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November 25th wasn’t a special day.
Well, okay, technically it was his birthday, but he didn’t much care about that. Today wasn’t special because there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He had lunch plans with May, and he was pretty sure she was going to give him a card full of money that he would have to refuse on principle, but meals with her were common. He had dinner plans with MJ, and she wanted to cook something new for him that she found on Pinterest, but dinner at his girlfriend’s was normal.
So it might have been his birthday, but it wasn’t particularly special. He was just glad he’d get to spend time with them.
Oh, yeah! He’d gotten a card from Harry last night, wishing him a splendid “huppy buthday” from London with a check of 15k since Harry couldn’t get him an actual gift this year. He’d be moving on to Norway soon, so Peter was instructed to not write back.
That—that was special. He’d admit. He really missed Harry.
And he had every intention to go see Norman Osborn to give him that check because there ain’t no way he would accept that much money.
Doctor Octavius didn’t know it was his birthday, and he was thankful for that, timid about the decorations and festivities the man would throw together. He just really didn’t want that kind of spotlight.
Pete was temporarily lost in his work with circuit boards when his phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. It was a reminder: Leo’s for lunch, and whoa! He’d almost forgotten! Exactly why he had started setting reminders. All too often, he’d forget something important, and he was tired of disappointing people.
He did that often, getting so into his work that time just slipped right by without him knowing. His phone said it was 11:38, so he’d need to get going in a minute if he wanted to be on time. Leo’s was in Chinatown, and he was glad Aunt May didn’t pick somewhere where she’d have to travel far. She was much busier at FEAST than he was with his internship, and she didn’t need her extra time to be wasted.
“Doc, I’ve got lunch plans with May,” he said, turning to face the older man, “Mind if I head out early?”
Doc was at the dry erase board pondering the logo again, and upon hearing Peter, he glanced over his shoulder, “Not at all, Peter. You’ve more than earned a long break.” He turned back to the board, but kept going, “Have a good time!”
Peter smiled. Doc was so kind, so generous. Not for the first time was Pete reminded why he chose to work here than at OSCORP, and he’d never regret it.
“Thanks a lot!”
He shot May a quick On my way message before slipping his phone back in his pocket and taking off.
He and May had their own special spot in Leo’s—by the window looking out onto the intersection, and with as much money as they spend eating there, Leo always reserved it for them when they called ahead—and May always called ahead. She was thoughtful like that.
As Peter neared, he noticed their table empty. He stopped by the door before entering to check his phone: 12:03 with no missed messages—how was he late? How was he always late?—which wasn’t unusual, but he opened his chat with Aunt May to check if she’d read his message yet.
She hadn’t.
That was concerning, but maybe she’d broken her phone or lost it. He’d just wait for her at their table. No use getting worked up too quickly. Patience was a virtue.
Before he sat, though, he approached Leo behind the counter.
“Peter!” Leo was excited to see him, “May told me today was ya birthday! How old are ya now? Seventeen?”
Ha, funny! Classic Leo!
Peter laughed and responded, “Sixteen! The Doc and I discovered anti-aging!”
Leo threw his head back and laughed deep, holding his belly.
“These cheese sticks are on me today, and don’t ya argue!” He slid a serving out from his oven and onto a metal sheet before sliding that over the counter to Peter who smiled thankfully.
“Has Aunt May come in yet?”
Leo paused to look at him, “No, m’boy, haven’t seen her.” His expression was paused as if he was to continue, but the bell above the door jingled as several more people came in. Peter didn’t want to be in Leo’s way, and he was sure everything was fine. Be patient. Don’t jump to conclusions.
“I’ll just wait then, thanks!”
He grabbed the cheese sticks, noticing immediately that they were very hot and burning his fingers, and hissed as he quickly set them on their table. His fingers would heal up in about ten minutes if they were burnt, so he put that out of his mind and sat down.
Aunt May wasn’t one to be late, always early to everything, but maybe she got hung up at FEAST.
It was 12:05 with no sign of her, calling would not be a rash action. It’d be an understandable one. So he did, set the phone up next to his ear, and heard it ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Then voicemail.
“I’m so sorry. It seems I missed your call. If you were looking for me, May Parker, just leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Beep.
“Hey, May, it’s me, Peter. I’m—uh—I just want to make sure we’re still on for lunch today. If you’re too busy and need to cancel, that’s totally fine. You know me, I’ll always find things to do instead… Uh, thanks. Love you. Call me back.”
Now he just needed to wait. She probably just lost track of time, that’s all.
It was hard to be patient the more time ticked by, and by the time it was 12:30, Peter was very concerned, bouncing his leg subconsciously and checking his phone every minute. This wasn’t right. Something was wrong. She should have called him back by now.
But he didn’t know what to think. Aunt May was simply not answering or checking her phone.
She broke it. That’s all it was. She broke her phone and doesn’t have a clock on her to know what time it was. She’d see the clock on the wall and she’d borrow someone else’s phone to—someone else’s phone.
He could call someone else to make sure she was all right.
Martin Li was the first person he thought of, simply because he and May worked so closely together, so he clicked call and waited.
“Hello, FEAST shelter, Martin Li speaking.”
“Hey, Mr. Li. It’s Peter.”
“Oh, hi, Peter. What can I do for you today?”
“It’s about Aunt May. I was hoping you could tell me she was okay. She’s not answering her phone.”
“Oh,” Li hesitated, sighed, “I’m afraid she’s not here, Peter. I was actually worried myself, hoping she was just home sick.”
Dread dropped in his stomach like a lead bearing in water.
Aunt May wasn’t at FEAST? Hoping she was just home sick?
“Did she not call out?”
Please say she did. Please say she did.
“No. Neither today nor yesterday.”
Yesterday?
“She wasn’t in yesterday either?”
Mr. Li hesitated, “No, she wasn’t.”
Okay, that’s more than concerning. Something was definitely wrong.
“Okay, thanks, Mr. Li. I’m going to go check on her.”
“No, Peter, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything until now. Please call me back and tell me how she is.”
“I will. Bye.”
“Thank you, bye.”
Something bad had happened, he was sure of it. Aunt May doesn’t act like this, skipping work without calling, forgetting about plans. That sounded like the Peter Aunt May always scolded.
Something bad had happened, but Peter didn’t know what—but he knew who would. MJ knew every major thing that goes on around here, so he called her next, snatching a cheese stick to nibble on—so he eats when he’s worried, big deal.
Her phone rang. And rang. And rang. Then finally voicemail.
Not good. So not good. MJ always answered her phone. What were the chances that May and MJ are connected?
He didn’t leave a message, just hung up and slipped his phone in his pocket before taking off, leaving Leo with, “Aunt May had to cancel, Leo. I’m so sorry.”
Leo was disappointed, but waved at Peter as he left, grabbing the cheese sticks as he went and leaving a ten on the table—he might have been super worried, but he was also super hungry.
He didn’t have the suit on him at the moment (he wasn’t supposed to have the time to fight crime right now) so he’d have to make his way to Aunt May’s on foot as a regular person, but he could call the Bugle to see if anyone’s heard from MJ.
“Daily Bugle, how may I help you?” The receptionist sounded extremely bored.
“Hi, I need to speak to Mary Jane Watson. This is her boyfriend, Peter. Can you transfer this call?”
“Mary Jane Watson, huh? Sure, hun, gimme a sec,” there was a pause, probably looking up the extension, “My apologies, sir. She’s not in today.”
Not in today? She was always in! What was happening?
“Okay, thanks. Have a good day.”
MJ and May both missing? This was no coincidence. Something very bad has happened.
Something very bad was happening.
He just stopped on the sidewalk, slid into an alleyway, and climbed a building for privacy only the roof could grant. He needed to think.
May and MJ both missing was no coincidence, but the only thing connecting them was…
Was Peter.
Was Spider-Man.
This was not good. This was very not good.
Someone must have found out his identity, attacking him where he’s vulnerable. This was what he was afraid of the most. His greatest fear. The reason he has a secret identity.
All he had ever wanted was to keep them safe, and he failed.
He failed horrendously.
The worst part was that he didn’t even know what happened. How could he fix this? How could he save them? He didn’t even know who kidnapped them! Where could he go? What could he do, with so little information?
His head was buzzing with panic, with confusion, and far too many questions.
It wasn’t until sometime later his thoughts calmed down.
He was sitting against a wall, knees up, and elbows braced atop them with his hands in his hair.
This was silly. He had so little information, so little evidence—how could he assume they’d been kidnapped just because they hadn’t answered their phones and hadn’t shown up to work? Sure, something happened, but abduction?
His rational thoughts were calming him down, and he checked his phone. 1:17.
He was late for work, but Doctor Octavius hadn’t reached out.
He should go, take his mind off these strange happenings, then afterward, he’ll look into it more—if, by then, neither of his women have contacted him.
The panic could only be pushed aside so much. It still sat there, on the edge, ready to break forth anytime should he allow it. The goal, then, would be to not overthink. Keep a level head.
They were fine. They were fine. They were fine.
It was a coincidence and nothing more. MJ would call him back in an hour, rambling about a new story she stumbled onto—that could have been a reason! She didn’t answer because she was caught up in a story!
Peter sighed. That was it. MJ was just fine, just overwhelmed.
May was fine, too, just—his phone vibrated in his pocket, and he snatching it from the depths as fast as he could.
May was fine. May was calling him.
He closed his eyes in relief and smiled.
He had just lost his mind for a minute there. Everything was okay.
“May, hey.”
“Peter Parker.” His eyes widened. Deep and taunting, that was not Aunt May’s voice. There was a familiarity in the sound, though, a familiarity that wanted to point to Wilson Fisk, but Peter dared not assume because doing so would be to assume Wilson Fisk knew his name, knew his family, knew his secrets.
“Who is this? Where’s May?”
“Oh, I think you know, Spider-Man,” there was a pause, everything sinking in, and time was frozen, his lungs were frozen, his thoughts were frozen—this couldn’t be happening—“West one-fifty-one and Convent. The gardens. One-thirty.”
And the call ended.
Somehow the phone found its way back into his pocket, his legs found their way forward, and his thoughts found their way circling around Wilson Fisk knew and had May and MJ—Wilson Fisk knew—Wilson Fisk had May and MJ.
He hadn’t hesitated to move the second Fisk hung up—those gardens were on the complete opposite side of the city, and it’d take Spider-Man at least ten minutes to get there—but only after he’d leaped five rooftops did he notice that he wasn’t in his suit.
He could detour to his apartment for the suit, it was almost on the way anyway. He only had eleven minutes to get there, so he’d have to book it. Regardless, pedestrians couldn’t see Wilson Fisk fighting a regular guy without assuming he was Spider-Man.
It was safe to assume Fisk hadn’t told anybody else his identity. The man hated him so much that he’d want Peter all to himself. Leaking who he was would only put a price on Peter’s head. All his enemies would be gunning for him, and if someone leaked it further and the cops found out? Peter would be in a right spot, that’s for sure.
So, no, Fisk was definitely the only one privy to that info, probably hadn’t even told his minions.
Peter just hoped MJ and May were all right, unhurt. He didn’t know much about Fisk’s personal life, but from what he did know, Fisk wasn’t the type to hurt hostages for no reason. Aunt May wouldn’t lash out, so she’d be fine. MJ on the other hand? She was a fighter, didn’t go down without a fight. Peter desperately hoped she’d realize the gravity of the situation she was in and hadn’t done anything rash. Surely, she and May both knew Spider-Man would come for them.
His apartment was right there and approaching, and he was extremely grateful for the nice weather in November because he’d left his window open in an attempt to save money on AC/heat. He knew he’d left his suit in the backpack on the floor by his bed, so as he swung by, all he had to do was snatch it up with a web and change as he hopped rooftops.
Alas, he can’t aim well with such a heavy and pressing burden on his shoulders, and he doubled back to try a second time, succeeding.
He knew if anyone were to catch him, he’d be all over the internet for sure, as funny as he must’ve looked, changing into his suit as he ran and leaving his other clothes behind. Coming back later to collect them was the last thing on his mind.
His watch/web-shooter only gave him seven minutes to get there, so he dived for speed and swung as time-saving as he could.
By the time he was overhead, it was 1:30 exactly. He hadn’t a second to spare for hesitation, so he landed gracefully atop the gazebo, immediately noticing the hostages weren’t in sight. Instead, he zeroed in on Fisk, amusing himself with long-dead flowers by the gate—not to be morbid, but it was November.
“Tryna choose flowers for your wedding day?”
Fisk spun around, not looking surprised in the least—but come on, with the speed with which he turned, he was obviously startled. Must’ve been caught up in a memory or something—fists clenched at his sides.
“Spider-Man,” and he checked his watch, “Not a second late.”
Please don’t beat around the bush. Where were MJ and Aunt May?
“Cut to the chase, Fisk. What do you want? Where are the hostages?”
Fisk quirked an eyebrow but didn’t otherwise react.
And Peter glanced around. Fisk’s henchmen were nowhere to be seen.
Fisk responded by lifting his right arm and gesturing forward, as if to say here you go, but still not opening his mouth.
Peter waited, not daring to put anybody in danger, and sure enough, his patience came to fruition.
Two men escorted May in from around the corner, each on one arm. A black blindfold covered her eyes, and awful duct tape caged her mouth, the edges red where the adhesive met delicate skin. Anger slithered in Peter’s belly at the sight of the tape, upset with such treatment, especially someone of her age, but was also relieved to see the henchmen not dragging her or using excessive force. Dare he say it? They were almost gentle.
They stopped to the side of the gazebo, and before Peter moved, Fisk spoke, tilting his head as if thinking deeply on his words, “Take no unnecessary offense. We have treated her with only kindness, but her only.” Fisk’s eyes narrowed as he continued, “I have hated you with passion all these years and I want nothing more than to see you suffer. Thus, her only shall you see.”
But what of MJ? Will he say nothing at all?
Was he being considerate of May because of her age? Treated her with only kindness, huh? Well, Peter would just have to check up on her himself to be sure of that.
So he hopped down to the grass, and as soon as he did so, both henchmen at May’s sides pulled identical guns and pointed them both at her head.
Fisk spoke again, “Don’t fool yourself. You cannot stop both bullets. You are at my mercy, Peter.”
Okay, so it was a ploy, a distraction, bait. The anger intensified, burning in his gut, and he shook with it. Threatening May like that was not okay, and Peter would be damned if he didn’t make Fisk pay for such actions. But he couldn’t do a thing while May was in so vulnerable a position.
Fisk obviously wanted something, had been wanting something this whole time, but what?
Shaking with rage, he turned to Fisk, seething, and demanded, “What do you want?”
Peter was prepared to surrender his life for May’s if Fisk desired such a thing, prepared to pretend to commit a crime if that’s what Fisk wanted. He just wanted May safe and out of this. She shouldn’t have been involved at all. This was all his fault and he’d live his whole life making this up to her. She just had to live through this.
“I want you to beg.”
What?
Beg? Beg for what? For May’s life, for mercy, for something utterly humiliating?
Fisk continued, prompted by Peter’s hesitation, “I want to see you on your knees, begging me to spare the hostages’ lives.”
Peter gulped, and his eyes followed Fisk’s as the man gestured to a simple black car parked across the street—MJ! MJ must be over there! At least she was close.
He turned back to Fisk in silence, but broke it, “If I do, you’ll release the hostages?”
Fisk smirked, “I will, but conditioned upon your compliance. You will beg, and you will give up, and you will concede the victory. If I am not satisfied, Victor will be forced to discharge his weapon.” He nodded to the man now standing beside the car.
In other words, if Peter held onto any pride, any dignity at all, MJ will die. Safe to assume that he’d be forced to redo the… begging, and if the second time didn’t suffice, May would most likely die, too.
He swallowed, nodded, closed his eyes in resignation, and dropped to his knees on the soft, dead grass.
Humiliation was Fisk’s goal, and with this stunt, he would likely succeed.
Contemplating his wording made the implications of them all too evident—Fisk meant for their war to be over, for Spider-Man to no longer interfere with his criminal practices. Even if Peter lied, May and MJ were released, if Peter were to interfere again in the future, Fisk knew exactly what his weaknesses were and where to find them.
This was the turning point. This was the end of Spider-Man.
How could he parade around the city as a hero when he was actively turning a blind eye to evident criminal activity? He couldn’t.
This was the end.
He was doing this for May and MJ, and although he couldn’t see or hear MJ, he was reassured by the steady beating of May’s heart, her even breathing, and the lack of muffled protest—God knew that if she were to be screaming or protesting through that gag, he wouldn’t be able to do this
Maybe that’s why Fisk kept MJ across the street in a car.
“Please,” and he cleared his throat, “Please, Fisk, I’m begging you, let them go.”
He paused, not ready to say this next part, but inhaling with the knowledge that he had to, “You win. I give up. The victory is all yours.”
That was it. It was done.
He hung his head in surrender, not watching Fisk’s face change into displeasure, not seeing the smirk playing at the edge of his lips.
“The words were marvelous, but somehow, I don’t believe you. I’m going to release this woman to you, but I’m also going to leave you with a warning.”
Pete opened his eyes and, still on his knees, looked up.
Warning? No, that wasn’t good, what was—
Fisk spoke into the hem of his right sleeve, “Shoot the hostage.”
Peter’s eyes widened, head swiveled towards the car, and he was only able to jump to his feet before the door was opened and the man fired his gun.
Back on his knees while the door was shut, while the henchmen released May, while Fisk and his men left.
May knelt beside him, and he turned to her and cried.