After All Things (Part II)
Peter Parker x Reader (Peter’s POV)
Summary: The crushing. That’s what you had come to
refer to it as. It had left the Peter Parker you knew a broken and sad man; a
man in desperate need of closeness. After a year of careful, empty touches and words, the truth finally comes out. Peter is 23/24. Words: 2.7k.
After All Things: Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI
First italicized portion is a flashback, the second is a nightmare.
Warnings: Sexual content/Hurt/Angst/Mentions of death/Nightmares
“Mr. Parker,” an unfamiliar, feminine voice hit his ears just as he made eye contact with Mr. Jameson, beady eyes staring at bruised knuckles and the photographs held beneath them. He held a finger out, joints in his hands protesting as the digit extended and he turned around to the source of that cautious voice.
He wasn’t at all prepared; hadn’t expected to have his heart ripped from his chest again like it had on that day when her face had disappeared.
When hungry eyes met with cheekbones and freckles and long lashes, pink lips, and silken hair, for a moment, she was here again.
‘Peter,’ her voice rang out in the lonely chasm of his mind. But it wasn’t her voice, was it? It was his heart playing cruel tricks on him. He could feel the tears brimming as his chest cramped; not in the way that meant to signal pain, but more in longing.
This woman looked like her. She certainly didn’t dress the same way, or carry herself the same, body presenting itself in a strange, foreign manner; it didn’t fit the familiar line of her neck or the jaw that sat atop it.
If he didn’t look too hard…
Maybe. His heart throbbed in protest, brain knocking against his skull in the irritating way it always did when he let himself imagine.
Instead, he focused his eyes on the hand that held out the photo he hadn’t realized he’d dropped; his senses had been dulled since it happened, brain too distracted. The thick paper beginning to make a funny sound as she shook, fingers clamping down, fingernails in the same shape she’d always kept them.
He reached for the photo, “Thanks,” he managed, the roughness and curt tone of his own voice surprising even himself. He whipped away from the confusing woman, shutting down the look in her eyes; something hopeful, something he missed, and shut the door.