blabbering | saltburnt

Okay.

Okay. Actually, hold on, I’m gonna

[ Gwen switches to voice, and there’s just silence, for a moment. This isn’t easier, but—

Peter might be more honest, this way. Or at least she can tell when he’s not. ]

Did you see Mr. Goodsir’s post? About the portrait gallery.

[hold on, she's — should this make him feel better, or worse? peter doesn't know, at first.

but the answer to that question soon becomes clear: worse.]

Uh — yeah, yeah I saw it.

[ She wishes he’d give her more than this, without her having to ask. Without having to summon the words, and she tries—tries to think of what Mr. Goodsir said. People often lie out of the hope they are doing a kindness. ]

Will you tell me?

[ Wavering and raw, when Gwen had wanted to be composed, or at least not afraid. ]

Will you tell me if I’m— [ A hitch of breath, the word lost to it, ] Where you are? In your time?

[her voice alone, just over the phone, is enough to shatter him. part of him wants to be there, to hug her close and tell her it's gonna be all right — but it's not, because of him. because he couldn't save her.

can't save her, can't keep the horrible truth locked away, because she's figured it out, of course she's figured it out. she's gwen stacy. and he's a freaking idiot.

there's a noise audible over the line — a hitch in his own breath, close to choking. but he can't swallow this down anymore; it has to come out.]

You're not there. [but that's not enough, he has to go on.] You're not there not — not because you're in England. You never got on the plane.

[the tears are coming faster than he can stop them now.]

Before I got here, it was five months ago, for me, that you — [another audibly shaky breath.] That you died, Gwen. In my arms. I wasn't — I wasn't fast enough to save you.

And I'm sorry I — didn't tell you about it. You can hate me forever, and I'd totally get it, I just... I didn't know how to tell you. How do you tell someone something like that?

[a pause; he sniffs.]

I'm sorry.

I never got on the plane.

[ Repeated, hollow, like she’s somewhere far away. That hits first, somehow: before you died in my arms, or I wasn’t fast enough to save you.

Gwen feels like she’s watching herself from the ceiling, or across the room—one hand cradling the pillow in her lap, the phone held to her ear. She can’t hear anything, for a minute, white noise pressing in. ]

I was on my way to the airport. [ Her mouth stuffed with cotton, staring down at her hand. ] I never made it to the airport?

[focus on the facts. this is what they both do, and — peter wills himself to do it with her, this time: focus on the facts by giving her answers to her questions, straight up.

he nods; he can do this.]

No, no, you didn't. [inhale; exhale. focus on the facts.] It was Max — you remember him, the electrical engineer from Oscorp who got into that accident and then he hated me. He got into the grid. Knocked out the power to the whole city.

[he transfers the phone out of one shaking hand and into another.]

We stopped him. Reset the grid and everything. And we thought it was over, but then — it wasn't. It was — [he swallows.] It was Harry. He wanted revenge.

[ Gwen doesn’t realize that she’s hunched into herself, a little; back rounded over the pillow in her lap, fingers picking at a loose thread. ]

Max and Harry. [ Still not quite hearing herself, words forming while her tongue is thick in her mouth. The thread gets caught under her nail, and it hurts, and she pulls tighter. ] What— How did it happen?

[ She doesn’t feel real. She doesn’t know if—it would be easier, if Peter were here. If that might dislodge the knot building in her throat, behind her ribs, a sensation of needing to scream or cry but there’s something blocking it. Because she’s dead but she’s here.

Peter watched her die. ]

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