CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
UP ON THE ROOF WITH A SCHOOLGIRL CRUSH

THE night was a panicked blur. Amelia remembered bits and pieces from here and there ─ Happy hanging up on them, her promising to teach Peter how to drive after this, Peter realizing it was moving day and that they were going to go after the plane. The sense of urgency in Amelia while she had been racing her crappy car towards the Stark Tower. The screech of her tires as she banked left in the middle of the road and tumbled out to see the plane cruising down out of the sky. The red and blue flashing lights drowning the scene at Coney Island. The convoy of black cars. The fire and the smoke. And Peter nowhere to be found. She remembered the tightening anxiety in her chest.

She remembered it as she lugged her heavy steps up the stairs to her apartment completely forgetting that there was an elevator. She remembered it as she inserted the key in the door and turned it, hearing the satisfying click. 

She carried the fear of Peter falling, and falling and falling without anyone there to catch him, tucked nicely in her chest. She carried it when the girls inside greeted her with lowered voices and hushed whispers. She carried it as she bid them goodnight and retreated to her room.

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock in her room was annoying. When it was silent, absolutely silent, so silent that the only sound at night was of the insects and nothing else, you could hear Amelia's clock ticking.

Tick, tick, tick it went.

She looked at the room. It felt, strangely, as if it was watching; like walls had ears might be too literal here. Her forehead felt sweat-ridden and she wiped it with the back of her hand, sliding open the window. The cold breeze hit her at once and then slowly, cradling her face, her hair, then brushing past her. 

Tick, tick, tick.

She turned away. The streetlights outside made a strange shadow of her, like a dancer trapped doing pirouettes forever. She bathed. She changed. She tried to wipe off all worries about Peter from her skin but those kinds of things don't come off in the wash.

She ran her fingers through her damp hair and situated herself in the chair by her desk. Turning her computer on, she checked the news. The Stark aircraft crashing at Coney Island, that's all anyone could seem to talk about. There were reports about what security precautions were being taken, how much damage to Coney Island had been done, and how it would remain closed till further notice. Reports on Liz's dad's life and even the structure and contents of the aircraft. But nothing, nothing mentioning Spider-Man.

Tick, tick, tick.

IT was past eleven and the chamomile tea Gemma had delivered some time ago when she had spotted the light still on in Amelia's room from under the door didn't seem to be helping. She tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth as she stared at the screensaver on her computer. It was a six-year-old Amelia in the arms of Constance who had just graduated college.

Tick, tick, tick.

There was one time, a few years back when Amelia had felt this kind of terror. This almost childlike fear rippling through her body. She had been scared of thunder and lightning then, and Constance had been on one of her trips, flying a commercial aircraft. Amelia had been so scared for her sister that she had kept the whole house up all night. The storm hadn't even been in the path that Constance was supposed to take but fear had reverberated in Amelia's chest like a taut violin string.

Tick, tick, tick.

She had been so lost in thought that she failed to notice the flash of red and blue outside her window. Peter sat there for a moment on the fire escape, just looking at her through the open window. Outside, it seemed like a storm was brewing somewhere and grey clouds hung low over the horizon. The damp heaviness of the air had snuck inside Amelia's room, and it pressed against the fear in the pit of her stomach.

It wasn't supposed to rain today, Peter thought absentmindedly as the first cold droplets splattered on his face and the fire escape. He was hesitant to go in. When the walls had crumbled down on him and he had been stuck under tons of rubble, he had thought about May. Every thought had been about May, then the caving weight on his chest, Tony ─ and then Amelia's eyes had flashed in his head, painted with melancholy, a question hanging in them.

Peter hadn't understood what it meant then. He didn't understand it now, either. But now that he looked at her, his heart ached. It was like that time when the news of his parents' death came and he had seen the shadow of sorrow fall over Aunt May and Uncle Ben's faces.

He lifted his hand and knocked softly.

Amelia stirred at once, taken by surprise. She looked over her shoulder and her eyes caught his figure. Her face flushed with relief. "Come in," she sighed. "You should maybe . . . " she smiled to herself for all her needless worry, "consider coming in through the lobby. Also, Monika is under the impression that you require psychiatric attention."

"Oh, really?" Peter quirked an eyebrow as he pulled himself over the windowsill. As soon as his feet hit the floor he grunted and backed against the wall, his hand pressing his side.

Amelia's face fell. "Peter," she said and was out of her chair and by his side the next moment. "What happened?" her voice was heavy with concern.

Amelia's hands were roaming all over him, checking for wounds. And now she held his face, begging him to look at her but he was still staring blankly ahead. Something ancient ached in Amelia, something electric almost zapped her where she was holding him. It felt so foreign, yet so normal.

She pushed his hand off his side and swiped her fingers over it. It came back wet and stained a gushing red. The terror settled back. She didn't notice her hands were shaking, not until Peter grabbed onto it for balance as he limped towards her bed.

She supported him until he sunk in against the pillows. "You should see the other guy," he attempted to laugh but fell short from the pain, wincing. "The other guy, in this instance, having mechanical wings strapped to his back."

Amelia's face screwed from all the things she wanted to shout at him, but she bit her tongue. Peter tried to hide it, but she saw how much pain he was in every time he attempted to move. She pressed her lips together, refusing to utter another word. She tugged on his jumper as a sign for him to take it off, before making her way towards the bathroom and looking for the first-aid kit.

As she settled the box on the counter and filled a bowl with water, she looked at her hands. They were crusted with dried blood now, a deep sanguine red. A misplaced sense of anger flared in her ─ one that she didn't find the source of ─ only its outcome manifesting itself in the whitening of her knuckles.

She turned the tap off and stalked back into the room. Peter could tell she was mad, it was in her footsteps, though he couldn't decide why she was mad. Was she mad at him? But why would she be mad at him when he was the one who got hurt? All this time, he still found new quirks about Amelia that registered in his mind ─ as if he were making them permanent, making sure he remembered every little thing.

Tick, tick, tick.

Amelia settled on the corner of the bed, beside Peter. His jumper, half torn, lay tossed at the foot of the bed and she swallowed harshly when she saw the wound. It was ugly and carnivorous. She had never seen a darker shade of red, so dark it was almost black. Again, her knuckles whitened as she fisted her fingers. With a wet cotton she reached forward and pressed it against the wound.

Peter hissed. He jerked forward and threw his hands towards her in an attempt to stop the pain. One hand Amelia dodged, the other landed on her outstretched hand. Peter's chilled fingers wrapped around her wrist but she didn't budge the cotton from the wound. His fingers were rooted into her arms so tightly they hurt.

She could have done this without giving him pain, too. She could have healed him without all this ─ without cleaning the wound or whatever. This wasn't necessary. Then why? Why did she want to make him feel pain as if he wasn't already feeling it?

Tick, tick, tick.

She threw the destroyed cotton aside and took a preparatory breath. Peter was looking at her because he didn't know what else to do. It hadn't hurt that much, not really. The shock of pain had been more than the actual pain. But his gaze was stuck on Amelia's blank face. He had never seen her so emotionless ─ so mechanical. There was something so terrible about it, something so distraught. Her hair was pulled back, tied lazily up on her head and a few wisps fell framing her face. A sweater, two sizes too big for her hung down one of her shoulders and she pulled the sleeves back now, flexing her fingers.

He felt her cold fingers press against his side. They were stark cold and it shocked him. He winced from the pain as she pressed against the wound, his teeth gritting together.

Her hands were shaking again, but Amelia pressed them against Peter's skin to stop them from doing so. He was warmer than she was. She closed her eyes when she felt her hand starting to get warmer, and fell.

Tick, tick, tick.

But she was only falling in her head. It was like this whenever she used her power to a larger extent ─ this endless drop and the pit in her stomach at the fear of smacking against the ground. She never did hit the ground though, and she supposed that was something. But this time, she was back on the road.

Her arms were straining, outstretched, reaching for Constance. The tip of her fingers brushed Constance's hair and a bloody smile eclipsed on Amelia's face. She had a large gash running down her cheek, and her palms and knees were scraped. More reaching, more straining, a helpless cry. She pushed herself off the ground, just a little and crawled. She didn't get too far before she was collapsing again, but Constance was here now. She was in her eyesight, she was in her reach. Amelia croaked her name, her face pressed against the asphalt and dust.

Constance didn't turn to look at her.

She called her name again, and again, and again, until her name was the only sound.

But Constance never turned to look at her.

Amelia reached her arm out, and placed her palm over the back of Constance's head. It was wet and thick and pooling red. Amelia felt sick but she didn't remove her hand.

She remembered then, as the minutes had passed, she had imagined that Constance had only been sleeping. She had slowly patted her hand over Constance's head, as one does to a sleeping baby, and muttered the words to her lullaby.

Tick, tick, tick.

Peter felt his heart give. He could feel her healing him, the pain was starting to lessen but only physically. He couldn't understand why Amelia was crying.

When the first drop had fallen on his face, he had thought rain. The soft pitter-patter outside had started to gear up. But then he had realized Amelia's hand on his wound, the fireplace-like warmth from it, and blinked up at her.

She hadn't meant to cry, he had guessed, maybe it had just happened. Because she didn't know she was crying. Her eyes were still closed, and her face still turned down. But there was devastation on her face. Rome was in ruins here, the city burning. And something in Peter broke. "Amy," he said quietly. The rain outside fell harder. "Ames, look at me."

"No," the sound had come from the base of her throat. The lump in her throat made it impossible for her to speak without her words wobbling.

"Amy," he said, pained, his head titled to one side.

She sniffled, annoyed. "Let me work." Her eyebrows were drawn together in utter concentration, and she still refused to look at him.

"I'm going to be all right," Peter said to her, attempting to sit up. The wound wasn't hurting anymore, something else was.

"No," Amelia said.

Something about the tone of the single syllable conveyed, all at once, that she had not been kidding about her fear.

"Yes," Peter pressed ─ nodding, stirring, moving closer to her.

"No, stop." Lightning cracked outside. Peter froze. For the brief moment that the lightning had filled the room with light, Amelia's face had looked haunted. The only light that remained now was the soft yellow glow of her bedside lamp and the blue light emitting from her computer screen.

"You want me to quit?" Peter asked quietly. Had he been thinking about quitting? No. Yes. Maybe. This time it was pure luck ─ a fluke that he was able to stop the Vulture and save him. Next time he tried that in this suit, he might as well get burned. But it wasn't really about the suit, either.

"Yes." Amelia swallowed and blinked and answered without thinking. "No, that's not what I mean." Her fingers flexed over Peter's wound. There was nothing left to heal any more, at least not anything visible to the naked eye. "I ─ " and she bit her lips, her eyes falling close again.

Behind Amelia's closed eyes flashed a memory that wasn't hers. It wasn't even a memory, not really. Another dream her mind had spun about Peter, another nightmare. Only this was different. Completely contrary to her other nightmare. She closed her eyes and she saw Peter; happy Peter, head-thrown-back-laughing Peter. The sadness settled in when she realized it wasn't her he was laughing with. The sadness got heavier when she realized she had no idea who the person with him was. It got too much when he passed by her without noticing.

"Where are you?" his words were soft. Softer than Amelia had ever heard them before. She pulled back her tired eyelids to stare at him, finding him sitting up straighter, closer than he had ever been. A few inches more and their noses would've brushed.

"Hi," she whispered, voice trapped and tired.

He repeated, "Hi," in the same hushed tone. "Where were you?"

"Dreaming," she rasped out.

"What were you dreaming about?"

"You." She raked her fingers through her hair, using her whole hand to move it out of her face. "I sometimes dream about you."

This admittance registered somewhere deep within Peter's chest although he tried not to show how much it affected him, her sleepless state making it harder for her to keep things from him. Extending his arm, he touched her fingers with his, knuckles against knuckles. Peter said, "Oh, yeah? Because if I didn't know better I would've thought you were having a nightmare." He reached forward without hesitation and brushed the pad of his index finger at the edge of her eyes. Amelia realized it was wet when he touched her cheek. He pulled back and showed her the teardrop as if proving a point.

She sighed through her nose and tipped her head down, refusing to look at him. "Sometimes I dream you're gone," she said, fussing with the cotton in her hand. "I've been having this nightmare. It's just you falling. Falling and falling and falling. From the highest peak and there's nobody to catch you. You can save everyone, Peter. But who's gonna save you?"

Peter's breath got caught. He had not expected this. He hadn't even dreamed of this. Amelia's face was still turned down as if she couldn't look him in the eyes after such a confession. He glanced at her, a crease between his eyebrows, and for once gave into the breathtaking urge to brush back her hair. He collected the scattered strands from beside her cheek and tucked them behind her ear ─ he'd touched something like this before; satin, he thought, then: silk. And Amelia was frozen. A shiver went down her spine but it wasn't from the cold breeze.

"You will," he said, willing all his conviction into his words. He glanced at his almost-healed wound then back at her as if to make of point. "You are."

Amelia felt Constance's hair against her fingers, the thick blood against her palm. "No," she shook her head.

"Yes," Peter said, leaning closer. "Look at this." He moved his hand to where hers rested, over the healed wound on his side. "You're a miracle."

"Stop." Amelia felt like the word crumbling. "Just -- stop." She had never heard anyone call her that except her mother. Once, when she had asked jokingly who was harder to give birth to, her or Constance, just to win an argument against her sister ─ Helen Sóng had told her about Amelia almost not making it during her birth. It was Helen, really, who had been weak. She had needed a miracle and she had gotten one. The miracle in question had never been explained.

"No," he shook his head and his forehead touched Amelia's. Her eyes fluttered close as if on instinct. He kept shaking his head and Amelia wanted to say don't because he was too close, she wanted to say don't because she couldn't not kiss him if continued. But she couldn't form the words, couldn't even form don't. "I won't," Peter said quietly, his forehead against hers. "I won't stop. You are a miracle, Amelia Sóng." He saw a lone tear fall from the corner of her eyes, and it dropped on the inside of his wrist, slipping down like a kiss. Outside, it was raining like it had never rained in New York, and quite possibly would never rain again. "Hey," Peter said, as soft as the teardrop, and brushed his nose against hers. He didn't know where he got this confidence from. He didn't know when he decided to go bold, but maybe it had been the last time he was in this room.

Maybe it was the atmosphere, raining so heavily that he couldn't make any shapes out the window. Everything was a melancholic blue, and everything felt as if it were happening in a dream. He wouldn't be surprised to know if it was. But if it was a dream, he knew it would end. As it always did, right when the good part started. There were some things Peter Parker needed to tell Amelia Sóng, then, if it was all coming to an end. But most of all, most important was, "You'll always be my girl, yeah? You'll catch me."

Amelia felt as if she'd been sent to the gallows. He said it so easily, too. You'll catch me.

But I'm not a hero, she wanted to say. I don't save people. I'm not you. But all she said, was, "What if I can't?"

Peter looked directly into her eyes. Lightning cracked. She saw the various mercurial shades of brown that encompassed his eyes. His pupils were huge. Thunder boomed outside, following the lightning.

"You will. I know you will." She looked down at her lap, fussing with her fingers. "Hey," he bumped his forehead softly against hers, making her look back up at him. "I got you."

And he touched the nape of her neck, right where a fair few wisps had escaped from her chaotically tied hair. Just above the edge of her sweater. She was very still. Her skin was hot, and he could very, very faintly feel her pulse beneath his thumb. Tick, tick, tick. Thump, thump, thump. There were only so many moments in this short life. Wasting even one on this tumultuous tug-of-war between his head and heart seemed naive.

His heart skipped a beat, like a car going over a bump in the road when she closed her eyes and leaned, just a little, so that his palm was flat on her neck, fingers sprawled from her ear to her shoulder.

Everything in Peter was charged.

Amelia turned her head, just slightly, an infinitesimal movement. She hadn't known what she meant to do when she had moved, but now that small movement felt like a big leap as if crossing an ocean. Peter felt her warm lips brush his palm, so delicately, so lightly, that at first he thought he had imagined it.

Peter's heart exploded with furious joy. "Let's get out of here." He moved his head from side to side, forehead still touching Amelia's. "Let's just get out of here. Just for a minute." He pulled back to catch her expression. "Can we?"

"No."

"Yeah."

Amelia cracked an amused smile. "No."

Peter nodded furiously. "Yes. Yes."

"No," she laughed. "Monika will kill you if she sees us."

Peter looked at her, the corner of his mouth slowly curling up in a smile. "She won't see us," he said. She shook her head and smiled and looked down. Wisps of her hair tumbled down to brush her cheek. He smiled back, all teeth, pleading.

"It's still raining," she said and Peter glanced outside just as thunder boomed to remind him. He made a face, air filling up his cheeks in annoyance and Amelia laughed quietly. God, she adored Peter Parker.