Doomed

Chapter Nineteen

Peter walked quickly down the hall, the soles of his bare feet silent on the tile, even when he crossed onto the wall to avoid the glass. He marched over one of the doors, and Jessica opened it seconds later. She called after him, but he kept moving, dropping back onto the floor. He turned the corner and nearly broke into a run, but the aching tightness in his back wouldn't let him move any faster.

He opened the door to his quarters and stripped out of the t-shirt and pants he'd just put on, then grabbed his costume out of his closet. He knew he shouldn't be web-slinging with his injuries, but he couldn't think of any other way to get out of there.

He paused after pulling the blue pants on long enough to look at himself in the full-body mirror. God, Peter, what the hell were you thinking?

Before he could start putting anything else on, there was a soft knock at the door. Carol called his name from the other side, and it sounded like music. He reached out for the door handle, his fingers twitching; he stopped once, but steeled his resolve and opened the door.

She stayed in the doorway, first looking him up and down, then past him, noticing his Spider-Man shirt and the web shooters on the edge of the bed. "Where are you going?" she asked.

Peter turned back into the room and snatched up his shirt. He wanted to rip the damn bandages off his back, the itching was driving him mad. "I need to go see Aunt May," he said, trying to work himself into the costume and failing miserably. "She's probably going crazy with worry, and besides, if the city never sleeps that means crime doesn't either…"

The door clicked shut as Carol followed him in, and she reached out to grab his hands. She pulled them down and he dropped the shirt onto the floor. "Peter," she said, her voice soft, "Where are you going?"

He plopped down on the edge of the bed, bouncing the web shooters onto the floor, and Carol eased herself down next to him. He hung his head between the triangle his arms created with his torso, his elbows resting on his thighs. "I was gonna kill him," he said.

Carol looked at him, silent, her eyes never leaving his face.

"I know what Steve said," Peter continued, "But I also know myself, and in that moment, I…" he raised his head and looked at her, his eyes cracked red, "I wasn't gonna stop until that helmet was full of soup."

"I don't believe that," she said, taking his hand. "I know you, too. Steve was right, you're no killer."

Peter snapped up from the bed. "I nearly killed the Goblin after Gwen died," he said. "Did you know that? Same thing with Doc Ock when he killed her father. I've come within inches of murder so many times I've lost count."

"But you've never done it," Carol said, her voice even. "You've never taken a life."

Peter scoffed, his eyes turning to the floor. "If you knew me at all, you'd know that's not true," he said.

"Stop saying that!" Carol shouted, rising from the bed. The air was hot in her throat, and the words hitched there for a breath before she could speak them. "I do know you."

"What do you know?" he asked, spreading his arms wide. "Tell me, please."

"I know how brave you are, and how intelligent," Carol said, taking a step closer to him. "I know how much you hate to see other people suffer. I know how much you sacrifice." She took his hands in hers, and smiled that smile again. "I know how compassionate you are. I remember you telling me about a boy named Tim…"

Peter smiled at the memory. "The Boy Who Collected Spider-Man," he said.

Carol nodded. "I've never heard of any of the rest of us doing something like that. Not without it being arranged by some foundation or another. You just went and visited a dying boy because you knew it was right."