keepitgoing | etraya Inbox.

(At this rate, Jinx spends no effort to climb to Peter's window. It's muscle memory, and she opens it with no issues, he probably expects it? She hopes, anyway. He's... Asleep? So late? Strange, but no biggie, because she has new blueprints for his web bombs, and she sits on his bed with it spread out on her lap.)

Peter, wake up. I think we got a breakthrough — maybe, with some chemtech here and there, we can actually make this work with the stuff we salvaged from the junkyard. Come on, we got stuff.

[Peter had only gotten about an hour into his morning before he realized what day it was. He'd been in the middle of pouring a bowl of cereal (something so sugary, it'd give you a cavity per bite) when the sight of a cheap calendar on the side of his fridge hits him like a truck.

May 5th. The date strangles him with both hands, relieves him of his willingness to face the day and enjoy his life. It's the first time he's had to face her birthday since she'd passed, but how do you face something that immediately surrounds you on all sides? And how does something you've thought about every day still manage to shellshock you into silence? How old would she be today?

Maybe just not think about it. Maybe only sleep about it.

It's a lot to think about right this second.

So. He's gonna sleep. That's what he's gonna do. Sleep until it's May 6th.

He crawls into bed, and time passes for everyone but him as he stares at the wall and waits for his mind to be tricked into another 18 hours of slumber. Somewhere in that timeless mess of over-thinking and sad visitations to happy memories and the mistakes that reshaped them, he hears someone come into his window. No spidey-sense goes off, and Jinx is talking, so it's probably fine.

He pulls the blanket over his head as she talks at her blueprints.

With a concerningly flat affect and lack of energy:]

Sorry. Sick day today... I think I got the flu.

(That's not Peter behavior, and she knows he heals faster, he cannot bullshit her with an excuse as bad as the flu for a man whose immune system is stronger than anything she's seen. Something is wrong, and the blueprints are the last of her worries with how sad he sounds.

The paper goes flying, unimportant, before she removes her boots and throws them... Also somewhere. If she's going to be here, she's at least not going to dirty up his bed, and very uncharacteristically gently, her hand moves to feel his forehead.

Not fever hot.)

Don't lie to me, I hate lying.

(But it's not a warning as strong as it sounds, it's... A request, as she pulls the blanket over herself too, over her head as she lies down so both of them are under it.)

I'm here, what's wrong?

Edited 2025-04-28 22:43 (UTC)

... Being sad counts as a sickness sometimes, doesn't it?

So it's not, like. A complete lie.

[In normal situations, Peter would be a little flabbergasted or embarrassed by the idea of someone worming into his bed. Or at the very least, he'd be kind of mortified by the idea of someone seeing him like this? Here in the dimness of the blanket's coverage, he looks back at her with unkept hair and a tired frown, and eyes that threaten to shine with emotions that he doesn't want to actually face. If he'd just convinced his mind to sleep... if he'd just been able to close his eyes and forget, at least for a little while...]

It's her birthday today.

[Only, there's no one alive to celebrate. Is this what it's gonna be? Getting sad on her birthday, then getting sadder on her death day? He can't stand the thought of it, or even find comfort in the idea that it'll slowly get easier.]

Edited 2025-04-30 20:20 (UTC)

(Why does he manage to break her heart so much? A damn Enforcer, and not even a real one at that. Why does she care so much, and why does seeing Peter ever-shining smile wither makes her stomach drop? Perhaps it's not the best hand to do this with, her cold mechanical finger along with the others moving some hair away from his face, thumb attempting to dry any remaining tears that he might have drying on his skin.

She's been through this. Mom, Dad, Vander, Silco. Grief is a strange phenomena in the undercity, they don't get much to mourn. Her idea of mourning is yelling at Silco's chair, avoiding going to the basement of the Last Drop, and wallowing in her own mind. It's no prettier than this. It's destructive, most of the time.

This... She can deal with, probably.)

... Then I'm staying here, until tomorrow.

[At her words, Peter's exhausted stare immediately brightens with surprised uncertainty. What she offers is something he would have happily offered if the tables were turned, of course, but — he's much more unkind to himself. So it doesn't count.]

No, that's — You don't have to do that. I'm literally the worst company right now, and you're gonna just be wasting a whole day you could be doing anything else.

[Does he think he's going to genuinely convince her to do anything else now that she'd seemingly made up her mind? Not necessarily. But maybe miracles really do happen!]

(She's as surprised as he is, but mostly with how he went from moping to somewhat alive again. The concern slowly morphs into a similar shine on her look, and she doesn't know how to express her relief other than a roll of her eyes. Close is distant, distant is close, all that.)

It's my day, and I choose what I think of the company. Can I stay?

(Please.)

[He stares back at her for a moment, as if she'll inevitably bend to the whim of his big sad brown eyes. But then, a sigh of surrender. She's victorious, no words needed there.]

Then... we probably shouldn't lay in bed all day.

That'd be — a bummer.

[He has the paints Aurora gave him? Maybe painting instead...]

I'm not gonna complain.

(Although they probably know she'd get restless really quick.

That said, whatever he wants to do, she's with him.)

We're resurfacing?

[Jinx sitting in one place all day does sound like some kind of punishment crafted specifically for her. Not that Peter is usually much better... but... y'know. Depression Day. With a slight nod:]

Resurfacing, captain.

[He pops his head out of the top of the covers, then pushes himself up on his elbows, tugging the blanket around his head until he looks like a little Russian lady selling beets on the corner. The sun attempts to shine at him through the window and he hunkers down deeper like a snail.]

Ugh. I forgot the sun exists.

Edited 2025-05-09 06:50 (UTC)

Aye.

(Yeah, but the shit she would do for him, you know? She'd fail spectacularly, but she'd be willing. With determination, she nods before she also comes out of the blankets, which doesn't matter much because he made a little silly cape with it.

The complaint is heard, chuckled at and she jumps off the bed to close the curtains. Once that is done, her hands go to her hips as she takes the room around her.)

That sounds like regret-hangover talk. Did you drink, Pete? Can you even have a hangover?

(She also assumes he hasn't eaten, so she's sighing a little, moving to his fridge to see what she can salvage from there.)

[Peter doesn't abandon his blanket. Instead, he waddles after her with his new bed-themed shawl over his head.]

... Drink? Like, alcoholic beverages?

I'm not legally old enough to drink.

That's a thing? Very funny, I almost fell for that one, but I'm taking it as a 'no'.

(Lawless Land, Zaun. She'd be surprised.

Either way, she feeds an Isha, how fucking hard is it to feed a Peter Parker?)

You need to eat. A sandwich does it, right?

Edited 2025-05-10 22:48 (UTC)

Right. 'Cus it's not the legal limit...

[Peter Parker is impossible. But at least no one is usurping him from his 'goody two shoes' title. As he awkwardly moves to sit down at the small table in the kitchen, he bites his lip.]

Ummm. About that...

[As she opens that fridge, she will find the following things:

1. An expired bottle of milk.
2. A weird concoction called 'web test 4'.
3. Turkey in a Tupperware container.
4. Two freely rolling eggs.
5. Three pretty looking slices of cheesecake that someone else clearly made because there's no way in hell Peter made them with his own cooking skills.

The good news? There is bread in the cupboard. So, like.

That's something.]

(He is so consistent. At least she can always count on him for that. She's still a bit ??? at the whole age limit thing, because, well. Zaun. But alas, not her current worry as she looks at the contents of his fridge.

Feeding a Peter Parker is harder than feeding an Isha. Does she need to add Peter to her caring routine along with Silco? Holy crap.

With a sigh, she throws out the milk before setting one of the eggs, and the turkey on the counter. Fried egg with turkey, we do what we can in this house.)

I'm not great at it, but at least it won't be lousy, okay?

[He awkwardly worms into the open chair at the table, poking his head further out of the bedspread as he watches her find out in real time that the odds are against her. This poor kitchen is sorely lacking, he can see that now that he's... like... trying to use it. Oops.]

You'll probably do way better than me.

I think I'm cursed when it comes to cooking... anything.

Don't have a lot of choice. I live in a massive balloon turbine in the depths of the Sump, so getting out of there just to find food is a hassle. Besides, if Isha doesn't eat every couple of hours, she gets impossible. Six-year-olds, tsk.

(It might be underseasoned, or a bit overseasoned. Not to perfection, the turkey is a little burnt because she put it first, but it's edible. Scrambled eggs with turkey, and she drops on the bed with a fork and the plate, and just hands it to him with no grand gestures.

Just. Eat.)

[He takes the plate, pushing around the food a bit before he finally forces himself to eat. For a metabolism like him, it's probably bad to not stuff his face. After a tick of silence, he jokes:]

... How much is the rent for a massive balloon turbine in the Sump?

Just asking, in case I can't handle the New York rent for long.

Free, doy, it's me. No one comes too close.

(Hence why her only visitors are, well, Sevika and Silco.

... But she's so relieved to see him eat. Which is why she isn't going to look, she's crossing her arms very stubbornly and pointedly looking towards the art on the wall.)

... I mean, if you want, I guess, but Zaun's crimeland, remember? You wouldn't even have time to sleep.

Then I would be super busy there.

[And wouldn't have to think about May, or all the people who have forgotten about him. He's not really being serious, of course; he could never leave New York City behind, not even for a place that could use the help... because NYC is his whole world. And it always needs a helping hand from. Well. A lot of things.

But still, the thought's kinda funny.]

You don't think Zaun could use a few Spider-people?

I've heard there's tons of us out there somewhere.

... Zaun has... Ugh, me, kinda, for the big girl stuff. You'd have to pick sides, though, Peter. Those puppy dog eyes would not be enough to stop the trenchers vs topsiders. Mine didn't work.

(Across the river, Zaun or Piltover. That's what she's always trying to tell him, she's the horror of Piltover, but for Zaun, shit's a bit different. She's a hero, as much as she doesn't want to be one.

... To be fair, her puppy dog eyes come with grenades. Course it wouldn't.)

... Besides, if you do move to my lair, you'd have a kid stealing your webshooters and playing Spiderchild behind your back.

... Don't give me any ideas for a Spiderkid sidekick.

[It's a much better think to imagine than revisiting why he's depressed today.

Little does anyone know, the loss will probably persist for both of them.

With a soft sigh, he takes a bite of his meal.]

Sometimes I worry I don't really do enough to justify the pain it causes. Days like this, can't help but wonder if maybe Jameson's right about Spider-Man being some kind of plague on the city. But then... May always had my back. Told me that I was doing good things — helping people who didn't always have someone there.

[With great power, huh?]

(Okay. She doesn't know how to help, and it's killing her, because she's kind of there, too. Not in the same wavelength, because she gives very little thought about who might be hurting if not her and hers, but.

Public figure-ing is hard. Too many voices, too many opinions, too little on what one wants to do, and why they should do it or otherwise.

Error 404, a little, and maybe she should remember sometimes that metal is cold because she is holding his face for a moment to look straight at him with both her hands on his cheeks. Listen.)

Who cares about what Jameson whoever thinks?! You're doing stuff for a reason. It's what you think.

[Oh, that metal finger is cold! 😞

But her usual kind of conviction does help. He smiles slightly, and while Jameson's words still rattle around in his head, he can't help but feel a little more comforted by where he stands. Spider-Man can't be a mistake; MJ had thought so, and May too. With a wistful chuckle, he shakes his head.]

... You sound a lot like MJ. She was always rolling her eyes at his channel.

She never takes crap from anyone.

So take it from us and don't take crap from no one. Or, you know, point me in a general direction.

(She's unfortunately not joking, as he probably knows, no matter how ludicrous that may sound and how light her words are.

With a sigh, Jinx brings her knees to her chest, chin rested in the middle as she stares at him for a second.)

You're not a mistake, okay? Even here, if it weren't for you, I'd have lost it, and you know what happens when I do. So, pat yourself on the back, hero-boy.

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cw: loss of parent figure, depressive episode

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