myresponsibility | 018

Entry tags:

018 | SPAM

[Spam for Bond]

[Peter is - somewhat ironically - sometimes kind of terrible at dealing with a crisis.

Well, that's exactly true. Spider-Man is pretty competent in a crisis, but when it comes to this kind of thing, people he cares about being hurt and knowing there's not much he can do about it? That, he really sucks at coping with.

He knows he should probably be in the infirmary right now, but at the same time, he doesn't think he's going to be all that helpful. He can clean people up and give stitches, he can't reattach limbs, and just the thought of that even being necessary makes him want to be sick.

Still, he finds himself wandering towards the infirmary anyway, wanting to do... something, even though he doesn't know what, but he turns around once he gets in sight of the door. Whatever he wants to do, he can't do that, doesn't want to see what's happening, and really, he just wishes he was home, or that there were some buildings handy he could swing over, that there were some criminals to beat up.

Which probably isn't the healthiest way to deal with stuff.

He winds up on deck, looking sort of pale and confused and upset. He rubs both hands over his eyes, and abruptly, he desperately misses Arachne. The memories of the breach are still fresh, and he wishes he had someone or something like that to turn to, because right now, he just feels off balance and desperate.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[The breach was strange. He wasn't really himself, and he had - his soul walked beside him, with a personality of its own. He doesn't know what to make of that. It's easy to be an Athiest when concepts of a soul are intangible, but it's a bit different when you can actually see, hear and touch it.

And Shylah was a hell of a soul. He almost misses having the German shepherd following him around, making biting comments. That's strange.

He's walking along the deck when Peter shows up, winding down from a short session in the shooting range. He's getting better at compensating his aim, but not very; his hand still shakes. When he sees Peter, though, that gets pushed aside. Something is wrong.

He closes the space between them quickly.] What is it?

Um- [He'd barely noticed Bond until he was just right there, which really probably speaks to how fucked up he feels. But it's probably better that it's Bond and not a stranger, because he's someone who needs to know about it anyway, so he takes a breath and tries to force his mouth around the words.]

Chris is back. He's in, um, really bad shape, and I just- [He can't. He can't be there right now, even though he feels like he should, like he's running away from a responsibility to his friend, even though he knows, of course he knows, that he won't be any help, here.]

Someone- Someone cut off his legs, and I just- how are you supposed to deal with this? I can't- I can't be down there, right now.

[He processes quickly; it's a particular talent of Bond's, one he's had years to hone and develop. Compartmentalize, absorb, retain, but don't react. It comes out as simple facts in his head: Chris is back. Chris' legs were cut off. He's already in the infirmary.

Which leaves Cassel, and Peter. Cassel has others who will l ook in on him; Vesper, if no one else. Peter...

Bond takes his arm abruptly, pulling his gun from its holster as he heads for the CES.]

Come on.

[Peter doesn't protest, even though it takes a moment to force his legs to actually start working as he stumbles along behind Bond. He's following him without question and without shaking him off, because he trusts him and he's really not 100% in control of himself right now.

The CES is probably a good place to go, he rationalizes through the... whatever was going on right now, because at least it gives the illusion of distance and solitude. There have been plenty of times where he hasn't wanted to be here, but this is definitely one of the worst it's been.]

[His gun unlocks the door, and James wrenches it open before pushing Parker forward. The door closes behind him, and the gun disappears back into its holster.]

Jog, [he says shortly, pushing Peter forward and breaking into one himself. This is how you deal with things; you put your thoughts elsewhere if you can't order them, you make it hard to breathe, you push yourself to exhaustion until thinking doesn't hurt so much.]

[His response time is sluggish, but he does follow, and he's not sure it's really going to help. It's already hard to breathe, and they've barely even started, because his chest feels tight and it's just not the same thing as going swinging, or punching out criminals, or doing anything he could be doing if he wasn't here.

But he tries. If nothing else, at least he's keeping up, but all he can do is keep thinking about what that must be like, how fucked up it is that it happened to someone he knows.

He finally has to skid to a halt, and he presses his hands over his eyes, feeling like he's maybe going to just start screaming. But. But Bond's still running, and when he realizes that, he forces himself to keep going.]

[James doesn't stop when he sees Peter halt, though he does consider it. He presses on, looks back only once, and then just keeps going. He picks up the pace a little, makes Peter work to keep up - and he's bloody glad when he sees the boy pick up again.]

Breathe, [he coaches, because he's been through naval training, he's been through extensive spy training, and the only thing you can reply on is pushing away the things that make your throat tight and your chest ache. You swallow shock. You chew agony into nothing. And you move on.] Beat it down. Faster. [He picks up the pace again.]

[He follows, obeying the command without questioning, trusting him to know what to do. They've been through a lot of stuff, and he trusts him, knows he's someone he doesn't have to talk to for Bond to understand how he's coping with things. So he keeps running, forcing himself to keep breathing and moving forward.

It's usually easier to run than this, ever since he got his powers, and eventually, he finds some sort of rhythm, even though his breath is ripping at his throat.]

Can't we just- [Breath, step.] Get really, really drunk- [Breath, step.] And call it a day?

[He's mostly kidding. Which is probably a good sign.]

[Bond chortles, even though the pace is hard and his breath is coming faster.]

Only if you want to spend the night throwing up. Your stomach's better suited to running than drinking. [He doesn't slow down. Slow down now, and Peter will never get out of his head.]

Like you're not gonna push me until I barf anyway.

[As stifled as strained as the laughter sounds, he is actually starting to feel better. Slowly, like some of the tension in his chest is starting to unknot just because it doesn't have another option, and he picks up the pace a little on his own.]

I'm certainly going to try. [It's better this way, to keep Parker focused, and when he starts to pull ahead, Bond pushes himself harder. He hasn't fallen out of shape, not completely, but he still feels a far cry from the agent who fell in Turkey. So he presses on, puts on the speed and keeps going, no matter what, he keeps going.]

[He keeps it up for a while longer, but fifteen, maybe twenty minutes later, he can't force himself to keep running. He doesn't feel terrible, like, he could probably keep running, but it's like something's just snapping in him again and he finally staggers to a halt.]

Okay, this is crazy, I need to stop. [And he's actually kind of... crumpling to the ground and taking a couple deep breaths. Don't judge.]

[It's a hard pace to keep up for so long, and Bond is slowing, breathing hard. He's actually grateful when Peter finally stops. James slows to a jog, continuing on a few feet ahead of Peter to let his muscles down easy. But he turns back, bending forward with his hands on his knees, panting. He's in no place to judge.]

Going to [PANT] throw up yet?

Maybe, [He manages to get out, although he does kind of sound like he might be sick. He pushes himself up so he's at least sitting on the ground instead of just lying there.] This is so messed up, James. I- I've never-

[It's suddenly like his voice is stuck in his throat, a feeling he's all too familiar with. He takes a couple deep breaths and rubs his hands over his eyes.]

People keep telling me I should get better about talking about this kind of thing, but it is really f- [Nope, censor yourself, Parker.] Freaking hard.

[He doesn't have to censor himself, but if it makes him more comfortable, Bond isn't going to say anything. He stays where he is, just breathing hard - then he forces himself to straighten, and walk, so his muscles won't bunch up.]

It's not going to get easier. [He wipes his sleeve over his face, controlling his breathing and slowing it down.] People you care about dying, getting hurt - it's always going to be miserable, Parker. You don't have to talk about it, you have to find a way to get through it.

[And if that's talking about it, good. If it's running, fine. If it's refocusing your anger and hurt on something constructive or violent, all right. James knows a lot of coping mechanisms. Talking isn't one of them.]

[He's listening, he hears him, but he shakes his head quickly, almost like he's trying to physically shake this off.] I can't do this. I can't do this, I can't keep doing this, I mean-

[He sucks in a breath, trying to keep his voice steady and slow down enough so be intelligible.]

Chris read comics about me. Me! And there are gonna be other kids, other people, who think because I'm doing it, that they can do it too. And I mean, what do I know, right? It's not like I had any idea what the hell I was doing when I got started, I didn't have training or go to school for it or anything, I could be the guy in that bed right now, and I can't, I can't- [His voice breaks, and his eyes are wet, but he's too upset to be embarrassed, and he's tired and worn out and so fucking confused, because he'd just been trying to do something good. He'd just been trying to avenge his uncle, and then just wanted to help people, and now...]

I just wanted to help, you know? [His voice sounds like it's crumbling, and he can't really look at James when he says it, but he finally forces himself to, eyes wide and red and helpless.] But like, you've got training, I've got superpowers. Someone like Chris doesn't. What's gonna stop some other kid who sees me doing this from putting on a cape and a mask and taking on some guy with a gun?

[Bond bends down, grasps Peter's shoulder and squeezes tight. He's freaking out, and what he needs now is - well. Bond thinks he could use a verbal slap to the face.]

Chris may have meant well, but he was stupid. Don't think for a moment that what happened to him is your fault. Are you going to stop helping people because some bloody idiot gets into his head that he can do what you can?

[He lets go of Peter's shoulder, straightening again and shaking his head.] If you're going to blame yourself for other peoples' mistakes, then you ought to quit now. Guilt will get you killed.

[He remembers that well.]

[There's a part of him that wants to shake him off, that wants to say yep, yep he's quitting, because this is such bullshit, but he can't. He has a responsibility, a moral obligation to help those people, to do these things, and he can't just give up on that. Even if he kind of wants to.

So he takes a couple deep breaths and finally nods firmly, trying to actually calm down this time.]

Right. Right. Sorry.

[Bond watches him for a moment, deciding if this is Pete giving in or digging in. Finally, he stretches his hand down to help him up.]

What you do is incredible. [He's quiet, very.] For no pay, no recognition or acknowledgement, you put yourself in harm's way for the sake of other people. There aren't many who would do that.

[God knows if he'd come into those powers as a teen, he'd have been a terror.]

[You totally would have been. At least you're self aware enough to know that.

But Peter hears every word and listens with a sort of awed, rapt attention. It isn't often that he's heard people tell him that he's done good (usually, they're calling him a public menace and putting a reward out on his head), and the fact that it's coming from someone who doesn't give out praise like that lightly makes it even more startling. It feels good to hear it, and for a brief second, he almost feels like he might cry just out of gratitude.

He doesn't, though, instead just taking James' hand and holding on tightly as he gets up. It's probably the closest thing to a hug either one of them's willing to go for, here.]

My uncle said if you can do good things for other people, you have a moral obligation to do those things. I guess my dad said it, too.

[It's an explanation, an awkward attempt to brush it off a little and make it sound like it's no big deal, even if the praise really kind of is, for him.

So.]

Thanks. For saying that.

[Bond holds onto his hand even once he's up; it is the closest they'll get, so it has to be good enough. He nods, squeeze's Pete's hand a little tighter before letting go.]

They were good men. [Moral obligation. He never considered it that way, and he certainly doesn't work the way Pete does - can't - but he's not that far off.

He can't stay here with his head buried in the sand forever.]

So are you.

Thanks. Seriously. [He manages a small but appreciative smile - it's probably stupid that he actually feels kind of shy, or embarrassed for accepting and enjoying the praise - and then rubs his hands over his face, taking another deep breath.]

So... I guess we should head back.

[Bond grunts in return, turning in the vague direction he knows the exit to be. It's very far off.

And he laughs quietly, shaking his head.]

Maybe not at a dead run. [He's wiped.]

God, no. [He could maybe manage it, but - no offense - you couldn't. And he doesn't want you overexerting yourself more than you already have.

(Sorry, he loves you, so he worries. B( )]

Do you want to, like- [He feels weird for suggesting it, but.] I don't know. Go to the pub, or something?

[Worry wort. B(

Just don't ever give voice to those concerns, Bond would be terrifically insulted.]

I could use a drink. [He smiles wryly.] Are you going to spike your soda?

[He won't. B(]

... I guess? [HE COULD TRY...?]

[Well he is just outright laughing.]

Have a beer.

Sure. I'll give it a shot.

[And he will totally try to finish it gdi. >:CCCC]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

018 | SPAM

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject