open.

[construing]

CHARACTERS: gwen + you
LOCATION: around
DATE: vague calendar noises here
CONTENT: catch-all covering intro season.
WARNINGS: spiders.

First step to dropping into another universe: find food because a girl is eating for two. Step two: get the lay of the land. Step three: socialize? Yes? That probably needs to be bumped up a priority, but with Gwen an eensy bit mad about not waking up to her dad yelling about Venom getting into his shoes, actually talking to people can stay a distant third.

The symbiote feeds off her wariness. Wherever she goes, she drops spiders: tiny little things, black as tar, their appearance shiny like rubber. They hang on the countertop in the kitchen as she attempts to make homemade—station-made?—corn dogs. They explore boxes in the tech storage room as Gwen blankly stares at the mess and hopes the pieces she needs, as well as the knowledge to use them, simply materialize in front of her. Pick a book in the common room and it might come festooned with the little guys—or it is impossible to notice them over Gwen crouching upside down on the ceiling, comfortably listening to music like gravity owes her a personal favor. (It does.)

She does not don a mask—no identity to protect—but she keeps one article of clothing always on her: a Spider-Woman hoodie. It made the trip with her, along with her favorite, beat up pair of Chucks.

It’s the little things Gwen’s grateful for lately.

( OOC note: max. 2 people per specific prompt, please! feel free to wildcard and have your character run into her basically anywhere. I'll happily write a tailored prompt too, pm for one ♥ prose or brackets welcome, I’ll write to match! )

Comments

[homeostatic]

( Bones feels like he can see the pieces of the puzzle connecting in her eyes; more then, that he doesn't know, might never know, but for now it's enough the light of recognition is there, that she at least understands what he means.

Then she drops her face into her hands, drops that, and he frowns mightily. )

You are not stupid. Not a damn bit.

( Okay calm down, McCoy. He rubs the back of his neck, and drops his hands to his lap, pressing his palms together. )

I'm gonna hazard a guess here: you haven't seen anyone about this? A counselor, psychologist...

[construing]

[ she would laugh if she didn't feel like she was just run over by this particular epiphany. ]

Yeah, weirdly, not a lot of time to check into a clinic when you're New York's Most Wanted. [ instead, she had her own hallucination to helpfully remind her how even the mention of peter laid her out in a depressive funk to make the deftones proud. thanks, brain.

gwen slowly lowers her hands. her eyes are red, but she does not cry. she folds her arms against her stomach. ]

I knew I wasn't okay. I didn't think about it any more than that. There was always something, a criminal that needed stopping, some threat that couldn't wait. It didn't matter what was going on with me. [ as long as she could do for another what she failed to do for peter. god, seriously, how did she not put it together?

that answer, too, is obvious: it would have meant seeking help. and to seek help would have meant acknowledging that she needed it; more, that she was deserving of it. neither of which she was capable of admitting. ]

[homeostatic]

As long as you could keep going physically, as long as you woke up, you got through another day, you could tell yourself that was enough.

( He nods, and knows what that feels like, actually. Doesn't hide the quiet tone in his voice that says he's intimately familiar with it--his woes aren't hers to carry, he's not gonna go into detail. Knowing he wasn't alone though, that was a start. )

I want to help you, Gwen. If you're alright with that.

[construing]

Yeah…basically.

[ idly, she kicks her feet. help. the last time someone offered to help her, the price she paid was steep. then again, murdock never tried to hide who he was; she knew damn well she was making a deal with the devil. eyes wide open, she took his hand, and fucked herself over.

some good things came out of it, though. she lays her hands in her lap, palms up. she can sense the symbiote, that strange little presence always in her head, prodding gently at her: like a little kid who doesn't quite know how to go about reassuring someone, and is doing the first thing that feels natural. it feels everything she feels. has she been feeding it her fucked up trauma too? what is that doing to it? ]

If I say yes, [ she begins slowly, ] what would that entail? And keep in mind I have no money or health insurance and I'm preeetty sure I'm not even technically human anymore.

[ spider-bite. radioactive. etc. ]