Chapter Text
“It’s not about how much we lost. It’s about how much we have left." - Tony Stark
The cold air bit at Peter’s neck as he lifted the cuff of his worn-thin jacket to compensate. It was one that he had grabbed from a lost-and-found bin during a particularly desperate patrol, which was not his finest moment, but the weight of it had become familiar. Familiarity was something he had come to appreciate a lot in the last two and a half years. He felt like he had been stuck in this perpetual state of “I miss breathing normally,” that came alongside a runny nose. That’s the way he felt about his family. Like he didn’t appreciate them enough when they were there, so now he was being punished for it.
The carpeted hallway stretched for a while, until the muted sounds of his bootsteps switched to the thud of hardwood. He opened a door on his right and the blinds flung forward and smacked back against the glass. The office smelled like leather and ink and burnt coffee. Phones were ringing from multiple different directions, which made his head hurt more than it would have normally.
Peter had been sensitive to sounds since he got bit by the spider, but over time the heightened senses found a common ground. Yet lately, he felt almost hungover. Sluggish. Part of that must have been due to the lack of nutrition since… well… he’s broke. And has a faster metabolism than both the Gilmore Girls combined. Last week he woke up at three a.m. in his dingy apartment because a couple was arguing with their window open. They were three blocks to the left.
He couldn’t go back to sleep after that, so he decided to sit and listen. Eventually he started talking to himself too. That’s when he realized he really was going crazy. “Yeah, Blake, why did you come home late smelling like a perfume she doesn’t use?”
His arms were crossed, an accusatory glare on his face.
Every desk in the office was occupied by someone that looked like they’d rather be at home with their cat. He shivered and approached the closest one.
Betty looked practically the same. A little older, and she seemed to be letting her naturally curly hair finally see the light of day. Her fingers were flying across her keyboard, burgundy nail polish on them that would most definitely start to chip before lunch. She was wearing a big white and beige striped sweater, ribbed, and it surprised him to see her without a headband. He couldn’t remember if he had ever seen her without one, and she had bangs now.
His mind wandered and he started to wonder if she had cut them herself. He tried to cut his own hair one time with a Brad Mondo tutorial on his phone, but his screen was cracked from when he ran out of web fluid and fell from the side of a building, and hit a fire escape with a displeased, “Ow”. It’s safe to say the haircut attempt was not a success. May was always good at cutting his hair.
He adjusted the manila folder that was tucked under his armpit, the coffee in his other hand that was scalding, and his camera strap was offsetting his center of gravity. Not to mention pressing down on a still-healing bruise.
“Hi, my name is—.”
“Down the hall to the left,” Betty said without looking up.
“Uh… okay,” Peter looked around the room in confusion. “Um, I'm here to sell pictures for the paper?”
“I know. I recognize your voice. Besides, she’s waiting for you. Down the hall to the left.”
I recognize your voice.
That sentence made his chest tighten. They had spoken on the phone earlier when he saw the ad in the paper. But still.
“Right, duh,” he laughed a little. “Thanks.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
He gave her a smile that she couldn’t see, and despite the slight spike in cortisol, he felt a little lighter as he moved down the hallway. Of course Betty would be working in a place like this, he was happy for her. At Midtown Tech she always loved being a part of the daily news reports. Whether it was the fact that a bathroom stall was flooding, or the cafeteria food gave six kids food poisoning, she always had a pep in her step. When he had phoned earlier and heard her voice, he nearly dropped his phone in shock. But she looked happy. Chaotic, but happy.
He lifted his hand and knocked lightly on the glass.
“Come in,” a voice from inside called.
“Hi,” Peter cleared his throat and gave a friendly wave. “I’m here for the ad - paper in need of a reliable photographer?”
“Right, of course. Hi,” the woman looked up from her desk, pushing some hair out of her face like a nervous habit. She had been staring at multiple articles spread out across the mahogany like she was on a mission. “Come, sit. My name’s Karen,” she gestured towards the seat opposite her desk.
Peter shuffled over, nearly tripping on an extension cord that ran across the room (he tried and failed to play it off). “Yeah, Karen Page right? I love your stuff. It’s really good, you definitely don’t hold back.”
Karen laughed. “I mean someone has to tell the truth around here.”
“Agreed,” he nodded. “I mean, I just think it takes guts though. Like that guy a few years back, the vet that was blowing up buildings? You held your ground, you didn’t let him draw you out and agree with him out of fear. That’s… I mean that’s impressive. And, really brave honestly.”
“Thank you,” she exhaled. “Yeah.”
Her face contorted a little, an expression Peter recognized all too well. Something being dug up and put in your face, something you tried hard to forget about.
“Sorry, um, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Or sound like I’m trying to kiss your ass or something. That–” he shook his head and winced, “that sounded wrong. Anyways, you seem like a very, very, busy woman, based on your assistant out there–.”
“Betty? Oh god,” she laughed. “She’s great at what she does, but honestly she even scares me a little. And please, don’t worry about it. I appreciate the sentiment.”
Peter’s eyes brightened. “Okay, great. Yeah, so it’s not just me,” he adjusted his camera strap.
“No, definitely not just you.”
He grabbed the folder and set it on the desk. “I don’t really um… I don’t have a resume which I know isn't a fantastic start. But my uncle taught me everything I know about cameras, and he was really good. Like won-multiple-photography-contests-good. I took photography classes in high school and in college. And I’m really hard-working. I will climb up a flag pole if I need to for the shot,” he laughed a little, his hands cutting and waving through the air as he spoke.
Karen grabbed the folder and flipped it open, seeing pictures of Spider-Man and Scorpion in a kind of clarity she’d never seen before. “You took these?”
“Mhm.”
His mouth stretched into a tight lipped smile and he squirmed in his seat.
“Huh.”
“Is that.. is that a bad ‘huh’?”
“No, no it’s not bad. It’s really good actually. What did you say your name was?”
“Peter. Parker. Peter Parker.”
“Honestly, don’t worry about a resume for now. I care more about the quality of work rather than where you went to school. I can start you on a trial period. If you can bring in good photos, and consistently, then we can go from there. But if you even think about stealing someone else’s work, you won’t be working for The Bulletin.”
“Understood. Thank you, seriously.”
Karen nodded, a smile on her face that felt like recognition. Not of him, necessarily, but of what his personality reminded her of. Maybe the hunger in his eyes for a job was more obvious than he thought it was. He needed something stable. It was either this or making sandwiches for Mr. Delmar and that was going to be his next stop if this didn’t pan out.
“Are you willing to sell us these?”
“Yes, yeah, absolutely,” he nodded quickly.
“Okay,” she grabbed a checkbook from her desk drawer and started writing on it and then she handed it to him. “Take this to Betty and she’ll help you. I look forward to working with you, Peter Parker.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much, Ms. Page. Seriously, I won’t let you down,” the paper in his hands felt like it was going to detonate any second.
Karen opened her mouth to speak, but got cut off with the vibration of her phone on the desk. He caught the name before she flipped it over in a split second.
Frank.
It frazzled her composure slightly. She opened her mouth and closed it a few times before finally finding her voice.“What was I–? Oh, right. One last thing before you go, do you want us to print your name or do you want to remain anonymous?”
***
“When you help someone, you help everyone.” - May Parker
As Peter walked through the cemetery, he made sure not to step over any of the actual graves. He strategically moved in the in-between spaces, just like he had done since he was a kid. Force of habit maybe, from when he came to visit his parents who were a few plots over. But it also just seemed like common sense to him. He didn’t want to disrupt anyone's peace.
When he reached May’s grave, he switched the flowers that he had put there last week. Like he had been doing every week for years now. The fresh ones this time were daisies. The bouquet looked a little sad and droopy, but like they were still trying their best to hold on. Like him.
“Hey, May,” he crouched in front of her headstone and swept off some fallen leaves from the top. “I missed you today. I miss you everyday.”
In the distance a child laughed, and the flap of a bird's wings ceased as it landed in a nearby tree. The sky was cloudy and looked like it might rain. Which was unfortunate, because his suit wasn’t waterproof. He sighed.
“I got a job this week,” he forced a smile out of second nature. “It’s been good so far. I’ve been using Ben’s old camera strap. The one with your initials embossed in the leather. He said he did it to keep you close to his heart remember? So he could carry you everywhere,” he laughed a little.
“Anyways. I’ve been taking pictures for a paper. The money isn’t bad. My apartment… still sucks though. I found a cockroach in a pan this morning and then I spent the rest of my morning hiding under my sheets dreading getting up and possibly hearing it skitter off somewhere.”
He adjusted a petal on one of the flowers.
“Ned and MJ are still at M.I.T. I know you’d probably tell me to stop watching their instagram stories or to like… tell them the truth. But they look happy, and I know I’m just torturing myself by looking anyway. I just don’t know how to stop…” his eyes started to water. “I really miss you May. God, I wish you were here. You always knew what the right thing to do was. I feel like I never know. Last week I deliberated for five minutes over chicken or beef ramen.”
“My wrists have been aching again. I feel like maybe I’m developing carpal tunnel or something from all the swinging around. You know, the whole like flick-of-the-wrist motion for the webs? I probably do that like dozens of times a day. Especially when I’m testing it at home. The web fluid has been a pain lately. Obviously I can make it myself, but having access to the chemicals I need isn’t always easy. I’ve had to improvise a few times. One time I had to use nail polish remover–don’t ask.”
He adjusted his crouch to redistribute his weight.
“Did I tell you I have my own A.I. now? I named her E.V. Um, and I accidentally left my stuff in the apartment washer for too long and then someone dumped it on the ground. So that sucked. But I mean, it’s not all bad, you know? J. Jonah Jameson got fired. I heard that he’s like blogging from home now, but no one’s even reading it. The coding for the website is really bad. He called it the NightlyTrumpet,” he scoffed. “It’s so dumb.”
He sat there in silence for a few minutes, listening to the wind and determining its direction. So in case it did rain, he knew whether or not he could keep his window open. The petrichor smell always made him feel safe.
“Hey kid,” the voice made him jump.
“Hey,” he stood up and dusted off his pants.
“You don’t have to leave on my account, I was just stopping by.”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t–you’re fine. I was planning to leave soon anyways. I just thought she deserved some fresh flowers.”
Happy smiled. “You’re a good kid.”
Peter gave him a tight lipped smile. “Thanks.”
“Were you… just in the area or?”
“I was visiting a friend,” Happy nodded. “His daughter… she um. She did this school project recently. She did that egg-drop challenge thing, you know? Tony,” he shook his head. “He would’ve loved it. She used these paper straws and tape and she like… created this triangle/teepee type thing with the egg in the middle. They were supposed to create a parachute and she asked ‘Why?’” Happy laughed.
“She got first place.”
Tony’s daughter. Morgan.
“She sounds really smart,” Peter offered with his hands in his pockets.
“She is.”
The air between them stilled.
“You said a while ago that you knew May through Spider-Man. Whatever the two of them did that helped you, she’s lucky to have someone who still shows up here. The last of her family is gone. She’s just got people like you and me now.”
“Yeah,” Peter nodded. “My parents died when I was young. I visit them here sometimes. I think I just don’t like the idea of people being forgotten. We keep them alive through our own memories, right?”
“Right,” Happy walked to the headstone and placed his own flowers.
“I’ll leave you to it, then. Have a good day.”
“You too, kid.”
***
“What would be the point of all the pain and sacrifice if I wasn't willing to stand up and keep fighting?” - Sam Wilson
The soldering iron made the apartment smell a little like incense. Peter had been sitting at his desk, hunched over for the past few hours, as an ache started to form in his lower back. To the right of him, his 3D printer sat proudly. One he made himself that took a considerable amount of time and effort, and he named it after a character from The Matrix. The double monitors glowed brightly in front of him, and his laptop was elevated on the left, resting on a few shoe boxes because he hadn’t bought a stand yet.
“Ow,” he hissed and shook his hand as he got a bit too close to the iron. “Okay, E.V. run a diagnostic for me?”
“Pending,” her polite voice replied.
Peter set the glasses down on the desk in the midst of a thousand papers. Some of them were sticky note reminders written in sloppy handwriting: “flowers for May”, “fix TVR pin”, “buy new socks”. Others were random pieces of mail, addressed to “our neighbor”, along with pages and pages of equations and pizza coupons. There also might have been a few take out containers from the Chinese restaurant around the corner that he hadn’t gotten to yet. But it was on his list.
“Diagnostic failed,” E.V. alerted him.
Peter groaned, “Why? What now?”
“The glasses overheated and the integrations shut down.”
“But Tony was able to do it somehow… it doesn’t make any sense,” he picked up the frames and glared at them like they had personally offended him. “It shouldn’t be overheating. I accounted for the battery life and external temperatures as well as the base level of my body heat… wait a second.”
“Waiting,” E.V.’s voice lowered, like she was quietly stepping closer and was on the edge of her seat along with him.
“Okay, so the processor is generating heat, but it… it must be the frames. There’s no ventilation. The E.D.I.T.H. glasses had a titanium frame? That can withstand up to like… I don't know over a thousand degrees fahrenheit? So he must’ve used that as a heat sink. But wait, that doesn’t make sense either. It’s not about melting point, it's about thermal conductivity. It still moves the heat slower away from the source.”
“Titanium is not a great source for a heat sink. Typically copper or aluminum would be better suited,” E.V. chimed in.
“Exaclty, so it must not have been titanium, Tony was too smart for that. Unless, it was like… copper on the inside and then titanium on the outside to keep up appearances. But, also I mean titanium is corrosion resistant so that helps. And it’s lightweight. It could have even been like a titanium-aluminum alloy? And these temples have a metal component in them, but they’re also surrounded by cellulose acetate which must be messing with the overall composition. It probably just makes the trapped heat build up faster, causing the shutting down due to there being no chance for dissipation.”
He thought for a second. “Plus E.D.I.T.H. had like that thick outer rim that looked almost like a bumper around the lenses. That must’ve helped with surface area, as well as room to spread everything out.”
He exhaled. “Okay then.”
“You sound pleased.”
“Huh?”
“When you figure something out your voice changes in octave and pitch,” E.V. noted.
“You noticed that?” Peter crossed his arms over his chest.
“You also talk in your sleep,” E.V. responded.
“I what?”
There was a knock at the door and it made Peter jump. “Don’t think I’m forgetting that just because you got saved by the bell,” he pointed at the computer accusatorily and then got up to get his dinner.
“Of course not. You are much too smart.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he rolled his eyes.
He swung the door open, thanked the delivery guy, gave him a tip and then went back to his desk.
“Okay. So tomorrow I’ll pick up a new set of frames, or maybe I’ll use Trinity if that doesn’t work.”
“That sounds like a good plan.”
“I’m glad you approve,” he grabbed a bottle of Advil and shook some into his hand and washed them down with his cherry coke.
“How’s the head?”
Peter scoffed a little. “It’s fine, E.V.”
“You just took two extra strength Advil capsules. The recommended dose is one.”
“Yeah, well. I have a fast metabolism and I heal quickly so normal doses don’t work.”
“That logic seems faulty.”
“Uh-huh.”
E.V. pulled up something on the screen - a spread sheet that Peter had created months ago. It consisted of six respected columns. Metabolism (calories burned vs. food intake), injury type (with descriptions like: “caffeine jitters”, “ate shit”, “I’ll live”, and “I'm dying”), a bruising timeline (color-coded, naturally), pain level (which followed a very highly respected medical standardized scale of 😀– 🙂– 😐– 😕– 🙁– ☹️– 😭), NSAIDs usage, and an estimated recovery column.
“Should we record your current symptoms?” She probed.
“Sure,” he sighed.
“Category?”
“‘I’ll live’ for two hundred, please.”
“Very funny. Calorie intake?”
“I’ll add that later.”
“Bruising?”
“Yellow,” he stretched and groaned.
“Pain level?”
“I would say the straight-line mouth emoji.”
“Documented. Anti-inflammatory total dose?”
“800 milligrams.”
E.V. went silent.
“What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, but you said everything.”
“Estimated recovery cannot be calculated without calorie intake,” she changed the subject.
“Yeah, I know.”
The spreadsheet moved off the screen and landed in the dock near the little trash-bin icon. Her way of tabling the subject for now. Peter was grateful. But just as he was about to dig into his food, his phone went off. Police scanner.
“--suspect is armed and dangerous. Hostage situation. Male, mid-30s, blonde hair, roughly 5"8' and between 150 to 165 pounds. We need dispatch to the scene immediately. The old miller field, New Dorp Ln, Staten Island.”
Staten Island was around 40 minutes away. If he really hauled ass swinging, he could cut that down to about 23 minutes. But that wasn’t what concerned him the most. It was the fact that Dinah Madani was the one that called it in.
He was up in seconds.