-committed attempt to sound grumpy. Of course he's still up! He's not a teenager. And he's doing it for reasons he didn't feel like explaining right away.

Miguel stays hunched over, feeling a tendon in his neck tense as he debates on opening this can of worms. He didn't look quite so sharp outside his suit, but his posture only really softens once he slumps his shoulders in resignation.

"Tonight is for her." he says in a quiet voice, hands meeting and interlacing loosely. His eyes stay set on candle light.

"Tomorrow night is for the others."

He didn't know everyone personally in TRN-660, but a collapsed dimension left no survivors to do it instead. And overworking until he finally snapped didn't seem to do much to alleviate whatever knot of guilt was twisting in on itself. Nor did it bring back the universe. So...

Edited 2023-12-03 00:31 (UTC)

There's a lot of things about Miguel that make Gwen want to scream sometimes. A lot of things that she feels so strongly, with such certainty, that he's wrong about. A lot of things he's done that she wishes he hadn't, that really, truly scared her. So many ways to fault him.

But this—the bone-deep grief, the feeling of fault and responsibility... it's achingly familiar in a way that makes her want to run away. It makes so much easier than she'd like to see why he does all those things, all those stupid things that make her want to shout in his face until he takes her seriously.

Your whole universe is a high price to pay for a mistake.

And so is the rest of the world she lived in.

Gwen doesn't run away. She folds her arms a little tighter, shrinking into her sweater. "I-I don't really know the custom well, but... it looks nice. I think you made the best of it."

Another beat of quiet, where Gwen chews on her lip hard enough it's a miracle she doesn't hurt herself, before she finally turns around so her back's against the door frame so she's not even looking at Miguel facing away from her.

"I don't really... remember, Peter's funeral. It happened the day after I—" she swallows, "after what happened. Religious traditions. So."

It all went by in a dissociative blur. The whole world had been so very dark and desaturated, a dull canvas of blacks and greys and blues. She remembers grit under her nails and not being sure if that was from the rubble, or from the spade when the family were called to bury the casket. She remembers shrinking away from May trying to hug her. She remembers her father gripping her hand so tight it hurt, like he was scared he was going to lose her too. She remembers thinking I'm sorry and this is all my fault on repeat.

Everything else is gone, now.

The change in her voice lures a glance over the shoulder. Loss was another common thing shared between them, though Miguel never did too much personal comforting of his cohorts. He didn't have the attitude that made it easy to open up to, and that was fine. Cold distance was comfortable for him, too.

Facing the vulnerable expression on Gwen made it hard to just look away. Troubled and alone, and distant, just like that first time. Predictably, his instinct is to see her again - just the kid struggling with an overwhelming amount of emotional weight - and want to lend a hand.

"The reason I got the food was because Gabri had a sweet tooth." he begins. "She... also liked the animals in the parks. That version of Nueva York didn't have any around, otherwise."

Hence the very roughly hewn wooden figures, candy, and other childlike gifts.

"It's easier to carve them out of fruit, which is how I used to do them. Would make more of a mess if I left them out here, though."

This wasn't quite a funeral. It was a holiday meant to be celebrated, despite his lousy ability to be any kind of festive. Going through the motions and thinking about the things Gabriella loved made it a little easier to talk about. Pairing a little joy with the sadder thoughts.

"Do you remember some of Peter's favorite things?" he asks. "We still have a day."

An invitation. Maybe Gwen could also use some remembering of the nicer things.

Edited 2023-12-03 22:35 (UTC)

For another long moment she says nothing, fiddling with a tugged thread on her sweater and staring at it like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Of course she remembers. The thing that ties her tongue is the complicated nature of having this conversation with Miguel.

But the anniversary wasn't all that long ago, by this world's calendar. And she learned quickly that talking about Peter with any other Peter was far too uncomfortable, so who else is there? None of her friends are here.

There's a sliver in there somewhere that cares. She might've been in prison, if there wasn't.

God, she hopes she won't regret this.

"Um." God get it together, Stacy. She clears her throat and stands a little straighter against the door frame, but otherwise doesn't move. "He always loved his photography. He took photos of everything. I was going to get him some more uh, retro-y equipment to match my retro audio collection, eventually, but— yeah."

She never did get chance to finish saving up for his birthday, before everything went wrong.

"And he liked these... fiddly, super detailed build kits. Figurines, or little— science projects. And uh—" she almost laughs, shakes her head, "May's wheatcakes."

Not unlike most other Peters, overall; an inherent strangeness that's unavoidable, with so many versions of the same man out in the multiverse. It's never not going to be weird. It's never not going to haunt her to have been surrounded by versions of her best friend that were all older than he ever got to be.

"He actually had this— fondness for lizards, which is just..." her voice cracks in a way that sounds torn between a grim laugh and crying, but neither happen. She just breathes. "...he. Was a nerd. And he was the best."

"A model kit?" he asks, about the 'fiddly build kits'. Awkward silence as he drums his fingers and turns around a little more, feeling the urge to explain himself.

"...I knew someone who was obsessed with your century."

Miguel never talked about any close relationships in his home universe. For all that he mentioned them, they may as well have died a decade ago or never existed; he just emerged into his world as Nueva York's frightening night creature of a Spider-Man. Apparently, retro nerdy stuff was popular at any time period.

Another pause. Miguel wasn't good at this any more than Gwen was, and he seemed allergic to trying to smooth things along with idle chitchat humor, which made all this so much worse. But, he was trying.

"There is whole wheat flour in the kitchen."

"Model kits, yeah." She huffs a shallow laugh, lifting her head to rest it back against the door frame. "I guess retro geeks will always exist. Though it's weird thinking of like, an iPod touch being considered retro..."

Says the girl who may or may not have made Hobie throw a pillow at her when she called his gear retro whilst literally standing in the 1970s. You inflict on others what will one day be inflicted on you, apparently.

"...do you even— wait, no, of course you probably know how to make pancakes." He was raising a child for a while there, she must have wanted pancakes at some point. "But I don't know, it's hard to imagine you... cooking. And stuff."

A beat. She shuffles on the spot, but finally looks half-way over at him. "I— might remember how May made them."

"an iPod what..?"

The question gets lost in the bustle of the conversation, and Miguel decides to let it slide as the topic shifts to his culinary skills. He can ''Google''' that one later.

His shoulders stiffen up with his expression, finding some difficulty in sharing this side of himself. He'd closed off a lot since the collapse, never hinting at being anything other than the guy giving orders through their watches. Hard to project the image of being the most pressed Spiderman alive if everyone knew about his breakfast preferences.

Though, Miguel wasn't completely successful in hiding all relatable details of his personality (he really did love HQ's beef empanadas).

"I can manage pancakes." he says, starting to get up to his feet. "It hasn't been that long."

Gwen tilts her head to the side and pulls a 'thinking' face, "Mmm. Still can't picture it. I'll believe it when I see it."

Joking is still easier than treading back into vulnerable territory, a breather in what feels like walking on a conversational tightrope.

She stands up from the door frame and reaches back to pull her hood out from under the sweater. She doesn't even put it on, it's just needlessly uncomfortable having it bunched up under there when she's wearing this get-up for longer than originally planned.

"I uh— did a lot of the cooking for myself when dad was working, so."

"...Right."

Aside from her father supposedly dodging his doom via the narrative, he still had some lingering conflicted opinions about George. Not that he felt like he had a right to express them, given he had kicked Gwen back to where she started. But it takes quite the debacle to get Miguel O'Hara to bend his own rules like he did.

Pancakes. They should get to making pancakes.

He gets moving and stops at the door, because - well, there is a Gwen-shaped obstacle there. But he's ready to leave.

"Then we can tag team... or something."

Midnight breakfast, here we go.

Edited 2023-12-13 03:26 (UTC)

The complicated reality of Gwen's relationship with her father is that one conversation can't undo the damage of standing on opposites ends of a gun, let alone the years of unintentional hurt and very intentional lies that led to that moment...

And yet if she were to acknowledge that reality, stuck here in yet another universe and knowing that if they make it home, Miles has to be her first priority? She'd go insane. She was never meant to have this much time to think about it between that fateful conversation and fixing the mess she made.

So she doesn't dwell on it. Not even when it visibly bubbles up under the surface, at the tone of that single 'right'.

"Yeah. Or something," she says with a little shake of her head, finally stepping out of the doorway and heading down the hall towards the kitchen. He can keep up, his legs are long enough. "C'mon."

He trails behind, letting Gwen take point as they make their way over to the kitchen. It's the middle of the night, so the activity has mellowed a significant amount.

Similarly, while he had managed to cool himself down the longer he'd been here, it was not without a daily monumental effort to put his faith in Jess and the other Spiders (mostly Jess, really) while he was stuck here. It was... difficult. The alternative was letting his emotions self-destruct him entirely. He is continuing not to think about it by keeping himself busy.

Light warbles where his suit materializes over his hands like gauntlets beneath his sweater. The door of the pantry is tugged open and relieved of a bag of whole wheat flour via red light webs. Spend long enough without needing to conceal the spider-ego and the webs (and claws) start popping out for just about everything.

"Did you remember the recipe?" he asks, then pauses when the scent of fresh cookies barrages his nose. The yeti really weren't lying when they mentioned them being available at all hours.

"Enough to work from, I think. It's... been a while." But May did teach her a thing or two—the way that her dad saw Peter like another son went both ways, May and Ben always treated her like family.

She's barely talked to them, since everything happened. Cowardly of her, really—she should have been stronger, been able to look them in the eye as she lied to them, but instead she hid herself away. She can't do that anymore. Even if she could bring herself to keep the truth from them going forward, she's sure Dad wouldn't let her.

They deserve the truth about what happened to their nephew. Even if the truth might mean they hate her.

She sends out a few webs of her own to grab some necessary equipment, larger ingredients, and a cookie to chew on—a trivial use of physical webs, perhaps, but she's not too worried about wastage when Miguel and Peter are around.

"...Well, let's start the batter."

He's received no specific instructions, so Miguel is defaulting to picking a thing to take charge of: in this case, he is tending to the mixing bowl. He assembles the flour, milk, eggs, whisk, and what have you and places it around the bowl. This part didn't require anything spidery, at least. Just his two human hands.

The domestic routine felt natural to fall into, even if it leaned a little close to bittersweet memories. If Gwen wanted visible proof that he cooked things, she was starting to get it. He will start to open up the bag of flour and baking soda, if she doesnt object.

"Did you see a griddle anywhere? That'll make flipping a bunch of these easier."

A few other ingredients come to mind: cooking oil, spatula, maybe Gwen can find some extra flavors in the pantry...

It really is weird, seeing him like this. This rustic, cosy kitchen is such a far cry from the laboratories that have always seemed to be his native environment. She has to shake it off when he addresses her again.

"Uh— I think there's one somewhere."

Whilst hunting down a griddle, she does dig out an assortment of other things: cooking oil, a lemon, molasses... all of which she brings over to where he's set up.

"Here. You mix that, I'll melt the butter and do the milk and stuff." The things they'll need to add as they go.

"I'll do the eggs." He sees the lemon and raises an eyebrow. For the milk, he assumes? Aunt May went out of her way to make something a little fancy for the kids. He respects that.

And so Operation: Make Wheatcakes is a go! It isn't so complicated, really, it was just about prepping all the batter ingredients to eventually mush together. The Passing of the Flour to Gwen's side of the counter happens once he's done mixing dry ingredients and assembles his Egg Station.

He does not apply any of the typical 2099 ferocious fighting style to gingerly cracking the shells against the lip of the bowl. Somehow, there is not so much as a single shell shard in there.

"Did Aunt May use both parts of the egg? Or only egg whites?"

He doesn't know. Maybe she liked to keep it extra healthy.

He's too good at this. It's still weird. It's never going to stop being weird, she's pretty sure of that. No matter how close he's been dragged down to her level by the removal of the Society's structure, this will always be weird.

She's diligent with her own tasks, too. The milk is set to curdle, the butter is melted, and she takes the flour to mix it in when Miguel passes it over.

"Uhhh— both. Separated the yolks, then whipped the whites later. I think."

The harder she has to think about the process, the closer she feels to a dangerous precipice of emotion that she doesn't want to cross. In true stubborn Spider fashion, she scrubs at her face with her sleeve and simply decides she won't.

The bad thing about being a decent cook is that Miguel can split his attention between beating egg yolks and noticing a Spider trying to Repress an Emotion. Ordinarily, he'd leave it alone... but if she were Gabri, he would ask. Maybe he was just feeling a little more sentimental than usual.

"Got some lemon caught in your eye?"

A bad joke. That also tended to come with that gentler, more domestic side of him. One order of yolks for the batter is slid over to her side of the counter. To the eggwhites - it looks like they were going to be about ready for some pancake-flipping.

"Uh. Y-Yeah. Lemon." She scrubs a little harder and then drops her hand to get back to helping with the task at hand. "It, uh— sprayed, a bit. And really stings."

There's an attempt to sound like she's playing along with a joke, but it comes out more of an obvious deflection. Doing all of this is already so much—already so close to too much.

She can either finish the pancakes, or talk about it. Not both.

And so Gwen keeps making the pancakes.

i felt the inspiration, actually!!!

ninjavampire - 2024-03-15 04:54 (UTC) - Expand

talking to ghosts

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last tag to probably handwave the rest

i felt the inspiration, actually!!!