[for Jessica] christmastime is here

[daretodo]

Christmas this year couldn't be any different than the last. I wake up alone, for one, still wearing the stuffy Victorian clothes I wore to attend mass the night before, and cold for having passed out over the blankets. The room isn't the one I oversaw being built, but rather a fancier version of the already swanky one I inherited from Tony when I moved into the mansion months back. Most importantly, I actually leave bed at a decent hour, because there's no one to entertain but myself, and I'm pretty lousy company.

I wish Tony and Pepper a Merry Christmas before I head out for the day; I mean, there's nothing really special about Christmas afternoon, right? No one's going to miss me if I prowl around the city for a couple hours in plainclothes, taking in the sights as I see them. Somehow, though, the path becomes familiar, my feet getting a memo that my brain didn't send when I get off the Underground a stop earlier than intended, and before too long, I find myself standing in front of the building that's replaced my old house. I've been here once before since the change, peeked inside to see the extent of the transformation.

It feels emptier than it did before my footsteps echoing against the empty walls. Habit has me starting a fire. Boredom has me thumbing through the pages of one of the books I left behind. A newspaper clipping of Gwen Stacy falls to the ground, and I remember why I kept it here. Crouching down, I pick up the paper, and stare down at the faded newsprint, smoothing it back into the front cover of the book. For a moment I'm lost in memories so old they seem worn around the edges, like a film strip, but I'm quickly brought back into the present when I hear something -- no, not something, someone -- hit the outside wall. I shut the book, sliding it back between the others on the shelf, and walk over to the window.

Jessica.

Color me surprised.

I knock against the glass to get her attention before disappearing to a window that'll actually open, standing aside once the job is done to let her in.

"Thought you were supposed to come through the chimney."

Comments

[notaparker]

"Oh, no, I just bought it from some guy on the street, so it's only secondhand theft," I say, holding it back for a sec, then putting it in his hand. "It's mine, it is one hundred percent genuine clonejuice."

This reaches my ears. To be fair, it didn't sound great in my head, either, but it was too close to my mouth at that point. "Ew. Clone blood, we're going to never say the other thing again."

[daretodo]

I think about repeating it for no other reason than to bug her, but I can't help but agree that clonejuice is just too gross to risk repeating. Because, as she said, ew. My nose crinkles even as I take the vial off her hands, holding it up long enough to confirm that -- yup, it's blood -- before I lower it, wondering where the heck I'm going to store it before I remember I've got that neat Victorian lab of mine just down the hall.

"Couldn't we just call it, I dunno, blood?" I suggest, before something else comes to mind. Should I say thank you? It is, technically, a gift, and the trust she's placing in me by handing it over like this is as inherent as it is extreme. People in our position aren't typically forthcoming with anything that can be used against us someday. "Um."

I don't know where to look. My fingers curl around the vial, putting it out of sight, if not out of mind, and I glance at her. As far as Christmas' go, it's about as different from last year as I'd expected, but not as lonely as I anticipated.

"Thanks."

[notaparker]

"If you've already got one, I'll take it back to the store and get you something else," I say, waving it off with a literal flap of one hand. It's still not unawkward, but maybe it's a little better. Maybe it's about as much as a gift exchange between clones can get, especially when one half of the exchange is basically saying, 'hey, I give you permission to research me.'

"Maybe a walking cane."

[daretodo]

"Nah, walking canes are so last year," I reply, equally as glib, and glad for the change of subject as I start down the hall, indicating with a tilt of my head that she ought to follow with.

"Besides, thirty's the new twenty. I'm hip."

[notaparker]

"No one says hip any more, gramps," I say, following a long, because he did the follow-along head tilt and it's not like I have places to be.

No, that's not fair. I'm here because I chose to be here, and I'm not running out of the place because we're... whatever we are, and it's not nothing. I'll stick around.

"We say, 'groovy,' and 'da bomb.' 'Phat,' with a pee-aitch, that one's big nowadays."

[daretodo]

"Riiiight. And hip is worse than any of the above how, exactly?" I wonder aloud, shooting her a look before I turn into my Victorian lab-slash-workshop. It's actually smaller than it usually is when things are more tropical themed, but the atmosphere inside more than makes up for the lack of space, the sort of thing that looks like it comes straight out of a movie. I half-expect Tesla to pop out at any second.

Well. The real Tesla. Not so much the guy who crashes Tony's classes.

"Yanno, I don't think I ever got the slang even when I was your claimed age."

[notaparker]

"Well, lots of people have trouble with Shakespeare," I say, with great tact and diplomacy.

Ooh, steampunk laboratory. Sure, mine turned into one of these, too, but I do like to see what other people have got going on. Kind of especially what's cooking in Peter's, because if we're duplicating effort I'd like to know about it.

And if we're not, well that's a thing to be proud of. Moving in my own direction.

"I was kidding, anyway, in the hopes of getting you to say 'da bomb.' It's mostly acronyms these days. Oh-em-gee, this lab is oh-tee-tee."

[daretodo]

"Jay-ess-why-kay, I bite my thumb at you," I say, pressing the pad of my thumb against my front teeth. The opening scene's about the only part of Romeo & Juliet I cared for. The rest of it? Not so much.

"I taught high school, kiddo. I know the lingo. Don't really get the lingo, but I still know it... And no one's said dee-bee for years. Nice try."

[notaparker]

"Maybe not in your universe," I say, although actually the attempt to convince him of this patently false statement isn't as interesting as some things. "You taught high school? Before the island sabbatical?"

[daretodo]

"Webslinging didn't pay the bills," I reply with a shrug, finding a secure spot to store the blood among my things. I'll probably be needing more down the line, but for now, I want to make sure no one else will be able to get to it. Not that breaking and entering is a huge problem around these parts, granted. Even that Freelander lady was just doing it for kicks.

"And the Bugle didn't want my pictures anymore." Not to mention the fact that I'd just joined the only incarnation of the Avengers that didn't pay. "Had to find something to keep a roof over my head. Teaching seemed like a good alternative."

[notaparker]

"...your pictures?" I say, perching on a chair, since I'm not going to get up on one of his lab tables and knock stuff around. "Huh. Peter -- the my universe edition, obviously -- worked on the website for the Bugle. No picture taking. Well, he tried to start with, but they were terrible."

[daretodo]

I staged them, in the beginning. Not the most ethical thing in the world, but it was easier than handing in an entire roll of film that was blurry save for one shot. Even though I got better at it as time went on, I wouldn't go so far as to call myself an artist. I took pictures, because the pictures gave me money. That's more or less where it ended. Still, it's strange to think of a version of me out there who bypassed photographer almost entirely.

"Took me a while to get the timer right," I admit, scratching the back of my head. "Jonah and Robbie were always on my case. Uh--" I stop, turning to look at her. "You have those guys where you're from?"

It's hard to imagine a Bugle without either of them, but a Bugle without ol' flattop just isn't the Bugle. But I'm pretty sure she's mentioned JJJ before, at least.

[notaparker]

"Just don't tell me triple-J is calm and reasonable, or I'll lose faith in there being anything sacred in the universe," I say. Nice to know the Bugle is in the same capable- well, the same hands.

No, that's not fair, even if the guy hasn't exactly been helpful in the past, it's not like he's running a hack tabloid.

"JJJ used to completely have it out for Spider-Man. Not recently, though, nowadays he's a big fan. It's pretty weird."

[daretodo]

"Eh, he's gone through phases back home, too," I say, scratching the back of my head. It's true enough, even if I tend to focus more on the years of smear campaigning than the temporary changes of heart that seemed to only ever last for a couple of days, tops.

"Like the moon, really, only... Less predictable." In an almost cheerful voice, I add, "But mostly he's made it his life's mission to make Spidey's a living hell! It's kinda weird that I find that a comforting similarity."