Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2018

“Well, kid, it’s official.” 

Tony pockets his phone and turns back towards Peter. The teenager sits hunched over a worktable, idly spinning a screw between his fingers. He doesn’t look up at Tony’s voice.

“Otto Octavius is currently sitting in a cozy little cell on Ryker’s Island. Spider-Man has put away yet another villain, and public opinion of New York’s web-head has never been better. How ya feelin’?”

Peter pulls his gaze away from the screw to meet Tony’s expectant look. He shrugs half-heartedly. “Not great, honestly,” he admits.

Tony tilts his head. “What’s on your mind?” 

Peter smiles briefly when Tony steps closer to clasp a comforting hand onto his shoulder. "I mean, I'm glad he can't hurt anyone now…” He looks back down. “I guess I just feel kind of bad for him. I mean, he wasn't always a bad guy. He's just sick, right?"

Tony’s response is slow in coming and said with care. "You can't get hung up on that stuff, Pete. Octavius made his decisions. You offered him every opportunity to do the right thing, and he refused each time.”

Peter remains silent, and Tony grasps for the right thing to say. 

“Look, I have the footage from your suit to prove it,” he tries, “It’s pretty obvious that—” Tony is already moving to pull up the recordings as Peter puts out a hand to stop him. 

“No.” The boy chuckles lightly. “No, you’re right.” His smile fades.  “I just wish I coulda gotten through to him.”

Tony places a hand on each of Peter’s shoulders, spinning the boy in his stool to face him. “I know you looked up to the man, kid. I respected his work too. But people have to be held accountable for their own actions.

“Maybe, in the end, he lost sight of himself. But he made all the decisions that led to that moment. And you did what you could for him, but you did the right thing, taking him down. You know that, right?”

Peter nods. “Yeah, I know that.”

“Good,” Tony affirms. Feeling the potential for an awkward silence coming on, he pulls Peter to his feet and gestures towards the door. “Now, you did good, and we are celebrating! I already rented out your favorite ice cream joint—” 

“The whole place?!” 

Tony slings his arm around Peter’s shoulders as they exit the lab.

“—your aunt is on the way there now, along with Ned and your little girlfriend—”

“MJ better not hear you call her that…”

“—and guess what!”

Tony halts suddenly, his hands thrown to the side for dramatic effect. 

“What?” Peter indulges him, raising an eyebrow.

“Your favorite superhero is going to be there!” 

“Well, obviously,” Peter says with an eye roll and a sly grin. He continues walking, leaving Tony behind.

“Why would that be obvious?” Tony asks incredulously, stepping quickly to catch up.

“Well…” Peter draws out the word, “who do you think my favorite hero is?” 

Tony gives a long-suffering sigh. “As much as I want to say it’s Iron Man, I know for a fact that it’s Thor.”

Peter’s face immediately lights up. “Thor’s in town?!” Then he quickly clears his throat and tries to school his expression. “I mean, that— that’s cool.” He shrugs indifferently. “But he’s only my second-favorite hero.”

“Oh?” Tony allows himself a somewhat smug grin. “Then who would your first be?”

“Spider-Man, of course,” Peter replies without missing a beat. He tries not to laugh in the silence that follows.

“...You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

Peter can’t help the laughter that escapes him, and Tony grins to see the kid in better spirits. 

* * *

They arrive by car to the ice cream parlor, street lamps lighting the dark road. Peter is strangely quiet during the ride and Tony tries to fill the silence with mindless chatter. 

They exit the car and Tony is about to enter the parlor when Peter puts a hand on his arm. 

“Hey, Mr. Star—Uh, Tony?”

“What’s up, kid?” 

Peter takes a deep breath, suddenly exuding anxious energy. “Can you promise me something?”

Tony narrows his eyes. “That would depend on what you’re asking.”

“Could you just promise me first?” Peter insists.

Tony puts his hands in his pockets and gives him a hard look. “You know I don’t play games like that. What is it, Peter?”

Peter sighs and wraps his arms around his middle. “Could you promise me... if anything ever happens to me, like—like if I lose control for some reason, or if something else is controlling me and I could hurt people…would you stop me?”

Tony is caught unawares by the question and Peter tentatively continues before he can formulate a response.

“Like, no matter what that means? I just… I don’t wanna hurt anyone. I don’t ever wanna be so far gone that that could happen.” Peter’s face is set and determined as he holds Tony’s eye.

“That’s not gonna happen, kid,” Tony says, shaking his head lightly.

“Well, if it’s not gonna happen,” Peter pushes, “then there’s no harm in you promising!”

Tony stares Peter full in the face. Peter refuses to look away. Tony knows the look the kid is wearing, and he knows they won’t be leaving here until he gives in to what Peter wants. The man takes a breath and pushes his lips together in a thin line, breathing out hard through his nose.

“Sure, kid,” he says, his tone almost dismissive (but Peter knows him enough to know he’s just deflecting). “If you ever get mind-controlled by a wizard, or infected with a brain-eating parasite, or...hijacked by your own invention—I’ll handle it.”

“You’ll stop me,” Peter clarifies, “before I hurt anyone.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. “You promise… You have to say it, Tony.”

Tony huffs and glances away, before looking back. 

“Yeah, kid,” he says stiffly, “I promise.”

.

.

.

He promised.

Next time : 5 years later…

Chapter Text

“Huh, it’s Peter’s birthday today.”

Tony stares absently at the monitor on the wall displaying the date and time, while Pepper fiddles with his suit and tie. The screen reads OCTOBER 14, 2023 7:57 AM. Behind the heavy curtain is a low drone of voices; reporters waiting impatiently for the press conference to start. 

“We should send him a card, don’t you think?” He keeps his voice casual, turning his attention back to Pepper. “I could just do a quick search, find his address, it would be easy. He would appreciate the thou—”

“Tony, you promised him.” Pepper is already shaking her head, dismissing the idea out of hand. She gives his jacket lapels a sharp tug, meeting his eyes directly. “You promised you wouldn’t go looking for him.” 

He gives her a wry grimace, throwing his shoulders and hands up in an exaggerated shrug. “I’m not... looking for him, Pep,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “I just wanna send the kid a card for his 22nd—” 

“Tony,” Pepper admonishes, gently but firmly. He opens his mouth to argue, but double-thinks it and snaps his teeth back together with a grimace. Catching Bruce’s eye from across backstage, he waves the other man over. 

“You ready, Brucey?” 

“As I’ll ever be,” Bruce responds as he draws close. The scientist’s hands wring together in a nervous habit. 

“You’ll be great.” Tony reassures him. 

Bruce scoffs lightly, but it’s accompanied with a smile. “Are you two flying out after this?”

“Immediately,” Pepper interjects, with a sharp look at Tony.

“Yes,” Tony affirms. “Short getaway to the cabin, as promised to Miss Potts.” He plants a quick peck on her lips.  

“And,” Pepper continues, “a full media detox while we’re there.” She turns to face Bruce fully, fixing him with a hard glare. “Which means absolutely no contact whatsoever unless it is an emergency . FRIDAY will put you through if needed, but otherwise, radio silence.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce responds with an amused huff. “We got the briefing. And the memo… and the second memo.”

“Good.” Pepper flashes her most winning smile and departs to speak with the events director, leaving the two men alone.

“I still don’t know why you wanted me on this,” Bruce says, turning to Tony. “You know I hate public speaking.”

“Because people trust doctors, Bruce. And you’re a doctor. More specifically, you’re THE doctor when it comes to freakishly mutated weirdos.”

“In some types of mutation, Tony,” Bruce corrects. “And I’m not sure that phrasing would be considered politically correct these days,” he adds on with a small smile. 

Tony grins at the chastisement and is about to respond with a jab of his own when the press manager ushers him and Bruce onto the stage.

The auditorium bursts into noise, reporters bombarding them with questions before they even reach the podium. Tony clears his throat into the microphone. When that doesn’t silence them, he taps the mic three times, causing an ear-piercing feedback sound. There, that does it. The auditorium quiets down and Tony clears his throat again, launching into his prepared speech.

“As you all know, New York has, of recent, been subject to a concerning increase in the appearance of aggressive and violent enhanced individuals. These individuals, that the media has dubbed 'chimeras', all have genetic modifications involving animal DNA.

“From what we have been able to learn from those apprehended by the Avengers and the NYPD, verified by our very own Dr. Bruce Banner,” Tony slams a hand onto Bruce’s shoulder, “these do not appear to be innate mutations, but rather, the result of someone in a lab tinkering with genetics and making a big mess of it all. 

“The Avengers are working in collaboration with the NYPD and S.H.I.E.L.D to discover where these enhanced individuals are coming from and to keep the streets of New York safe in the meantime. Dr Banner, anything to add?”

Bruce coughs nervously and adjusts his glasses. “Yes. As Ton– Mr. Stark has stated, uh, these individuals are the direct result of experimentation and are not representative of the gifted, or enhanced, community at large. We are working tirelessly to discover the nature of these mutations in order to, um, narrow down possible sources.”

“Great.” Tony flashes his wide, fake smile for the cameras. “Thanks, Dr. Banner. We will be taking questions now.”

The crowd explodes into noise again.

* * *

October 14th, 2023... Wednesday

Peter feels quite pleased with himself as he walks into the office of the Daily Bugle.

Most people, he figures, would not be able to pull off the feat he is currently managing — that is, balancing two trays of coffees (trays meant to contain 4 cups each, but somehow there’s a total of 10 coffees) precariously stacked on top of each other in one hand, and several packages full of donuts, bagels, and egg sandwiches in the other — all without spilling a single drop, crumb, or morsel. And it may be his ego talking, but he thinks it’s pretty darn impressive (as he conveniently decides not to attribute his success to spidey-powers). 

“I’m here!” Peter calls out, and suddenly he’s swarmed by a horde of hungry coworkers. There’s a flurry of activity around him and within a moment he’s left empty-handed, standing alone in front of the elevator without so much as a “Good morning, Peter!” or “Thanks, Peter!” 

“Huh.” He observes his empty hands and wonders if even Dr Strange could make something disappear so quickly. 

His attention is quickly caught by a small television — one amongst many mounted on the wall, each displaying a different news station. Playing on the station are select clips from an early-morning Avengers’ press conference, held just a couple hours before. Seeing Tony and Dr Banner standing at a podium, Peter rushes over and turns up the volume on the normally-muted screen. 

“—in full cooperation with the NYPD under Captain Watanabe,” Tony is saying,
“We are apprehending any dangerous individuals and questioning their origin. The results of such interrogations are not yet available to the public. Next.”

“Is there any merit to the speculation that these chimeras are connected with the poprocks epidemic?” a voice asks. 

Tony looks at Bruce, who fields the question. “Whether or not there is a connection to the designer drug celeramine is still under investigation,” Bruce says. “The NYPD is looking into the matter.”

“Next!” Tony calls out before there can be any follow-up.

“Mr. Stark,” one reporter calls out, “I think something we all want to know is: Where is Spider-Man in all this? You claim he’s alive but he hasn’t been seen for years since—”

“Spider-Man is alive and well,” Tony interrupts, firmly. “And has nothing to do with today’s conference. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: his private life and current status is just that —  private. And not open to public speculation. Thank you all for coming out today. There will be no more questions.”

Peter watches the screen contemplatively as Tony and Dr Banner leave the stage. Scrolling text at the bottom fills in some details regarding the subject of the conference. 

Things in New York certainly had been weird lately — not necessarily more weird than normal, but at least a different brand of weird. It was almost enough to make him want to get involved and help out...

Peter shakes himself out of his thoughts. Just normal Peter Parker, he reminds himself, that’s all you are.

He makes his way to his desk, setting his camera bag on the floor beside his chair and booting up his computer.

When asked what he does for a living, Peter now tells people that he’s a website developer because he’s really good at web design. Nobody ever laughs at the joke though and, while understandable, he’s always a little disappointed because he thinks it’s A+ humor. 

He had had an ongoing relationship with the Daily Bugle during his senior year of high school, selling exclusive Spider-Man photos. When he tentatively reached out a few months ago looking for a job, he was pleasantly surprised when Jameson offered him the position despite his lack of experience. So now he has the official title of part-time content editor slash website developer, as well as still selling photos to the Bugle on the side, though the photography was considered freelance work. 

Peter looks around the office searching for Betty Brant, his former high school classmate and only real work-friend. He doesn’t see her and can only assume Jameson has her running around New York doing all sorts of menial tasks for him. Poor girl, he thinks.

With his computer booted up, Peter gets to work with a laser focus. He has some articles to work through, primarily fact-checking and then formatting them for both paper distribution and to be posted online. While the vast majority of The Daily Bugle is tabloid trash and essentially little more than clickbait, he does find his attention caught by one particular article.

It’s yet another (poorly-written) piece covering the weirdest new drug epidemic to hit the city over the last few years. 

Celeramine. Or more commonly known by its street name: poprocks.

A silly name, sure, but also unavoidable. Apparently, the substance looks identical to the candy, right down to the crackling when eaten. Peter had even read that the current city-wide ban on the sale of official Pop Rocks altogether, was triggered after the drug was found in knockoff candy packaging in public schools. 

The article doesn’t say much that he hasn’t already heard or read, but he skims it anyway:

...a synthetic cathinone in the same family as bath salts...deaths surrounded the drug’s early distribution…extreme mood swings...a high level of aggression in certain individuals...thus far been found only in New York. No other parts of the country have reported...

Peter’s mind wanders as he works. The use of poprocks had only become a more mainstream problem in the time after he hung up the suit, so he’s sorely lacking in first-hand knowledge about it. Barely any details had been released to the public by the investigating authorities, so aside from standard warnings and precautions, the majority of “information” was purely speculative. 

Yet his natural curiosity and ingrained desire to stop crime certainly drew Peter to the situation. More than once, he had seriously considered calling up Dr Banner and asking the man to share whatever information he might have (perhaps under a partially-true excuse of a research project for his biochemistry major). But then Peter would remind himself that it wasn’t his responsibility. Even if he knew more, what could he do about it? After all, he wasn’t Spider-Man. Not anymore.

Peter tries to put the thoughts out of his head as he moves on from the article. The following few hours pass fairly quickly and innocuously until...

“PARKER!” The booming voice pulls Peter from his project. Trying not to wince, he speedwalks through the workplace towards the office of one J Jonah Jameson. 

“Hey boss,” Peter grins, sticking his head through the doorway. His cheerful demeanor and easy-going charm were usually enough to win most people over but had yet to put a dent in the brash exterior of the Daily Bugle’s mustachioed editor-in-chief. That certainly doesn’t stop him from trying though.

“I want that story, Betty! I want it now, and I want it before the Globe!” Jameson slams down the handset of his desk phone and immediately points a large finger accusingly at Peter, leaning forward aggressively on his desk. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he growls. 

“Umm.” Peter looks around, as though there might be someone else Jameson is speaking to. Seeing no one, he takes a cautious step through the doorway, “You called me? Also, I do work here...”

The glare Jameson gives him is no less than disgusted.

“Yes, Parker,” Jameson says, voice dangerously low and controlled, “you do. You work here. You work here for me. You work here for me as a photographer . And right now, the Avengers are running around Midtown chasing after a swarm of bees and a squid shaped like a man, and somehow my only man on the ground is my secretary, so tell me: why THE HELL ARE YOU HERE AND NOT THERE!?” Jameson roars, standing, and Peter does flinch this time. 

“Don’t worry, boss—I’m on it!” Peter assures, backpedaling quickly out of the office. He offers a cheeky grin before adding, “After all, I got you Spidey, right? I can for sure get you some Avengers.”

But apparently, that wasn’t the right thing to say. Jameson’s voice drops down from a straight-out roar but is no less intimidating. 

“When are you gonna stop living in the past, Parker?” Jameson growls as Peter gulps. “All that matters is what you do now, so GET GOING!”

“Going!” Peter nearly yelps, stumbling over his own feet as he exits the office. Behind him, Jameson is barking a barrage of orders and abuse to the rest of the staff.

“Does ANYONE know where Dan is?... You call yourselves reporters?... Someone prep the audio! We’re live in five!”

While J Jonah Jameson is definitely one of the least likable people Peter has ever had the displeasure of knowing (including the villains he’s faced as Spider-Man), Peter can’t help but feel like the man threw him a bone with this job and for that, he will always be grateful. He only hopes that Jameson’s good graces aren’t running out and that he doesn’t screw this up.

Worrying his lip, he heads to the elevator after quickly grabbing his camera bag. A familiar sense of nausea settles in his throat, as it always does when something Avengers-related is going down in the city. And here he is, running right to them. 

The doors ding shut and cloying elevator music provides a stark contrast to the chaos currently happening inside the Bugle office. Peter releases a slow breath, puffing his cheeks out. As he waits for the elevator to make its slow descent — shoulda taken the stairs — he takes the opportunity to dial up Betty to get a more specific location on the action than just “Midtown”. 

“Peter, are you close?” The call picks up after two rings, Betty sounding a bit breathless. 

“No, but I’m on my way. Where are you?”

“Right by Rockefeller, but they’re already gone — headed towards the river last I saw. I’m getting interviews now. This is exactly what I need to get Jonah to take me seriously!" She sounds ecstatic. “After this, he’ll have to let me move up to reporting!”

Peter has the brief thought that it’s a strange world they’ve grown up in. For the previous generations, super-powered beings flying around the city fighting evil on the reg would have been mind-blowing. For Gen Z, it’s just an opportunity for job advancement. 

“He called you his secretary again,” Peter informs her with a smug grin, and is rewarded with the slew of decidedly un-Betty-like cursing. 

“For god’s sake, I’m an administrative assistant! When will that man— Oh, I gotta go…Excuse me! Hey—” The call cuts off and Peter can imagine Betty flagging down innocent bystanders and harassing them for information. He knows she’s wanted to be a reporter ever since high school, where she was head of their school’s (admittedly terrible) news club. 

Quickly exiting the building, Peter crosses the street and steps into an alleyway. He takes out the baseball cap that was jammed into his coat pocket and shoves it on his head, then pulls up his jacket’s hood. Last, he takes off his glasses. 

He doesn’t need them, obviously. They’re large, square things with a thick, black frame all around. He’d found them, going through the apartment after — well, after. They were an old reading pair of Ben’s. May had held on to them, it seemed...and so he did too. 

He’s not sure why he started wearing them. He just put them on one day. And then the next. And then the day after that. So he had popped out the lens and replaced them with plain, non-magnifying glass. And now, Peter Parker wore glasses again. 

He puts them into their protective case, which he tucks into a secure pocket. And then he starts running. 

No one gives much more than a possible second glance at a lone man freerunning through the city, especially with the rise of enhanced beings over the last several years. He may no longer be Spider-Man, but Peter prides himself on his ability to get from Point A to Point B in as short a time — and as creatively — as possible (within reason, of course, wouldn’t want to draw unwanted attention). 

After all, he doesn’t get tired easily and he can run fast. Which is why Jameson always rages at him to be the photographer when time-sensitive events are going on. The man never asks questions about how Peter gets around so fast, or how he gets some of the action shots he manages to. He cares solely about results; the hows and whys are someone else’s problems. 

Before long, Peter’s sprinting down Park Ave and hearing the shrieks of a panicked crowd. Just as he comes around a corner, the Falcon speeds past overhead, chasing what appears, as Jameson had said, to be a very large swarm of bees that were maintaining a vaguely humanoid shape.

Woah, Sam upgraded his suit, Peter thinks in awe. Wish I could take a closer look.  

They’re gone out of view before Peter can free his camera from its carry bag, but his attention is very quickly drawn elsewhere. 

“Oh.”

A roar fills the air and a very familiar big, green rage monster is suddenly charging into the street, hot on the heels of, sure enough, a man-shaped squid beast. 

Despite being far more in control of himself these days than in the past, Hulk is still typically sidelined to hero activities outside of the city . While he may be aware enough to avoid rage-killing innocent bystanders, his primary directive is, still, SMASH. And Damage Control had been adamant that Code Greens were to be kept away from populated areas as much as reasonably possible.

The Squid — as Peter creatively dubs it — has an eerily un-human face, as well as four long tentacles extending from its back that remind Peter of Doc Ock. As he watches, the Squid wraps one of its green tentacles around a car (thankfully already vacated) and hurls it at Hulk, who smacks it out of the air like a spitball...and right into the side of a building. 

Peter winces.

Aerial battles that whiz past are one thing...the Hulk in the middle of Manhattan? That’s an entirely different thing altogether and is more than enough to make even the most hardened New Yorkers take notice.

As it is, cars are left abandoned in the street as drivers flee from their vehicles and a panicked rush of pedestrians hurtle past Peter as the fight between Hulk and the Squid carries on.

Peter fights against the flow of people, dodging and weaving his way towards the action. His camera now hangs loosely against his chest, original intent forgotten. He’s not worried about catching a few action shots right now; he’s more worried about making sure his friend doesn’t decide to go on a smashing spree. 

The two monsters are currently engaging in what Peter mentally likens to an intense snowball fight; except instead of snowballs, they’re throwing full-sized vehicles. Hulk is knocking away or taking the impact of any cars flung towards him with ease, and the Squid keeps two of his four long tentacles free to grab at or block any incoming projectiles. 

Clearly getting ticked off at the lack of progress being made in the fight, Hulk changes tactics, jumping into the air and bringing two fists down directly at the Squid. The Squid slaps all four tentacles against the ground to propel himself away from the attack, resulting in the Hulk creating an asphalt crater in the middle of Park Ave. 

Peter groans at the destruction, ducking low behind cars lining the street as he draws close to them. This needs to end quickly , he thinks. The Avengers already have enough bad press in general for, well, excessive damage to both government and private property. And despite Hulk’s great strides in recent years, public opinion of him is still questionable. Peter doesn’t want the big guy to be completely vilified again — he doesn’t deserve that. 

Peter crouches and throws his back against a car, the battle raging close by behind him. He may not be Spider-Man anymore, but he still likes to be prepared...just in case. Around his right wrist, he wears what appears to be a thick, leather bracelet. In truth, it’s a disguised web shooter. 

It’s not as functional as he would like due to limitations in keeping the design inconspicuous, but it’s handy in an emergency. The device only holds a very limited amount of webbing, so he needs to be careful about when he puts it into action. As he twists a feature on the underside of the bracelet, a button extends out and settles against his palm. A low series of clicks confirm that it is now in active mode. 

When was the last time I refilled this? he wonders briefly. 

Dropping his camera bag onto the ground and sliding his back up the car, Peter tilts his head to peer through the windows. The Squid is getting pretty close to his location, as the Hulk closes in on the so-called “chimera”. Peter flinches instinctively as the Squid grabs a car right next to the one he’s hidden behind.

As a prickling along his scalp puts him on edge, Peter forces himself to take in a slow breath. Focus, Parker. He wipes his palms against his jeans and suddenly realizes that it’s the adrenaline rush that’s affecting him physically. The feeling that he had once been intimately familiar with, that sharpened his focus and refined his abilities, was now reducing him to a sweaty, shaky mess. 

You were doing this when you were fourteen, he silently berates himself. Get it together!  

And then he senses it: his moment has come up. 

Hulk gathers for another jump into the air. The Squid whips its tentacles down against the ground to push out of the way. Peter takes his shot. 

From his crouched position, he flips toward the car in front of his hiding spot. In the middle of the flip, aiming through the gap between the vehicles, he shoots a web right at the Squid’s tentacle, effectively sealing it to the asphalt, and then lands neatly beside the other car, remaining hidden and unnoticed the whole time. 

The Squid is already throwing itself out of the way when its motion is suddenly halted, its entire body yanked unexpectedly by the trapped tentacle. Hulk wastes no time grabbing the Squid out of the air. 

With a violence that is somehow startling to Peter but not surprising, Hulk rips off one of the chimera’s tentacles — blood splatters everywhere, there’s so much of it, how can there be so much — followed by an action similar to how he had treated Thor’s crazy brother all those years ago. That is, smacking it repeatedly against the ground like a rag doll.

Jeez, Peter thinks sympathetically, trying to avoid looking at the blue blood staining the ground. I hope that was a really bad guy.

Then, as Hulk swings the monster in a downward arc again, Peter’s spider-sense flares up. His eyes are immediately drawn to a certain tentacle. In the brief second of time before it slams against the pavement, he sees something glint in one of the many suction cups dotting the appendage. Before he can process any of this, whatever was in the Squid’s sucker explodes as it makes contact with the ground. 

It’s not dramatic, but it is unexpected. There’s a pop, and abruptly a red mist is billowing in the air around Hulk and the other monster. Hulk snarls and tosses the unconscious Squid to the side, a large hand coming up to try to wave away the red cloud. He takes a few steps outside of it as he coughs. The haze dissipates a few seconds after. 

What was that? Peter wonders. He stays hidden, hoping that now the fight is over, Hulk will come down from his rage and turn the reins back over to Dr Banner. But when Hulk smashes another car for no possible reason other than fun, Peter knows it’s time to step in.

He lets out a long sigh. He really doesn’t want to get involved like this. But hey, maybe Hulk will be a bro and this encounter will stay between them. He can only hope. Peter is about to step out from behind the car when voices cut through the air from down the road.

“Hulk! Hey Hulk, over here!” A group of pedestrians —  college students, maybe — have their cell phones out, trying to get Hulk to look at them. “Hulk, say smash!” They giggle and laugh.

Hulk whirls around aggressively at their sudden intrusion. His lip lifts in a snarl and a deep growl rises out of his throat. A wave of spider-sense washes over Peter so intensely he feels nauseous, and he knows immediately that he needs to keep Hulk away from those people. 

The green man suddenly lets out a bone-chilling roar and the civilians’ goading turns into screams of terror as they scramble to run away. Without thinking, Peter takes action. 

“Hey, man!” Peter shouts, revealing himself, holding his hands up placatingly. 

The distraction works. Hulk snarls, whirling around again at the sudden voice. 

“Hey, hey,” Peter says gently, “It’s me.” He lifts up the brim of his ball cap a bit, hood still over his head. He’s a little worried that Hulk might not recognize him, but he also doesn’t want his face to be widely visible. Aside from the now-fleeing people, the area appears empty, but this is New York after all; no telling who could be watching. 

Peter’s less than twenty feet away from the giant, and begins to take a few very slow steps toward him. “I know it’s been a while,” he continues, his voice low and soothing. “Can we just talk?”

He doesn’t expect Hulk to beeline for him but before he can recalibrate, he’s grabbed up in one huge fist. Peter’s heart jumps to his throat as he feels his camera crush, broken, against his chest under Hulk’s uncomfortably tight grip. Crap. He saved a long time to afford that camera! Like a third of his income comes from the freelancing— 

Hulk growls and pulls the young man close to his face, inspecting him closely. His upper lip is twisted into a snarl still and despite himself, Peter feels a little nervous. He and Hulk were buddies, before, and he doesn’t really think Hulk would hurt him. But something about Hulk’s current demeanor feels off to Peter.

“Hey...hey man,” Peter holds up a hand in a wave, his arms thankfully left free when Hulk scooped him up. “Um, you wanna loosen up a little there?” He pats Hulk’s hand carefully. “Little hard to breathe.”

Hulk doesn’t move, but Peter feels his grip loosen...a little. 

Peter draws in a deep breath in relief, and almost unthinkingly pulls his camera out from between himself and Hulk’s hand. He exhales slowly, staring into the green eyes glaring at him, and drops his arms onto Hulk’s wrist as he slumps. 

“Hi,” he says softly, with a weak smile.

“You left,” Hulk growls, speaking without preamble.

Peter grimaces and looks away.

“Yeah...yeah, I did.”

Hulk lets out another angry grunt, his warm, slightly rancid breath making Peter’s eyes water. Hulk pulls him closer to his face. Peter notices then that his pupils are dilated, the green in his eyes a bare sliver around the black. Well, that’s…concerning.

“You didn’t...say bye to Hulk.”

Peter feels the old guilt resurface immediately. It was true. When he left, three years ago, he had made sure to have a farewell with everyone. But even in saying goodbye to Dr Banner, he had neglected to make time for Hulk. The thought only struck him once he was already gone. 

“I know...I’m— I’m really sorry, big guy.” Peter puts a hand on Hulk’s head, fingers gently patting his hair. “That was...that’s on me. I’m sorry.”

Hulk’s mouth twists in a grimace, and Peter can hear a low, growling rumble deep in Hulk’s chest that makes him tense up. As much as he trusts Hulk, he’s always been very much aware of how easily the green man could crush him like a, well, bug ( or arachnid...semantics) . 

“You didn’t say bye to Hulk,” Hulk repeats — a little louder, a little angrier. He doesn’t seem placated in any way. 

Peter can feel the wave of goosebumps across his body as his spider-sense starts screaming again. 

“Yeah, bud…How about you just put me down, and we can talk about that?”

“You’re a bad friend!” Hulk roars, his voice rising. His fist tightens around Peter’s body again as he does so, squeezing the breath from Peter’s lungs. 

This is bad. This is really bad . The thought plays on repeat in Peter’s mind.

“Hulk.” Peter tries to make himself sound authoritative, made difficult by the lack of air. “Put. Me. Down.”

“Fine,” Hulk grunts. “Hulk put bug boy down.” 

Peter doesn’t need his spider-sense to know exactly what Hulk is going to do a moment before he does it. 

He hurls Peter. 

The world spins nauseatingly, and Peter instinctively curls his body around his camera before he’s slamming into a building, crashing through the windows and thick walls and rolling onto a tile floor. 

He coughs, and knows he’s going to be feeling that one for a few days.

Ow.

Peter pulls himself up from the wreckage with a groan. His hood has fallen back and his hat is lying on the floor beside him. He quickly jams the hat back on his head, taking a moment to spit blood from his bit tongue onto the ground, then pulls up his hood. Sparing a fraction of webbing to stick his hat and hood together, he jumps over the rubble to the sidewalk outside, where Hulk is roaring arbitrarily and smashing a car. 

Peter randomly grabs a scarf from an abandoned street vendor stand to tie around his face, only realizing once it’s in his hand that it’s Spidey-themed: red and blue with black web lines. He fights the urge to roll his eyes. It would have to do. 

After considering his shoes for a moment, he kicks them off then runs over to where he left his camera bag, dropping his busted camera on top of it. Hulk is now lifting a car over his head, clearly about to throw it, and Peter wastes no more time before flipping directly into the street. 

“Be cool, man!” Peter yells, wishing he had more than one web shooter. “I’m pretty sure ‘Act of Green Rage-Monster’ isn’t covered by insurance!”

He shoots out a web onto the car and yanks. It catches Hulk off-balance and he stumbles, but only for a moment, before he re-secures his grip on the car and yanks back. 

“At least, I don’t think so!” Peter is hauled forward briefly before sticking his socked feet to the ground. Hulk growls and takes a few steps back, trying to regain control of the car he so desperately wants to throw. Peter strains against the web until the asphalt starts breaking under his feet. “I’ve never owned a ca–ARRR!”

Peter is reminded of the time he played tug-of-war with Hulk. It was a short-lived game and ended in much the same way. 

Hulk throws the car, and Peter is yanked through the air after it. He never really stood a chance. 

Cutting the web strand, Peter shoots another to propel himself further in the air and into a position he feels more in control of. As he flips — his body naturally falling into familiar aerial motions he hasn’t used in years — he sends out a split web, attaching the car to buildings on either side of the avenue and catching it before it falls onto the abandoned vehicles lying in its path.

He twists smoothly and his feet find purchase on the hanging car’s roof as he falls into a classic Spider-Man crouch. Well, this day has certainly taken a turn.

Down the street, Hulk roars again and, this time, it’s very much directed towards Peter.

“Ah, crap,” Peter states.

And then the green man is charging.

Peter flips off the car, back to the street below, and takes off in the opposite direction.

I should’ve just called out of work.

Next Time: The Hulk has a bit of a temper tantrum.

Chapter Text

3 years prior... May 2020

“... —eter— .... —id, are y— isteni—…”

He didn’t mean to. 

“Pet—…—eyes on me, b—…”

It was an accident...

“We need to move him away from here.”

...right?

“Give him some space!”

He always pulled his punches.

“Pete, look at me, bud. Just breathe. I need you to look at me, okay?”

Always. 

“Peter.”

So, why—?

“Spider-Man!”

With startling clarity, Peter suddenly became aware of his lungs dragging in air in harsh, ragged intervals. Someone was gripping his shoulders, speaking to him. Though his eyes couldn’t seem to focus, he shifted his sight upward to the person in front of him.

It was Tony. It was Mr Stark. 

Mr Stark’s face did something that Peter didn’t have the energy to decipher, but seemed a strained sort of relief. 

“You with me, kid?”

Peter didn’t answer. He suddenly became aware of someone whimpering and thought maybe it was himself. Mr Stark was still talking, words vaguely registering in the back of Peter’s mind but not processing. It sounded like he was trying to get him to breathe better, or walk him through something, but Peter couldn’t focus. 

He was too busy trying not to look. 

“Tony, people are going to start showing up any minute.” 

Steve. That was Steve.

“We should get him back to the compound. Nat’s already handling S.H.I.E.L.D. but if we’re going to mitigate this—” 

“Rogers, I swear to god, if you do not shut up…”

Peter stopped listening again. He had to see.

He turned his head to look towards the street, where the man, the, the, the Scorpion lay, his face...

A metal-encased hand quickly reached up to cup the side of Peter’s head — his face, oh god, his face — gently turning his view away from the scene. 

“Don’t look, Pete. It’s okay. It’s not your fault. You don’t need to look.”

Peter suddenly became aware of his mask. At some point it had been pushed up over his nose, still covering his head and eyes. He needed it off. Now. He couldn’t breathe. He could smell the blood on his suit. He was suffocating.

“Woah, easy, buddy.” Tony stopped him from grabbing at the mask. Peter tried to explain, tried to tell him that it was unbearable, but the gasped words that fell out tripped and spilled over each other, unable to form a sentence. Stammering, stuttering, stupid Parker. 

“I know. I know, Pete. But you can’t take it off here. Steve’s right, we gotta get you outta here. Come on.”

As Mr Stark led him away, practically dragging him, Peter couldn’t help but take one more glance. 

He thinks that’s when he passed out. But he can’t remember.

...

In the days that followed, the media covered little else but the villain brutalized by Spider-Man in the middle of Queens. It was a fight that had Spider-Man on the rocks, and ended with the Scorpion’s face nearly concave into his skull.

( Peter remembered swinging — most waking hours in the following weeks and in his dreams for the following months — even if he could never quite recall his fist making contact.) 

Public opinion split. Debates about the role of metahumans in the execution of justice reared their head again, following the relative silence since the passing of the New Accords. But like with all things, the public eventually grew bored and the news moved on. They forgave, or they forgot. 

Peter didn’t.

His name was Mac Gargan. 

He was the first person Spider-Man killed.

That was the start.

* * *

Present... October 14th, 2023 

Something is wrong.

Peter has never seen Hulk act like this against anyone but bad guys. He knows Hulk was considerably less…restrained back before Peter knew him, but the big man had learned a good deal of impulse control since then. Peter is willing to bet that his current state has something to do with that red mist.

I gotta get him away from here.

He knows this is a fight he can’t win. Maybe — if he wasn’t so out of practice and had an unlimited amount of webbing — Peter would be able to subdue Hulk in some capacity, but the small amount of web fluid he currently has is depleting quickly. The bracelet was only meant to be used as an emergency backup; not for an actual fight, and certainly not for any web-slinging through the city. 

The best plan he has right now? Diversion. 

And so as he runs, Peter thinks. The closest open area available from here would be the East River. He’d seen Sam flying that way, but he and the bee-thing could be anywhere by now. While a little backup would be nice, Peter knows he can’t count on it. 

The only thing he can think to do would be to keep Hulk’s attention on him and get them out of the closed-off city streets. Maybe if he could get Hulk to fall into the river, the cold water would be enough of a shock to shake him out of... whatever this is. 

So Peter hangs a right as soon as he sees an adjacent street that had been blocked off to traffic, hoping to find a less occupied path. Pedestrians still dot the street, however, and Peter yells at them, “Run! Get out of here!”

Hulk comes barreling around the corner a second later, briefly stopping to holler after Peter. “Bug-Boy stop running like coward and face Hulk like man!”

Surprisingly articulate for being so enraged, Peter thinks. Hulk has come a long way from his “Hulk smash” days. 

“Hey, Big Green!” Peter stops and whirls around, cupping his hands around his scarf-covered mouth. He doesn’t want to give Hulk the chance to catch up with him, but he needs to keep attention away from the now-fleeing civilians. 

“Has ole Brucey been eating too many cinnamon rolls lately? Cause you seem sorta slow. Lost your touch?”

“HULK NOT SLOW!” he roars back, then launches himself into the air. 

Peter raced Hulk once. He found that he had seriously underestimated the lumbering beast’s speed. And he fears he may have miscalculated again now, wasting no time falling back into a dead sprint.

With the back of his neck tingling, Peter flips out of the way and grabs onto a street post just as a full bus stop comes hurtling past him. 

“No, no, no, no, no—” he stammers out, as the structure hits the ground and begins rolling at high speed towards a group of fleeing pedestrians. Sending out a web, he quickly pulls himself over the spinning metal, front-flipping onto the ground in front of it and grabbing it to a jarring stop. 

And then Hulk is there, fists raised to pummel Peter into the ground.

He lets out a startled yell and shoots another web to pull himself quickly away...only for the web to end halfway to its destination and fall to the ground, useless. 

The shooter was empty. 

“Oh sh—” Peter can’t even finish his thought. He throws his arms up to protect his body from the hurtling fist coming toward him...

Something solid slams into Peter — not from above but from the side — and he’s carried out of the way. 

“Sam!” Peter shouts, elated to not be crushed. 

“Thought that was you, kid,” the Falcon replies, depositing Peter down a distance from Hulk. “You alright?” 

“Yeah, but we have a big problem.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Sam asks, glancing over at their raging friend. 

“I think he was drugged with something,” Peter begins to explain just as Hulk takes a flying leap at them. They both charge out of the way, Peter’s fingertips latching onto the side of an apartment block, his back to the building. Sam sends out two mechanical bolas-type weapons from his wrist gauntlets. They target Hulk and wire roping wraps his arms against his body, sending him crashing to the ground. It won’t hold long. 

“Did you have a plan?” Sam shouts from the air.

“I was gonna try to get him to the river and improvise from there!”

Hulk bellows in frustration below.

“Have you tried talking to him?” Sam asks, dropping close to Peter. 

“I don’t really think he’s in a talking mood!” 

Hulk rolls around on the asphalt, the sound of snapping wires cracking through the air. He’s almost free.

“Okay, fine, I have an idea...A better idea,” Sam clarifies.

“I was improvising!” Peter protests. 

Sam ignores him. “Think you can keep him distracted on this block for a bit?”

“Not ahead to the river?” 

“No, this street is already nearly cleared. You’d have three blocks of traffic before you even hit FDR.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Leave it to me, Spidey.” Sam whirls away with a whoosh of his carbon-fiber wings. “I’m counting on you!” 

“But I’m out of webs!” Peter hollers at him, but Sam is already zooming away. 

With a great grunt, Hulk tears through the last of the galvanized steel cable holding him. He immediately locks onto Peter and vaults from the ground toward him. Peter scrambles up out of the way as Hulk’s fists grip onto brick and mortar, which crumbles under his hands, and drags his way up the side of the building after him. 

It’s terrifying. And also extremely destructive. 

“C’mon, man!” Peter pleads, turning so his chest is facing the building. He looks down over his shoulder at Hulk. “People live here. And you know how Damage Control gets!”

“STOP. MOVING.” Hulk punctuates each word with a clenched fist slamming against the wall, as Peter ducks and weaves away from the punches, windows shattering under the shock. 

“Then stop...” Peter releases his hold on the high-rise. “Trying...” He lets himself fall for just a moment, sliding down between Hulk and the building. “To...” He latches back onto the wall and aims a super-powered punch at Hulk’s abdomen. “...kill me!”

The swing catches Hulk by surprise. His grip on the building loosens and Peter takes the advantage. Pressing his back flat against the luckily still-intact wall, Peter kicks both legs out with all his strength, directly into Hulk’s chest. 

The Hulk goes flying. The fractured concrete and brick Peter was stuck to collapse at the same moment, and he plummets down to the street as well. 

Peter hits the sidewalk with an impact that knocks all the air out of his lungs. As he lies gasping on the ground, trying to regain his breath, he looks up. Hulk is flat on his back in the middle of the street, roaring and growling as he pounds at the ground with his hands and feet in what can only be described as a tantrum. 

Peter pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, taking a few more deep breaths before rising to his feet. He lets Hulk scream it out, grateful for the breather, however long it lasts. Which isn’t long. 

With a final long grunt of fury, Hulk throws himself up into a sitting position, his body sunken several inches into the destroyed asphalt of the street. He looks at Peter with a seething expression but makes no immediate moves to continue the attack.

“You calmin’ down there, bud?” Peter asks, his hands hanging limply by his sides.

“Hulk calm,” Hulk spits out irritably, childishly, but the fire seems to be gone from him. “Bug Boy calm?”

“Yeah, I’m calm, big guy.” Peter humors him with a small smile. 

Hulk gets to his feet and Peter tenses but doesn’t move away, wanting to keep the thusly-established calm. 

“Hulk angry,” Hulk growls, clenching his fists. He takes a few steps towards Peter. 

“Okay,” Peter says tentatively. “That’s alright, man. It’s good to talk about your feelings...But,” Peter drags out the word, “I think it might be time to let ole Bruce take control on this one, yeah?”

He sees Hulk nod slowly, the green man’s eyes already starting to droop, a clear sign he was ready to shift back to his human counterpart.

“Hey...Hulk?” Peter adds after a moment. Hulk grunts in acknowledgement, his head lolling, shoulders slumping. “Um, so, I dunno how much you and Dr. B talk these days; I know you have that on-again-off-again thing going, but uh, would you mind not mentioning this to him? If he doesn’t remember, anyways? Like, that you saw me specifically?”

The look in Hulk’s eye sharpens. “You hide.”

Peter’s mouth gapes for a few moments, trying to work out whether Hulk is stating a fact, asking a question, or being surprisingly deep. Before he can come up with a response, a tingle washes over him and he immediately looks up. 

What the— What is that?

Without warning, he’s grabbed under the armpits and hauled away, the sound of the Falcon’s jetpack in his ears. 

“Sam!” he exclaims. “What are you doing?” He struggles in Sam’s arms, who tightens his grip and then unceremoniously dumps Peter on the ground a moment later. 

Peter whirls around back towards Hulk, only to be greeted with the sound of several metallic thuds in quick progression. Before he can comprehend what’s happening, a shiny, metal octagonal enclosure has fallen from the sky and encased Hulk completely. Peter can just barely hear the angry shrieks from inside, followed by dull thuds that don’t even shake the structure. 

“Is that VERONICA?” he asks incredulously. He knew of the Hulk-containment-unit designed by Tony and Bruce but had never seen it in action. But more so, he had it handled. 

He tells Sam as much. “I had it handled!” He spins back around to face the other man, who’s expression is a little too dubious for Peter’s liking. “I did! He had calmed down already. He was about to change back. Now he’s gonna think I tricked him!”

“Okay, relax, Pe— Spider-Man.” Sam holds up one placating hand.

“I’m not Spider-Man,” he responds quickly, emphatically, between gritted teeth. 

Sam sighs and stares at Peter for a long moment. Long enough to make him feel uncomfortable. 

“Look, I’m sorry. This was the best thing I could think to do. Banner will explain it to Hulk, he’ll understand. Why don’t you come back to the Mansion with me and—”

“Sorry,” Peter interrupts. “I’m just gonna head home.”

“Spi— You’re hurt. We’ll just get you checked out.”

“I’ll heal.” Peter starts backing away with a shrug. “Just bruises, anyways.” 

“Man, come on.”

Police with blinking lights, but no sirens, are pulling onto the block now, having determined the situation handled. Sam’s attention is torn between them and Peter. 

“You should probably deal with that,” Peter suggests. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry!” 

“Kid…”

Peter turns away, then pauses. “Hey, Sam? Could you maybe not mention this to Tony? You know, that I was here?”

“What do you expect me to tell him?” the man asks incredulously.

“I dunno.” Peter shrugs, his voice pitching higher. “You’ll figure it out. Anyways, thanks, man! I appreciate it!”

“Kid!” Sam calls after him, but Peter is already walking away. He knows Sam has a responsibility to speak with the authorities, under the New Accords, and can’t leave the scene. He won’t follow.

And so, Peter Parker disappears once again.

* * *

There had been exactly three other times that Peter had run into his old teammates since returning to New York.

First was Natasha. It wasn’t too long after he had moved back. He was standing in line at The Coffee Bean. She was sitting at a table in the corner, back to the wall, facing the doors—no one else aware that the Black Window was sitting just a few feet away, casually sipping coffee and scrolling through her phone. 

He knew she noticed him. And he knew that she knew that he noticed her. But she took his cue of adamantly ignoring her existence in stride and didn’t try to make contact or even catch his attention. Because Nat was a bro like that, and he appreciated her so much. 

Next came Thor. 

The God of Thunder, along with that Quill guy and his Guardians, had tracked an intergalactically-wanted alien criminal to Earth of all places, and (surprise, surprise) found it hiding right in the heart of New York. Peter had just stepped out of The Daily Grind, a steaming hot cup of coffee in hand, when Mjolnir went whizzing past his nose, and the cement to his left cracked upon Thor’s sudden landing. Their eyes locked. 

“Peter!” Thor exclaimed in surprise, mighty hammer still held aloft. 

“Hi,” Peter said weakly, drawing out the word, and giving a lame wave of his free hand. 

Thor cleared his throat, lowering Mjolnir, and gave Peter an assessing glance. “It’s good to see you,” the god says, a little awkwardly, confusion written all over his face. “Are you...well?”

Peter shrugged and gave a tight smile. “Yeah, I’m— I’m well, thanks…” At that moment, Starlord and the raccoon, Rocket, zoomed past on jetpacks, and Peter jerked his thumb after them. “Um, you should probably...get back to that. Yeah?” he suggested. 

Thor snapped back to attention, as the sound of fighting from a few blocks away became evident. “Yes. Right.” He moved as if to leave, then stopped, leveling Peter with an even glare. “I would like to speak with you. How can I contact you once I settle things here?”

“Oh...umm,” Peter stalled, “Well, you know—”

The sound of a minor explosion came to Peter’s rescue, inciting Thor to action. 

“Just, stay right here!” Thor demanded in a rush, pointing an authoritative finger at Peter’s chest, “This should be over soon.” And then he was spinning his hammer and shooting away through the air.  

Peter did not stay right there. And he heard that Thor had headed back to New Asgard a few days later. 

And the last encounter was with Captain America himself. 

Peter had just left Kate’s Coffee Shop, his favorite new hole-in-the-wall cafe, and was looking forward to an invigorating cup o’ joe to brighten his morning. The sidewalks were jammed packed as people made their way to work, and in a lapse of self-awareness, Peter found himself bumping right into someone and spilling his coffee all over their shirt.

“I am so sorry! I’m—” he exclaimed, only to look up into the shocked face of Steve Rogers. Steve was in his usual don’t-look-at-me-I’m-just-a-regular-guy getup, complete with hat and sunglasses, but Peter recognized him right away; and the expression on Steve’s face made it immediately obvious that he very much recognized Peter. 

“Peter!” 

“Oh. Steve. Hi!” Peter stammered out before he could even think to feign ignorance and pretend to be someone else who just happened to look so very much like Peter Parker.

“Peter, what are you— I thought—”

If there was one thing Peter Parker was good at, it was using his environment to his advantage. And they were two stopped people in the middle of a New York sidewalk during morning rush hour and so, Peter simply let himself get pulled away by the motion of the crowd.

“Look, I’m really late, you know?!” He called over his shoulder, as he moved hastily away. “I’m sorry about your shirt! I’m sure Tony will pay for the dry-cleaning if you ask!” Peter quickly whipped around to face away from Steve, cursing his inability to just shut up. Why had he brought up TONY of all people?!

“Peter, wait! Now, just hold up a second, son—” Steve attempted to follow him through the crowd, but Peter was no stranger to disappearing quickly, and he slipped away easily. 

Peter took the moral of the story as this: He really needed to stop drinking coffee. 

* * *

As it was, Peter was able to keep a level-head when his adrenaline got going. It was a skill he acquired over his many years of Spider-Manning. When everything was going to hell in a handbasket, panicking helped no one. Especially when you were the person who was supposed to be helping. 

And that had remained true during his run-in with the Hulk. In the midst of the situation, he had (for the most part) been able to stay calm, cool, and collected...until he got about three blocks away. And now that the rush was over, well...he was freaking out. 

He knows he needs to start heading back to the Daily Bugle’s office, but he can’t focus and instead, just lets his feet carry him. Despite what he told Hulk a short while ago, he needs to calm down. 

With the others, he was pretty sure they would keep their mouths shut. As guilty as he feels about it, he thinks he made it pretty clear he didn’t want to reconnect (just yet). And knowing each of them — Nat, Thor, Steve, even Sam — he was pretty sure they would respect that and not say anything to the team (and by team, he means, Tony, specifically) or start prying into his business.

And it’s not so much that he thinks Dr. Banner would rat him out, but more so the fact that the man is terrible at keeping secrets from his friends. And Peter knows Tony would pick up on it, and grill the man, and that Bruce would undoubtedly spill the beans when pressed. 

Peter can only hope Hulk would be able to keep their encounter on the DL...because he knows the moment Tony finds out he’s back in New York, the man will be showing up on his doorstep (most likely in full Iron Man gear), and he just isn’t ready for that. 

Peter is pulled out of his brooding by his phone vibrating in his pocket. Briefly checking the caller ID, he puts it up to his ear. 

“Hey Betty,” he says, not able to completely hide the resignation in his voice. 

“Peter, please tell me you got those photos!” She says without preamble, rushing on without allowing him to respond, “I got some great eyewitness reports and I think I could really put together a story with this! I think Jonah might actually let me have this one! You have the photos, right? Oh, one of Hulk would be especially great! He hasn’t been seen in a while, and I really—”

“Betty, I, um,” Peter interjects, grasping for words, feeling awful for letting her down.

“What?” She asks shortly after the line is silent for a moment. 

Peter stops in the middle of the sidewalk, and sighs. “I didn’t get them.”

“Oh.” She says. Peter continues walking.  

“Yeah, I...tripped. And fell on my camera.” Peter puts a hand on the camera bag hanging off his shoulder, thinking of the warped device inside. Hulk really did a number on it. He could try to fix it later, but he doesn’t have much hope. “It’s totally busted. I wasn’t able to get anything.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay,” she says sweetly, clearly trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. “Jonah will probably give the story to Maggie anyways...you know, since she’s a real reporter and all.” Betty lets out a little laugh. “Um, speaking of which…you might not want to go back in today, in that case. I just got off the phone with Warren, and Jonah is in a really foul mood. Like, worse than normal, if that’s possible. He won’t be happy you didn’t get the shots.”

Peter sighs again, dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, you might be right.”

“I’m heading back to the office now. I can tell Jonah what happened. I’ll just say you hurt yourself when you tripped, and that you’re going to the doctor.”

“Well, that just means he’ll yell at you instead.”

“Eh, it’s fine,” she drawls. “I’m used to it. It takes more than a grumpy middle-aged man to get to me.”

“Thank you, Betty,” Peter says gratefully, “You’re a real life-saver. I promise I’ll bring you like a whole dozen of those maple-glazed donuts you like when I come in on Friday.”

“You better!” She laughs. “Oh! While we’re talking about it, some of us are going out for happy hour after work on Friday, you wanna come?”

“Oh, thanks for inviting me,” Peter responds, genuinely pleased (and a little shocked) at the invitation, “but I have my internship with Dr. Connors on Friday evenings.”

“Connors?” Betty says, almost sharply.

“Uh... yeah?” Peter says a little unsurely at the sudden change in tone. “He’s my biochem professor. I intern with him at the ESU lab.”

“Oh. Right, yeah.” Betty pauses. “Alright, Pete, well I better go. I hope your day gets better!”

“Thanks, Betty,” Peter says again, pushing a smile into his voice. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Peter slips his phone back into his pocket with a frown. Well, that was a little weird. 

He shrugs it off and finally takes notice of his surroundings, trying to get his bearings. It isn’t difficult. His mind goes blank in shock when he sees where his wandering feet have brought him. 

Nelson, Murdock, & Page

Attorneys at Law

The dark brass sign stares at him mockingly from the red pillar it is mounted on, and he barely has time to process before— 

“Peter?”

Oh no.

Next Time: Peter continues to have a no good, very bad day.

Chapter Text

Previously: The dark brass sign stares at him mockingly from the red pillar it is mounted on: Nelson, Murdock, & Page, Attorneys at Law.

“Peter?”

Oh no.

...

Standing there, holding a grease-stained brown paper bag and sporting a confused expression, is Foggy Nelson.

This day just doesn’t stop.

Peter forces a weak smile to his face. “Hi, Foggy.”

“You’re back?” Foggy completely skips over any form of greeting, instead hitting Peter with an assessing once-over.

“Um, yeah… Yeah, I’ve been around.” Peter shrugs, his darting eyes unable to hold the other man’s gaze.

Foggy’s next words catch Peter completely off guard. “Are you here to see Michelle?”

Peter startles, finally locking eyes with him. “MJ?” he asks after a beat.

“Yeah…”

“Why would—” Peter tilts his head quizzically. “Why would MJ be here?”

“She works with us…” Foggy continues, slowly, like Peter is missing something. “You haven’t talked to her?”

“She’s here now?” Peter asks quickly, ignoring Foggy’s question. He looks up almost hopefully, as though wishing to catch a glimpse of her through the window.

“Yeah,” Foggy says again, quietly. He’s silent for a few moments, moments Peter barely notices, his mind racing as he stares up at the second floor of the building.

“Peter, are you okay?”

The question surprises him, almost as much as the concern he can clearly hear behind the words. Is he that easy to read?

Of course you are, he chastises himself , you always have been.

He’s been staring at Foggy without responding for too long, and the concerned ‘v’ between the man’s eyebrows grows deeper.

“Yeah!” Peter replies, voice a tad higher than intended (as it often does when he’s nervous), “Yeah, I’m good, Foggy.”

“Where are your shoes?” the man immediately, and unflinchingly, follows up with.

Peter looks down at the dirty, white socks covering his feet, and feels his face grow warm. After leaving Sam behind, he had torn off the tacky Spider-Man scarf from his face and headed back to where he left his things. But the whole city block was swarming with law enforcement by then and in his rush to retrieve his camera and bag without being noticed, he completely neglected to actually grab his sneakers as well. He realizes the rest of him must look a mess too — his clothes dirty and covered in dust from crushed concrete.

“It’s a long story...” he says simply. “Anyways, I was just passing by and got distracted. I’m actually running late for… something… so I should...” Peter tilts his head in the direction he was going and starts to step away.

“Wait.” Foggy reaches a hand out and grabs his shoulder. “Does Matt know you’re back in town?”

“Oh, um,” (why is my voice so high? I'm a grown man!), “yeah! Yeah, I’ve talked to him. Say hi, I guess. Anyways, I gotta go.”

Peter turns tail and starts walking. After a moment, he twists in his steps and throws a hand up in a wave. “It was good to see you, Foggy!”

The man stares after him with a deep frown.

* * *

It’s only his spider-sense that stops Peter from running full-on into his landlord as he crests the top of the staircase leading to his apartment floor.

“Oh, sorry, I— Oh, hi, Mr Ditkovich!” Peter blurts, stepping to the side and out of the way. His stomach drops, however, when he sees the angry look on the elderly man’s face.

“Hi? What’s hi? Can I spend it?” Mr Ditkovich asks sarcastically, his voice dripping with irritation.

“Look,” Peter says hurriedly, “I have some money coming in this weekend and I get my paycheck next week, so—”

“You’re a month late again. Again!”

“Really? Already?” He asks in actual astonishment before backtracking, “I mean, yeah, I definitely was aware of that. I’m so sorry, but I’ll—”

“Sorry means nothing!” the landlord interrupts again. “Late twice in only 5 months…” Mr. Ditkovich shakes his head. “You’ll see on your door, I just post eviction notice. You pay full rent or you. are. gone.”

“Wait. W-wait, wait, wait. Mr Ditkovich, c’mon, I just—”

The landlord sighs (and Peter thinks he even sees the barest hint of sympathy in the man’s expression) before pushing past Peter and heading down the stairs.

“Just pay and we have no problem!” the man yells over his shoulder.

Peter stares after him for a long moment before letting out a noise of frustration and trudging over to his apartment door. A bright yellow paper greets him.

“Fourteen days?!” he exclaims, ripping the paper off the door, his mouth dropping open. His breathing switches into short stressed pants, and he crumples the paper angrily as he storms inside.

Throwing the balled-up notice across the room, Peter practically falls onto the only chair inside the studio apartment, tossing his camera bag on the table. He drops his face into his hands and lets out a long, controlled sigh.

What. The. Hell.

After remaining completely — mostly — innocuous for almost half a year, one day like today could be all it took to mess it up for good.

Peter lifts his gaze and, as he does, his eyes land on the camera bag. That’s when the second wave of panic hits.

“Oh no,” he states plainly with realization, before more thoroughly freaking out. “Oh no, no, no, no…”

Peter jumps up and pulls the broken camera from the bag, swearing as he holds the crushed device in his hands. He sets it down delicately and flips open the lid of his laptop, which is sitting on the table. He checks his calendar, just to confirm to his panicking mind that he has the correct dates, then drops back into the chair heavily.

He had just told Mr Ditkovich that he had money coming in this weekend, but he now realized that wouldn’t be the case. He was booked for a photo shoot at a quinceanera but with a broken camera, he’d have to cancel.

Peter picks the camera up again and looks over it closer. While he certainly can’t afford a whole new one, he thinks he may be able to fix it. But he can’t afford even the parts right now until his paycheck next week. And even if he could get a hold of the parts he needed now, he didn’t have any time to put towards working on it.

Tomorrow, he’d be in classes at ESU all day. Friday, he’d be working; first at the Daily Bugle, then heading again to the university for his internship with Dr Connors. He had also already committed some hours this Saturday to the internship since they’d normally meet tonight but Dr. Connors had had something else come up and cancelled.

Not even to mention the late nights he’ll already be pulling in order to finish the paper for his genetics class, and then there’s the homework he hasn’t even started that’s due soon for Physics II (a class in which he’s already pretty sure he’s going to fail completely, simply from the amount of work he’s neglected to turn in).

And he still needs to decide whether to save every penny that comes in to somehow pay his rent in two weeks, or to fix the camera which he needs in order to get the money to pay his rent in the first place, but then leave him at a deficit...

Knowing his racing thoughts are quickly getting out of control, Peter tries to calm down. He pushes his palms flat onto the tabletop in front of him, focusing on the feel of the wood grain. He drops his head and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth, in through his nose…

It’s not working.

He stands, and paces. He folds his arms and unfolds them. He cracks all his knuckles. He tries to remember the grounding techniques Tony taught him so long ago, but he can’t remember the thing with the numbers or what he’s supposed to do with them… and now he’s thinking about Tony and wondering if Bruce is going to tell him what happened today and if Iron Man is going show up at his door any minute ( is that the sound of thrusters overhead or is the buzz of electricity in the building just especially loud right now?), so he tries to not think about Tony at all and that just makes him think of the man more and—

His gaze lands on a picture frame.

Ben and May.

They look young, are young, in the photo — barely older than Peter is now. They weren’t married then, just a bright-eyed, grinning couple looking forward to their future.

Peter likes the photo. He wasn’t even born then; their life uninterrupted by Ben’s brother’s kid. He likes to think of them that way: young and unburdened.

It’s the only photo he keeps out of them.

Peter feels tears pricking at his eyes, but he doesn’t attempt to stop them. He doesn’t have the energy to even try. As they build and slowly fall, his face crumples.

“I’m trying,” he whispers to the photo. “I’m trying, it’s just so hard.”

He crawls into bed shortly after that. He knows he needs to work on his school projects, needs to figure out what to do next, needs to email his weekend clients and give them the bad news, knows he doesn’t have time to waste by going to bed early… but he can’t bring himself to do anything else. Besides, what will grades matter when he’s homeless in two weeks?

Without thinking, Peter pulls up an unsent text on his phone. He stares at it, his finger hovering over the ‘send’ button.

To: Ned, MJ

Hey guys. I’m back in New York. I was hoping maybe we could meet up sometime? And talk? I don’t like how we left things. Hope to hear from you soon :)

He'd spent a half-hour on the message weeks ago. Typing, and deleting, and retyping. And he never did get around to sending it. He wills himself to do so now. To just let his thumb fall, barely a centimeter, and then it would be done, and he wouldn’t be able to undo it. But instead he hits the power button and shoves the phone under his pillow.

He tries to sleep but the city is so loud. His normally manageable enhanced senses, along with his heart and breathing, go haywire under the worry he can’t seem to get control of.

Soon enough, he finds himself reaching under his bed and pulling out a pair of slim but cushioned headphones, the Stark Industries’ logo emblazoned across the headband. He flicks a switch and puts them on, immediately falling back in relief as the noise surrounding him cuts to pure silence, nothing but the sound of his own breaths — the most perfect (and comfortable) noise-cancelling headphones, designed specifically for him.

Peter lays on his back and stares at the ceiling, watching the lights and shadows of the city that flicker through the apartment’s single window.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers to himself.

Next Time: A tale of birthdays past...

Chapter Text

3 years ago… October 14, 2020 

Upstate, Avenger’s Compound

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

The uproarious shout is deafening; a cheer offered up by friends, family, and mighty defenders alike, all coming together in the celebration of one person. 

It’s bigger than anything Ned Leeds ever imagined himself being a part of. There was a sheer vibrancy in the air that accompanied the genuine love, respect, and belonging that came with being part of something greater than oneself, and moreso, from being brothers (and sisters) in arms with one another. 

And even if this camaraderie, this family, existed simply in adjacency to Ned himself, he found that he was okay with that. After all, the fulcrum point for it all, the focus of the day’s outpouring of affection — the guy currently blowing out candles in the center of this circle of friends, with a paper birthday hat shoved crookedly on his head and a smile on his face that seemed so rare these days — was his friend first. 

Ned knew he could never compete with the literal Avengers, with a girlfriend, with a mother, but he had also finally internalized the fact that it had never been a competition at all. His place in Peter’s life wasn’t diminished because he wasn’t special in some extraordinary or superhuman way. If anything, he now understood the importance of his role as, simply, the best friend. 

When Peter got overwhelmed with the craziness he found himself in, Ned was always there to ground him. If Peter just wanted to chill and forget about the weight of the world that he carried around with him, Ned was there with pizza and a video game. And the rare times that Peter actually wanted to talk, Ned was there to listen. Because Ned was Peter’s guy (equally important in the chair as out of it), and that would never change. 

He knew there were things Peter didn’t tell him. He knew there was so much in his best friend’s life that he could never comprehend. As much as he accepted his role, that didn’t stop the times when he felt dismissed, minimized, or forgotten. 

But he also knew his own insecurities only added to Peter’s worries and stress (which were objectively much larger and worse than Ned’s). So whenever he knew Peter was keeping something from him or, at times, flat out lying to him, he let it slide. He smiled and nodded and let his friend think he really was that stupid. Because that was his role, and he played it well.  

“Who killed your puppy?” 

Ned made a disgusted face as he turned to the interrupting voice. “MJ, that’s awful. Why— why would you go straight to a dead puppy?!” 

MJ shrugged unconcernedly, sipping at her glass of lemonade as she leaned against the nearby table. “I dunno, you were just looking how I imagine someone would after their puppy got killed.”

“And that’s something you imagine often?” Ned scoffed.

“Few understand my ways, Leeds,” MJ shot back, before dropping her unaffected demeanor and letting a quick smile soften the mood. “Seriously though, you okay? You seemed… spacey.”

“Yeah, all good." Ned shook his head with a little chuckle. “Must’ve just zoned out for a minute.”

“Okay, cool,” she follows up, avoiding eye contact. 

MJ had never been quite comfortable showing concern or anything resembling emotional attachment, even after years of friendship. It seemed to get easier for her since leaving the tense atmosphere of her family home and moving into college dorms last year. Lately, though, she had been falling back into old patterns, which Ned attributed to the stress of school. But he appreciated that she was still making an active effort.

“Well, I’m gonna go get face-time in with Wanda while I have the chance.” Despite her words, MJ made no move to leave, instead staring hard at the drink in her hand.

Ned raised both eyebrows as the uncomfortable silence carried on. “Are you good?” he asked tentatively. 

She didn’t respond right away. It wasn’t until Ned opened his mouth again to find something else to say, when she abruptly stated, “You should go talk to Peter,” making only brief eye contact with him before walking away. 

Ned stared after her for a moment. Then turned to seek out Peter in the room. 

He had spotted the couple chatting in the corner not long ago. It looked like the two had found a moment of privacy, MJ leaning comfortably against Peter like she belonged there. Ned wasn’t sure what happened in the time between then and now, but a sick feeling took root in his stomach. 

Why can’t we just have a happy day? Just one?

He immediately tried to shake off the uncharitable thought. 

His attention was caught by raised voices. There — he sees Peter skulking out of the room away from May, who watched him leave with an expression somewhere between exasperated and dumbfounded. 

As Ned approached, Mr Stark had already made his way over and was speaking closely with May. “...I’ll see what’s bugging him. Maybe he’ll—” 

“Um, actually, Mr Stark,” Ned interjected, “If you don’t mind, uh, I can take this one.”

“I just don’t know how to talk to him anymore,” May vented, concern and frustration both intermingling in her voice. “And him and MJ keep getting into these fights, and I just…” May put a hand tiredly over her mouth. “I just wanted him to have a good birthday.”

“Thanks, Ned,” Mr Stark nodded, putting a guiding hand on May’s back. “Hey, May, Pepper was telling me...”

Ned heads out of the room on Peter’s trail. May wasn’t the only one tired of this. Ever since the summer, things were… different. Peter was different.

It wasn’t entirely surprising. The events of the spring had affected everyone, none so much as Peter. And while everyone was attributing his increasing solitude and strange moods to the fallout of the Scorpion situation, something about that just didn’t ring true to Ned. But he couldn’t quite pinpoint why, so he kept his mouth shut. 

Greeted with sharply crisp evening air, Ned suppressed a shiver as he stepped out onto the covered courtyard that overlooked the river. As expected, there was Peter — standing across the way, facing out towards the water. 

“Hey,” Ned headed over to his friend, wrapping his arms around himself as the cold seeped through his light sweater. “It’s freezing out here, even for me. You don’t even have your jacket.” 

Peter didn’t respond. In fact, he didn’t acknowledge having heard Ned at all; odd.

“Shouldn’t you come back in? We could grab some more cake and talk.”

The sick feeling in his stomach grew. As Ned approached from behind, Peter looked strange. He wasn’t leaning against the railing as Ned expected, or even staring out contemplatively over the beautiful landscape that was nearly covered in night. No, he stood straight, with his arms hanging loosely at his sides and his head tilted forward, as though staring at the ground. It was a little disconcerting. 

“Peter?” Ned tried again, hesitantly, as he pulled even with his friend and turned to look at him. 

Peter’s face was frighteningly blank. He had yet to acknowledge Ned, and aside from some slight twitching in his eyebrows, he wore no expression. 

A brief thought… Is this it? Ned couldn’t say what it meant, but he knew that he was waiting. Always waiting. For what… he was never really sure.

“Hey!” Ned grabbed Peter’s shoulder and shook, searching his face for any sign of awareness. Even as he watched, consciousness seemed to return to Peter’s eyes and he blinked, hard and fast, for several seconds, before looking at Ned.

“Woah… Peter, you okay?”

Peter continued to blink excessively as his eyes moved from Ned to look around, seemingly taking stock of himself and his surroundings. He looked confused and, Ned thought, lost . 

“Pete?”

“We’re at the compound?” Peter mumbled as he continued to look around in a daze. It seemed more like a question to himself rather than to Ned, but Ned answered anyway. 

“Yeah…”

With a sudden urgency that was startling, Peter fumbled his phone out of his pocket and turned his back to Ned, staring down at the device with a weird intensity. Ned could only stare at the back of his friend’s head, torn between concern and confusion. 

“Right…” Peter said under his breath, then inhaled sharply, straightened his shoulders, and turned to Ned with a notably forced smile. 

“Sorry,” Peter shook his head with a self-deprecating grin, “I totally zoned out there for a minute.”

Ned frowned, the sick feeling moving up into a tightness in his throat. “Peter, that…” he swallowed, “...that looked like more than zoning out. Are—”

“Ned, I’m fine—”

“—you sick? How are you feeling? What if—”

“—seriously. Ned, it’s—”

“—someone managed to spike your drink, or the food?! What if—”

“—nothing. Dude, calm down. We really—”   

“—one of your enemies made it into the compound? We should really—”

“—mean it. It’s not a big deal. Just—”

“—tell Mr. Stark. He should—”

“NO! God, can you shut up FOR ONCE?!”

Ned froze. 

His heart was pounding. His shivers felt more like shaking. Peter didn’t seem to notice. He barrelled ahead with a vicious intensity that felt entirely alien from who Ned knew him to be.

“Look, we’re seri— I’m serious. I’m fine. I was just thinking about some stuff, and you know I’ve been really tired and stressed lately, and I just checked out for a minute, okay? We do not need to talk to Tony about anything . It’s all fine. ”      

Ned pinched his lips together, as though to stop any other words from coming out. He stared solidly out at the river. The water looked thick and black; the amorphous surface reflected a starless sky, the last vestiges of sunlight gone.

He looked back at Peter. The harshness was gone and now, if anything, Peter just looked desperate. Desperate for his best friend to believe him, to trust him. Peter searched Ned’s eyes then dropped his head, looking away. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. He lifted a hand and dropped it onto Ned’s shoulder. The touch felt grounding, and Ned relaxed a little. “I’m sorry,” Peter continued, “I didn’t mean to yell. That was messed up. I guess I’ve just been on edge. And Tony’s been so pushy lately. I just… I just want a little privacy. Sometimes it feels like I’m not allowed a single minute alone these days to clear my head.”

Ned nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. Peter looked back up at him. “I get it,” Ned continued, “but you know it’s just because we worry about you, right? Because we love you.”

A soft smile broke on Peter’s face; it looked genuine. “Yeah. I know.”

Another moment passed. 

“You really are okay, though?” Ned asked one last time, for good measure.

“I mean,” Peter stood straight, moving his hand from Ned’s shoulder to instead run it through his own hair, “I dunno. Been weird lately, you know?” Ned did know. “But, yeah,” Peter continued, “I’m okay. There’s nothing wrong, nothing you need to worry about.” He chuckled a little. “No spiked drinks, at any rate.”

“I mean, c’mon,” Ned shrugged, letting himself respond with a similar smile, “it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yeeaaaah, I know.” Peter shivered; he didn’t do well in the cold and it seemed to finally be catching up to him. He wrapped his arms around himself and rubbed them vigorously up and down. “Uhh, you wanna go back inside now?”

“Please,” Ned replied. 

Just outside the doors leading back to the party, Peter stopped Ned. “Hey,” he said, “I appreciate you looking out for me. I’m sorry I worry you guys. I really am okay.”

And Ned smiled, and nodded, and pretended to believe him. Because that was his role, and he played it well. 

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2 years ago… October 14th, 2021

A call log 

Ned (2) {missed call}

MJ {missed call}

Ned (3) {missed call} 

Ned {declined call}

MJ (2) {declined call}

Ned {incoming call, 2 min 37 secs} 

MJ {declined call}

MJ {voicemail, 42 seconds}

Voicemail {outgoing call, 47 seconds}

Power off

Tap again to turn off your phone

Shutting down...

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1 year ago… October 14th, 2022

A letter, since turned to ash

Hey Tiger Peter, 

Happy birthday, I guess. 

I don’t really know why I’m writing this. Ned told me to. Something his therapist has him do? He says it helps. And that no one ever has to actually read it (and I figure if I actually try something he suggests for once, maybe he’ll ease up on trying to get me to go see a therapist.)

Not that I don’t need one (or that there’s anything wrong with that ). But I just don’t want

Shit. Maybe I just want to be miserable. 

God, I really hate you. 

That makes me a bad person, doesn’t it?

((Yeah, this is definitely getting burnt immediately))

ANYWAYS...

Love you, Pete.  

I miss you. I do. And I know it’s not your fault. That’s the most I can give you right now. I know it’s not your fault. And for what it’s worth — I’m sorry. 

I failed you too. I think we all did. 

So I guess what I’m saying is: I can hate you and still be sorry. I guess that’s my takeaway from this. 

That’s all I’ve got. 

Next Time: A heart-to-heart with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen

Chapter Text

Present... October 15, 2023 

It was dark. 

There was light outside of the darkness: Sun. Blue skies. An open city. People. 

He knew it. He remembered. 

But he was outside of it. The darkness was in it, but not a part of it. And he was inside the darkness. 

It clung to him like plastic wrap, gripping tighter and tighter the more he struggled against it. It pervaded him — through his mouth and nose and eye sockets, its tendrils creeping into his brain. He feels it writhing against the inside of his skull, pushing against the bone; it weaves through his cerebellum, wraps tightly around his brain stem, makes its home inside his prefrontal cortex. 

It feels like his head will explode so he claws at it, ripping away hair and flesh, feeling bone come apart like clay in his fingers as he tears into his own skull — a futile attempt to rend the darkness from him.

And then he is whole again, his skin unblemished, his scalp intact. His hands are no longer his own to control… but they never were. It was an illusion from the start. Or maybe they were, once, a long time ago, but he can’t remember. He can’t remember things. His mouth moves and he feels the words vibrating from his chest, through his throat, into his jaw, but he wonders if it’s really him speaking, or if the darkness is performing an impression of him. Like a marionette. Or a sock puppet. A poor imitation of life, but everyone watches and laughs anyways. 

And so he screams; or rather, he tries to. But no sound comes out. No air fills his lungs to fuel his cries. And the darkness speaks, but only to him. It has no voice, no vibrations to reach his inner ear, but its voice is deep and harsh. Terrifying. Almost comfortingly familiar. It is foreign to him. It is him. It says, 

We are…

We are…

We are…

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Peter wakes up. 

***

It’s nearly 1:00 am when he gets the text. 

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen stands on an empty rooftop, head pitched to the side, just listening to his city. It’s quiet tonight; not a common occurrence but not as infrequent as it once was. Matt feels a sliver of peace he would have not thought possible just a handful of years earlier. 

His phone chimes. Knowing no one else is around to hear, he activates the automated voice on the device that reads the text.

“Message from Peter Parker: you up?”

Matt lets out a disquieted sigh as soon as he hears the name of the sender, lips quirking down into a frown. 

He feels like an overbearing uncle sometimes, the way he worries about the boy. He knows Peter hates when anyone is overly concerned about him, so Matt doesn’t express it often. Their relationship has always been grounded in equality — teacher and student, yes, but never adult and child. He’d understood Peter’s potential from that first meeting beneath the water tower years ago. And he’d known how capable the kid was ever since Peter dragged him, unconscious and bleeding, out of a burning warehouse right under the nose of The Hand.

They had a mutual understanding as fellow crime fighters in tight suits. Matt didn’t coddle Peter. Didn’t try to protect him from the danger the boy willingly threw himself into. He didn’t try to enforce decisions upon him and instead trusted Peter to make his own with the information available. 

After all, Matt isn’t Tony Stark and he has no intention of their relationship mimicking that particular mentorship in any way. 

He knows Peter is “fine” (which is the kid’s answer anytime he asks). And yet Matt only believes that to be true in the loosest sense of the term: Peter had a job. Peter had somewhere to sleep. Peter was alive. Peter was fine.

But still… he worries. 

Late-night contact like this has been unfortunately common, and Matt wonders if the boy has been sleeping at all lately. He responds quickly.

Matt: Did you really think I wouldn’t be? What do you need?

Peter: Wanna train? I’m feeling restless

Peter: Unless you're busy with...you know

Peter: Then no biggie

Matt shakes his head at Peter’s obvious attempts to minimize his needs. A late-night training session request was not making him hopeful for the youth’s current mental state.

Matt: Meet me in 20. 

Peter: Cool, see you soon!

He arrives at Fogwell’s Gym fifteen minutes later and quickly changes from his Daredevil gear into regular sparring clothes. Peter arrives shortly afterward. 

“Hey, Matt.”

Damn. The kid sounds exhausted. 

“Peter,” Matt acknowledges. He’s already in the ring and Peter slips through the barrier to join him. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?” he quizzes, instead of asking outright why the kid is up and out so late. 

“Don’t you?” Peter quips back, but there’s something sharp to his tone, making the words that would normally sound like a casual joke coming from the young man, sound snippish instead. His heartbeat is faster than normal and his body tense, coiled, but Matt chooses not to comment on it at the moment. 

Peter seems to realize his tone and backtracks, pushing his voice into a more lighthearted territory with an explanation. “I had a weird dream… And I just couldn’t fall back asleep after that so I figured if I tire myself out, maybe I’ll at least get a couple more hours in.”

Matt hums but doesn’t offer anything else in way of response.

“Have you been keeping up with your forms?” he asks instead. 

“Uh, not really,” Peter admits. “Just been busy lately. I know I should be practicing more.”

With that, Matt decides to start the fight, giving no warning but knowing Peter’s senses will signal him anyway. 

They move fluidly, with practiced ease, familiar with each other’s style and rhythms. 

Peter had been seriously rusty when they first started to meet up again. But his superhuman reflexes and speed allowed him to quickly fall back into old skills. Matt wasn’t sure whether Peter kept coming back because he enjoyed the discipline and order that came with training regularly, or if the boy wanted to be prepared in case he ever needed the skills again.

As far as Matt knows, he was the only person Peter had directly, and intentionally, contacted shortly after arriving back in New York. It didn’t take long before they returned to their old routine of meeting up at Fogwell’s to train together whenever they had the time. 

Matt often wonders why Peter had sought him out, while still so fervently avoiding everyone else who used to be part of his life. He thinks, maybe, that it was because he was far enough removed from the Avengers and whatever happened that led to Peter leaving in the first place. Regardless, he knows the training is good for the young man. 

Zoning back in on the sparring at hand, Matt can tell Peter is getting frustrated. He had already allowed Matt to get in a few solid blows and was landing very few points of his own. He was being sloppy, running high off emotions rather than a cool mind. Matt indicates to Peter to pause.  

The kid stands there huffing, a thin sheen of sweat over his skin.  

“What? What’s wrong?” 

“You,” Matt says cryptically. 

The eyeroll is obvious as the boy responds. “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.” Peter lifts his hands up in a ready position again.

“You’re being sloppy,” Matt states his previous thoughts, “and getting frustrated. You’re clearly worked up about something.”

Peter tenses and his breath catches. Matt can practically feel the annoyance coming off the boy in waves.

Matt tilts his head at that. “It almost seems like you might be angry at me.”

“Why would I be angry at you, Matt?” Peter asks, slowly, methodically, almost rhetorically. 

Matt takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Alright, we’re done for tonight.” He’s not surprised at the outburst the sharp statement elicits. 

“What?!” Peter throws his hands up. “We’ve barely been here fifteen minutes.”

“And now we’re done,” Matt says cooly, exiting the ring. Peter huffily follows after him. 

To his credit, the boy doesn’t continue to gripe and moan but just stands there, waiting. He knows Matt well and clearly expects that the man has more to say. 

Matt takes his time changing back into his everyday clothes. Once he’s ready, he turns to Peter.

“Why don’t we go for a walk?”

“It’s like forty degrees out.”

“And? You have a jacket.”

Peter hangs his head with a sigh and concedes. “Sure.”

* * *

They exit Fogwell’s and start walking. After a minute of silence, Matt broaches the subject he can only assume has Peter all worked up. 

“Is this about Michelle?”

Peter doesn’t respond to him immediately. When he does, it’s terse. “Why didn’t you tell me she was working with you?”

“It wasn’t my place to,” Matt says simply.

“Not your place... Matt, c’mon. It’s a pretty significant thing to — I don’t know — at least MENTION at some point.”

“So, you think I should’ve mentioned to her that you’ve been back and I’ve been meeting you almost weekly for the last five months?”

A sigh. “...no.”

“I fail to see how that’s different.”

“It just… is?”

Matt smiles softly and he can feel Peter relax, a fraction, beside him. 

“As far as I’m aware,” Matt finalizes, “you two haven’t spoken in well over a year. Michelle has every right to privacy. I’m not going to betray that to her ex just because you’re also my friend.”

“Okay, I get it,” Peter concedes. “You’re right. I just…” Another sigh. “I dunno.”

“No one’s stopping you from reaching out to her, Peter.” 

There’s no response to that. 

They stop at a corner store, because Matt can hear Peter’s stomach rumbling, and he buys them a few hot dogs before they continue their walk.

“You know you’re on the news.”

“What?!” Peter startles. 

“Well, not ‘you’ per se, but whatever went on earlier today wasn’t exactly a low-profile event.”

Peter groans. “No one saw my face, right?”

“According to Foggy, no. Nothing identifying enough to worry about.”

Peter runs both hands through his hair worryingly. “What a cluster,” he mumbles. 

“He was upset with me too, you know,” Matt says. “Foggy.”

“... I’m sorry, Matt. I know I put you in a weird position with this.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m not used to keeping secrets.”

They walk for several blocks, Matt asking Peter about school and work, until they arrive at the water. Peter seems happy enough to small talk but grows avoidant anytime they start broaching a subject that could be potentially sensitive. Matt gets the feeling that all is not well, but he doesn’t push on that front — not yet. 

They sit at a bench overlooking the water, quiet. Peter is the first to break the silence. “What are we doing out here?”

“You tell me.”

Peter sighs at the response, but doesn’t say anything more. 

“Are you still angry?” Matt asks. 

“Yes,” Peter says definitively, “...but not at you.”

“At what, then?”

“I don’t know.” Matt can hear the frustration in the younger man’s voice. “Just about everything lately, it seems like. I just feel so irritable all the time. It’s almost like—” Peter cuts himself off suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath. 

Matt tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Nothing,” Peter mutters, and he can feel the boy closing off again. 

Matt hesitates for a long while before he asks. 

“What happened, Peter? Before you left?” 

He wonders if he shouldn’t ask, if he should allow the two of them to dance around whatever it was that had happened three years ago, the way they have for the last several months. 

Matt was never given the full story. He knows that May Parker died. And that it had involved some creature that the Avengers fought and defeated — a creature seemingly with ties to Spider-Man (who was notably missing during the battle).

Matt knows that after that, Peter had been orphaned for a second time. He had tried to reach out back then, but received no response. He contacted Tony Stark instead and was told the boy didn’t want to see anyone.

And then Peter came to him out of the blue one day, saying he was leaving and that he didn’t know if he’d be back. That he appreciated everything Matt did for him and that he hoped the man would understand. 

Matt did. Even without knowing exactly what happened… Matt did. The two of them were alike, and he knew Peter must have had good (if unhealthy) reasons for wanting to isolate himself. 

After all, Matt had done the same, hadn’t he? And as much as he knew Peter would need friends and family to get him through whatever he was experiencing, he also knew that would be useless if the boy didn’t come to the same conclusion for himself first. 

Peter’s breath catches again. The silence hangs heavy, and Matt isn’t sure it will be broken. 

“May died.” Peter’s words are soft; anyone else would have strained to hear him. “You know that. She died and I just… couldn’t be here anymore.”

“And you and Stark?” Matt carefully pushes. 

“What about him?” Peter asks a little testily, looking up sharply. 

Matt hesitates before he continues. “You clearly had some kind of falling out.”

Peter stands abruptly and takes a few steps away from the bench. 

“Why does it matter?” he asks, a rough edge to his voice. “I’d think you of all people would be thrilled about that. You hate Tony.”

Matt’s jaw clenches and his hands tighten around his cane. “I don’t hate Stark,” he corrects, a bit harshly, “and regardless of how I feel about him, I know he’s important to you, and I know how much he cares about you. Do you really think so little of me to think that I’d be glad you lost that relationship?”

That seems to properly chastise the kid, and Peter mutters, “no, I’m sorry,” before turning away again, his arms wrapped tightly around his body. “But you were right about him, anyways,” he continues. “He’s a liar. I don’t want anything to do with him.”

After a few moments, Peter returns to the bench and sits beside Matt again. Their shoulders brush and Peter doesn’t move away — if anything, he leans into it. The movement seems unconscious and Matt wonders how long it’s been since the kid had gotten any of the physical contact he’s always craved. 

“Tony…” Peter starts again haltingly, “He… he could have stopped it.”

Matt tilts his head at that. 

“He could have stopped the whole thing before anyone was hurt and he… chose not to.”

“Now why would Iron Man do that?” Matt wonders out loud, genuinely, his brows furrowing together slightly. 

“Because he’s selfish,” Peter snaps bitterly. 

Matt decides not to respond to that and lets the silence sit until a subdued Peter continues.

“Because…” Peter takes a deep breath, and his head turns away sharply. “Because he didn’t want to hurt me.”

Matt takes a few moments before responding. 

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

Peter does. 

It goes like this…

Chapter Text

Previously...  

Matt takes a few moments before responding. 

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

Peter does. 

It goes like this…

It started with the black suit. 

No.

No, it started with a voice, a guttural whisper in the back of his mind.  

Or, maybe…

Maybe it all started with a scar-faced man by the name of Mac Gargan. 

Peter could keep tracing things back to the start, the real start, the beginning. But if he did, it would have continued all the way on to a genetically-enhanced spider on an ill-fated field trip. 

So instead, he starts after the beginning. After the confusion and weeks of thinking he was going insane. After the months of being slowly and steadily tricked into believing the lies of a monster which, even now, he’s not entirely sure were all lies (he knows at some point the phrase “Stockholm Syndrome” had been thrown around, but he’s not so sure about all that).

So instead, he starts with a name. 

“He called himself Venom.”

Peter doesn’t go into detail of how the parasite attached itself to him, hidden away for months, a stowaway in his body. How it seeped into his skin and got its rooted little fingers into his brain. 

He does speak of the voice. 

“He talked to me… in my head.”

He tells Matt of how Venom relayed the tragic tale of an alien refugee, separated from his own kind, desperate to return to his people. He speaks of how the symbiote (“That’s what they called him. Afterwards.”) convinced him not to tell anyone — not May, not the Avengers, especially not Tony Stark. 

“He said they wouldn’t understand. They would study us, remove him; rip him away and hurt him. In the name of science. Because they would be afraid... They would’ve been right to.”

Peter tells Matt how Venom made him feel important.

“He was patient. He watched the Avengers for months before he made his choice. He knew he needed someone ‘special’ to help him get home, but he didn’t trust the others. He said I was the only one who would understand him. And I did.”

He didn’t mention how close he had felt to Venom — like he was being truly seen for the first time in his life. There was no hiding or deflecting; Venom knew him, like no one had before, like no one else possibly could. He didn’t say how easily he was swayed under the creature’s influence, or how willingly he accepted the twisted and tainted version of the world Venom presented; how tightly the parasite gripped his mind, and how, for the longest time, he didn’t even struggle.

Peter didn’t speak of that. 

Instead, “You remember the black suit? Well, I lied to you about it, before, when you asked me where I got it. That was all Venom. He did this thing, like, created a biological suit of his own. It’s… hard to explain. But when I used it, it was like we were Spider-Man. We were stronger. Faster. We could do anything. But then Tony started asking questions…”

Venom didn’t like Tony Stark. The man asked too many questions. Was too suspicious. Even when Peter told him everything was fine, he never seemed to buy it. And Peter started to hate him too. Why couldn’t Tony just trust him? Why couldn’t he ever believe Peter could handle something on his own?

So he danced around Stark’s questions. Evaded them. Came up with explanations for the black suit, for his behavior, for getting fired from work, and getting into somewhat violent-for-Spider-Man interactions with criminals. 

“I felt angry… all the time. Everything irritated me. The smallest things would just set me off.”

He could feel everyone tiptoeing around him and that just made it worse. His own mind became an echo chamber; Venom pouncing on his deepest, most selfish thoughts and amplifying them until logic was overruled and undiluted emotion prevailed. 

And then the blackouts began.

It started with exhaustion. He would go to sleep and wake up feeling no more rested. He started sleeping more and more, and the exhaustion only grew. And then he started seeing news articles, viral videos, of Spider-Man in the black suit, fighting crime in the night. And he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember. He was missing time. 

“So I confronted Venom. And he admitted he was going out at night. He said he thought he was helping. He knew I had to sleep, but he didn’t. He thought I would be happy we were helping people… And I believed him.”

What Peter didn’t say was that he still believed the symbiote. Still (at least, at times) believed Venom had been sincere in these conversations they had in his head. 

What Peter didn’t say was how the blackouts grew to encompass not only these nightly vigils but nearly every aspect of his life. It started small. People referencing things from conversations he didn’t recall having. A persistent fog in his brain, not being quite sure what he had been doing or where he had been going. And then it increased. Suddenly switching locations in the blink of an eye, several hours gone in between. Realizing a whole day had passed which he had no memory of. He started keeping track of upcoming days and events on his phone’s calendar, just to orient himself of where he might be or what might be happening at any given time. 

Venom was wearing him like a suit, and he was powerless to stop it. 

Peter didn’t talk about how he started fighting then. In moments of consciousness or lucidity, how he would come so close to just telling someone. Anyone. Tony, May, Natasha, Ned… MJ. Venom gave him all the reasons why he shouldn’t. And they just seemed so compelling. Somehow, through it all, Peter managed to convince himself that he was still in control, that, while they may have been sharing a body, he was still the one in the driver’s seat (he realized now how stupid he had been to ever believe that). 

And somewhere in the middle of it all — in a blur of time and life so hazy that Peter still couldn’t figure out a coherent timeline of events — it changed. The blackouts ended. He wasn’t missing time anymore, but… he also wasn’t Peter anymore. 

There was no longer any distinction in his mind between Peter or Venom . Their goals were the same, and their motivations and thoughts so intermingled that their reality became an illogical and skewered version of events that Peter bought into fully. 

But the Avengers were suspicious by then. They thought — knew — something was wrong. 

“I asked Karen to spy on them.”

She protested at first, of course. Her programming wouldn’t allow for that. But Peter was so over Stark’s smothering control by that point. He asked — coerced — Ned into helping him and they got her compliant pretty quick. She took a backdoor into FRIDAY’s system and it was easy enough to eavesdrop on the Avengers from there. 

And his suspicions were right. They were discussing Peter, behind his back , like he was a child, like he couldn’t handle himself. He and Venom heard them talking about ‘bringing him in, doing tests,’ like he was a freak they needed to study (he had known that’s what they thought all along). 

And then he heard May.

“She didn’t know I was home. We had come back through the window not long before."

She was talking to them, the Avengers, on the phone, in the living room right down the hall from his room. She was agreeing with them. She thought something was wrong with Peter.

“And I just got so… angry. Or maybe Venom did. I don’t know; it was impossible to tell by then.”

And Peter hadn’t known. Hadn’t known the black suit was only a sick foreshadowing of what Venom really was. Hadn’t known that Venom was so much more than a voice in his head, more than a controlling parasite who ‘needed’ someone else in order to live, because he was so ‘small’ and ‘weak’ on his own. Peter hadn’t known what a monster he really was (whether he meant Venom or himself… well, it was impossible to tell by then). 

Suddenly — painfully, terrifyingly, overwhelmingly — Venom was no longer hiding his true form. 

And they were mad. At May. But they wouldn’t hurt her. They would never hurt May. They loved May. So they left before the Avengers could arrive. They didn’t bother using the window that time. They went straight through the wall.

“We didn’t know May ran after us — after me. ”

And people screamed. People ran. Police arrived and shot at them. And it hurt. So they fought back. And if a police officer was suddenly missing a head, or if a gun was disposed of by swallowing the entire arm, well… they had it coming, right?

They didn’t want to hurt anyone. Venom just wanted to find his way back home. That was always his only goal. It wasn’t his fault that his very appearance incited violent action against him. It wasn’t his fault that the humans of earth were so very sheltered, so very limited in their view of the galaxy, that they responded aggressively to anything that was different from them. 

So, they ran. And hid. And tried to get away. 

But the Avengers were after them now. And they weren’t about to let Venom or Peter go. 

“Then May found us.”

So Venom made a final play. He grabbed May. 

She was only ever meant to be a hostage, a bargaining chip, a scare tactic. And that's all it ended up being. The Avengers, always the Avengers, got her away safely. And then they fought.

“It was… brutal. And it wasn’t just Venom. It was me, too. In the very back of my mind, I knew it was wrong. But in the moment, I was just so angry.

“And then May was in front of us again. And she was… she was trying to get through to me. Me. Peter. Not whoever, or whatever, we were.”

And that’s when he realized he had forgotten. He had forgotten that he was separate from the symbiote. That he had an identity outside of Venom. May reminded him.

“She was crying.”

So Peter fought. He fought against the monster that had hijacked his very mind and body. He felt so weak; but he still fought. And he almost got through… he thinks. 

“But Venom saw Clint, over May’s shoulder. He was aiming an arrow at us…”

Venom knocked May out of the way as he attacked the archer. 

The Avengers won (as they always did, as they were always going to). They found a way to defeat the symbiote. Banner had figured it out. They freed Peter from it and secured the monster. 

But by the time the fight was done…

“She hit her head, when we pushed her… there was a bleed into her brain. By the time they stopped us and could help her… it was too late. They rushed her to the medbay but…”

She was only human. And they — Peter, Venom — forgot how frail humans were. How easily damaged. 

Peter still thinks Venom regretted it. But he couldn’t know; they had already been separated by the time he found out. But he wondered. Wondered if the parasite was sorry for May’s involvement. After all, they had loved her. 

There was so much more that he didn’t say.

And if Peter never actually brought up Tony Stark's offense, well, Matt didn’t comment on that. 

Chapter Text

October 16th, 2023 - Friday 

It’s close to 9 in the morning when Tony and Pepper arrive back at Avenger’s Mansion from their cabin getaway.

The impressive three-story brick building stands beside Central Park off 5th Ave, its grounds taking up an entire city block. The building itself sits recessed away from the street, an extended driveway leading from a high-tech gate system through a tall, topiary garden that provides privacy at street level.

The mansion had been constructed by Tony’s grandfather, Howard Stark Sr, and had served as a museum for the last several decades, until a few years prior when Tony felt the need to once more have an Avenger’s base located central to the city (in addition to the Compound upstate).

FRIDAY greets them as they enter the foyer. 

“Where is everyone right now, Fri?” Tony asks, hanging up his coat as Pepper pulls off her shoes and goes on ahead to the kitchen, lamenting about how starved she is. 

“Rhodey is in his bedroom; he returned late last night,” FRIDAY responds. “The Operator is in his den, and Natasha, Sa—”

“Hold up.” Tony pauses her incredulously. “The Operator? Why are you calling him that? Did he hack you? I swear to god if that little sh—”

“No, Boss,” FRIDAY interrupts. There’s a silence, followed by, “I lost a bet.”

There’s a sheepishness in the statement that Tony feels shouldn’t be there (his AI programming is great, sure, but he doesn’t want another Ultron situation).

“You lost a…” Tony sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You know what? I don’t even want to know. And the others?”

“Natasha, Sam, Steve, and Bruce are all gathered in the kitchen.”

“Looks like Pep had the right idea, huh? Yeah, breakfast does sound nice. I wonder if Cap is cooking...”

Pepper is already chatting with the team as he strolls in. “So he turns to me and says, ‘We should get an alpaca!’”

The kitchen erupts into chuckles as Tony enters. The atmosphere is warm and inviting, as it typically is these days, but… something doesn’t feel quite right. As the conversation continues around him, Tony dropping in his two cents as needed, he tries to shake off the feeling. Surely their few days disconnected from everything is just making him feel like he’s missed out on something — which his therapist would likely just chalk up to paranoia. He settles in, finding that no one has opted to cook and breakfast is a free-for-all this morning. 

If Steve seems hesitant to meet his eyes, then surely it’s nothing. If Nat seems a little too casual, and Sam hasn’t said a word, well, maybe they’re just tired. And if Bruce seems to be actively avoiding looking at his direction at all, well...

Tony makes eye contact with Pepper and, judging by the look on her face, she’s picking up on it too. 

After a moment, he clears his throat. “Bruce.” There is a slight uptick in Tony’s voice as he looks at the doctor with folded arms. “Why are you acting… guilty?”

The silence that follows in the Avenger’s kitchen is palpable. 

Bruce looks down in confusion at the box of cereal he has in hand, his other hand lightly gripping a bowl on the counter. 

“Tony— what? I’m just getting cereal.”

Natasha and Sam sit beside each other at the kitchen island. Steve has just poured himself a cup of coffee. Pepper is curled up on a comfy chair, her shoes removed and socked feet tucked onto the seat. All eyes watch the exchange. 

Tony’s stare narrows, but he turns away with a seemingly casual shrug before throwing out, “It’s just, you haven’t made eye contact with me once since I walked in here, and you just seem… fidgety. Like you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Bruce protests, putting the cereal down and turning to face Tony more fully. 

“Yes, you are!” Tony responds, rounding on him. “So either you did something, or you’re mad. Is this because of what I said the other day? Because I distinctly recall that you—”

“I’m not mad, Tony,” Bruce interrupts. 

“Then what is it?” Tony steps closer again. “Because you’re acting way more avoidant than usual, Banner, and that’s saying something.”

Bruce licks his lips and makes an exasperated noise. “Look, it’s nothing,” he says, pausing before, “...the big guy doesn’t want me saying anything about it—”

“Woah, woah, woah. Woah.” Tony holds a hand up. “Now the other guy is keeping secrets? Since when is that a thing?” His voice lowers, now sounding almost concerned. “What’s going on, Bruce?”

“Tony, if he doesn’t want to tell you then—” Steve finally decides to interject, only to be promptly cut off. 

“Nope!” Tony holds up a finger without looking at Steve. “This is a private conversation, Spangles.”

“...You’re in the middle of a communal kitchen, Tony,” Steve deadpans. 

Bruce’s eyes flicker over to Natasha inadvertently, and Tony catches it, turning just in time to see her making a face back at him. 

“Are you in on this, Romanoff?” he asks. “Because I’m starting to feel very left out.”

“Not everything is about you, Tony,” Natasha states, meeting his eyes with a slight roll of her own.  

“Did I— Did I say that? Is that something I said?” Tony puts a hand to his chest in exaggerated offense, looking around the room. 

As soon as Tony’s gaze is averted from her, Natasha mouths something to Steve, and he shakes his head minimally. Pepper catches the exchange. 

“Okay, I’m with Tony on this,” she interjects. “What is going on?”

“C’mon, guys,” Sam starts. “Are we really going to—”

He yelps as Natasha kicks him under the counter and shoots him a vicious glare. 

“Children, please!” Tony holds his hands up and faces Bruce again. His face tightens slightly, his tone serious. “Bruce, come on. We don’t do secrets here. Not anymore.”

The atmosphere in the room immediately becomes somber.

“And since my therapist keeps telling me I need to be more open about my emotions,” Tony continues, “frankly, I’m starting to feel very anxious over the fact that the four of you seem to have something you’re trying to keep from me.” Tony sniffs and crosses his arms. “It’s not a good look,” he adds with a forcedly casual shrug. 

Bruce heaves a deep sigh and shoots an apologetic glance towards Natasha and Steve. “Okay, Tony.” 

Under his breath, Bruce mutters, “Sorry, big guy,” before continuing. “Since you haven’t asked anything about it, I assume you haven’t seen the pictures yet.”

“What pictures?” Tony asks. 

“While you were and Pepper were away,” Natasha explains, getting up from her stool and crossing over to Tony. “There was an… incident.” 

“Incident?” Tony repeats. “What kind of incident?”

Sam answers. “Well, Bruce and I were the only ones around to handle a situation with some of those chimera-mutants, so we had a bit of a Code Green in the city that went… awry.” 

Tony glances at Bruce in concern. “Awry?” he asks, slightly incredulous at the choice of verbiage. “I thought you and the big guy were good.”

“We are,” Bruce answers slowly, “but there was a unique situation.”

“We can give you the details later,” Nat cuts in. “That’s not what’s important. Here.” She hands Tony her phone. “These have been circulating the last few days.”

Tony takes the phone. On the screen is an article from a tabloid website. The article title “Mystery Man at Hulk Encounter!” glares from the top of the page and he scrolls down. There are several photos of the same scene from different angles. Tony swipes his thumb over them quickly. 

The photos show Hulk in all his green glory, standing in the middle of a busted street. A squid-like creature is sprawled out on the ground nearby, but it’s not the focus of the picture. 

Hulk is holding someone, a man, in one of his large hands. The man has a ball cap and hood covering his head, the brim of the hat throwing shade over his face, making it indiscernible at the distance. However, the most interesting thing about the photo is the way the man has his hand outstretched, resting gently in Hulk’s hair. It’s a surprisingly tender moment, which is the greatest cause of speculation, based on the comments throughout the article. 

“Who is that?” Tony asks quietly, even though he’s almost positive he already knows the answer. His eyes never leave the screen.

Bruce is silent for a long moment before he answers. 

“It’s Peter, Tony.”

* * *

Peter groans and slams his phone face down on his desk, running his hands over his face in agitation. Over the last couple days, he hadn’t been able to so much as open an internet browser without a click-bait article title showing up next to a thumbnail image of his run-in with Hulk. 

Just this morning he had been chewed out by Jameson personally. Not only did he not get any photos in the first place, but Jameson needed to buy grainy cellphone images of the scene from some passerby to run on the Bugle’s website. And Peter couldn’t exactly explain why he wouldn’t have been able to get those particular shots anyways… 

He decided to count his blessings and be grateful for the fact that he’d had time to cover his face. This was New York after all and even in the middle of an Avenger-level fight, people had stopped to take pictures. And thankfully, even in the photos of him in Hulk’s grasp, his face was shadowed enough that no identifying features were discernible. 

Now, he’s just counting the hours before Iron Man shows back up in his life. He knows there’s no way Tony doesn’t know by now. Not with those photos making the rounds. Even if no one spilled the beans, Tony’s smart. He would’ve put two and two together already. 

Peter feels his heart racing as his anxiety amps up at the thought. The worst part is he’s still not sure whether he’s dreading seeing Tony again… or happy to finally have no more excuses. 

He’d come back to New York five months ago now, with every intention of making amends, of piecing together whatever remnants of his past life remained and figuring out a way to move forward. But once he was actually back in the city, back where it all happened — he found he just couldn’t. 

I’ll do it tomorrow, he would say to himself, navigating away from Ned’s number on his phone. Next week, for sure, he would think, as he detoured three blocks out of his way to avoid passing by the Avenger’s Mansion. Maybe after this next exam, after that work project, after this photoshoot, he would convince himself, letting his current state of busyness serve as ample reason why he couldn’t handle it just yet.  

Peter lets out a sharp exhale as he leans back in his chair, dropping his head back to look at the ceiling as he tries to get his stressful thoughts under control. 

“You’re not still upset over Jonah, are you?” Betty appears to his left, the expression on her face a mixture of pity and judgment as she drops a folder onto his desk. “You know you shouldn’t let him get to you.”

Peter decides to ignore the comment and directs his attention to the folder. “What’s this?” he asks, picking it up. 

“I, um,” Betty lowers her voice and sits against the edge of Peter’s desk, leaning in slightly, “I’m looking into a missing person’s case.”

“Okay,” Peter draws out the word, glancing at her speculatively as he opens the file. 

“Do you remember my friend Gwen Stacy?”

Peter furrows his brow as he tries to recall the name, looking at the photo of an unfamiliar young, blonde woman inside the folder. Then his eyebrows shoot back up as he remembers. “Oh… Wasn’t she—”

“My best friend that I set you up on a blind date with in high school and you stood her up and couldn’t even be bothered to come up with a decent excuse? Yep.”

Peter winces. He definitely remembers that now. He’d had a totally justifiable Spider-Man reason for missing the date, but panicked when he tried to explain to Betty what had happened and ended up giving some lame excuse about pet sitting a friend’s sick hamster. Gwen had, understandably, turned down the offer for a make-up date. 

He frowns as he flips through the file: police reports, school records, news articles.

“She’s missing?”

Betty lets out a sad sigh. “Just over seven months now.”

Peter looks up in surprise. “I’m sorry,” he mutters the platitude, knowing it helped nothing. “Why haven’t you said anything before?”

Betty shrugs. “There wasn’t much to say. The police already stopped doing anything months ago. They didn’t have any leads. Her dad’s even the former police captain and even with his influence, they haven’t been able to find anything.”

“Okay...” Peter glances between the file and her again. “So, why are you telling me now?”

Betty tucks some hair behind her ear. “I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

Peter raises his eyebrows in indication for her to go on.

“Well, Gwen was interning for Curt Connors when she went missing.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “What? Why haven’t I heard anything about that before?” He sits up straight in shock. He’d been working with Dr Connors for three months now. Surely it would have come up?

Betty holds her shoulders in a shrug and looks at Peter intently. “That’s sort of what I was wondering. Has Dr Connors never said anything to you?”

“Never,” Peter responds quietly, slowly shaking his head. 

“Well,” Betty continues after a beat, “everyone sort of dismissed it after there wasn’t any evidence of foul play. Gwen had broken up with her boyfriend not long before, quit her internship, was acting really weird… Even I’ll concede to that.”

“Gwen’s dad told me that someone told the police that she tried to buy poprocks off of them. But I know that’s not true, Gwen would never!” Betty’s voice raised, and she looked around before quickly lowering it again. “But now the police just think she fell in with the wrong crowd and left town on her own. And I just know that’s not the case.”

Peter wears a deep frown as he processes the sudden influx of information dropped on him. 

“And one more thing,” Betty continues. “Eddie, Gwen’s boyfriend, was also interning with Connors. But he also quit and dropped out of ESU after Gwen went missing.”

“What did he have to say about it?” Peter looks up at Betty questioningly.

“Not much. I talked to him… y’know, we’d hung out a few times together with Gwen and I had his phone number from a group text. He said he didn’t know anything. Just said Gwen had definitely been acting weird and after she disappeared, he didn’t feel good about working at the lab without her… even though she had broken up with him and everything. Said it was just bad memories and he was even going to transfer schools.” 

Peter is silent for a few moments.  “Do you believe him?”

“I dunno." Betty shrugs again. “I think so? He never seemed like a bad guy. A little pretentious maybe, but they were good together. I don’t want to think he had anything to do with it, but I’m not crossing off anything until I find more information.”

Peter looks down in thought. “Why would Dr Connors never mention any of this?”

Dr Connors had commented about his previous interns on a handful of occasions. Peter always assumed they had graduated and moved on to new job opportunities. He can’t remember the man saying anything about something bad happening. 

“The police interviewed Connors,” Betty says, “when the case was first opened up. But he refused to talk to anyone who wasn’t officially involved in the investigation. I even went to him a couple months ago when I first started following up on this, but he just got angry when I started asking questions and told me to leave or he’d call security.”

“That doesn’t sound like Dr Connors,” Peter says slowly. 

“I didn’t realize you were working with him,” Betty carries on, excitedly, “until you mentioned his name on the phone the other day. I mean, I knew you had an internship, but we never really talk about stuff outside of work too often, and it just never crossed my mind to ask. It totally caught me off guard.”

“So… what?” Peter prods. “You think he’s involved somehow? 

“I don’t know what to think, Peter. But I know Gwen, and I know for a fact that she didn’t just run off without saying anything to anyone. Something bad happened to her. And I just need to find out what.”

Peter looks at the now-closed file in his hands for a few moments. “Are you asking me to spy on Dr Connors?”

“Not spy .” Betty leans in closer, her voice intent. “Just, maybe see if he’ll say anything to you. Maybe there’s something he forgot to tell the police, or didn’t think was important. I just need something — anything — to go off on.”

Peter looks away uncomfortably. “I mean, I guess I can ask him about it.”

“That’s all I’m asking for,” Betty says with a smile, clearly pleased with his acquiescence. 

“That’s a copy,” she says, pointing to the folder. “You can keep it. If you find out anything, please let me know.”

Peter forces a smile. “Sure, Betty.” 

Betty straightens up, then turns to him once more before leaving.

“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to still have any contacts at Stark Industries who might be able to help?” She asks tentatively. “I know you interned there when we were in high school, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I did.” Peter adjusts his glasses nervously. “But that was years ago. I’m not really in a position to ask for any favors there.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” Betty smiles. “Just thought I’d ask.”

She thanks Peter again before leaving him alone at his desk, wondering what he just got himself into.

Next Time: Tony doesn't take well to being the last one to know...

Chapter Text

Previously: “Who is that?” Tony asks quietly, even though he’s almost positive he already knows the answer. His eyes never leave the screen.

Bruce is silent for a long moment before he answers. 

“It’s Peter, Tony.”

...

A quiet Tony Stark always made Pepper nervous. 

This was a man who craved being the center of attention. Whether out of ingrained need or genuine enjoyment, he commanded every room he entered, and he controlled every conversation he fell into.

Even when alone in his lab inventing, he was non-stop — chattering away to his bots; speaking out loud the racing, untrackable nature of his mind; following rabbit holes of thought that seemed to go nowhere until, suddenly, an answer was found. 

But it wasn’t the quiet of a moment of self-reflection or of a brief pause to ponder the solution to a problem that concerned Pepper. After all, in recent years, Tony had finally found his ‘off’ switch, the ability to just sit back and enjoy the serenity of a cabin porch by a lake. He had finally learned to — after years of Pepper repeating it to him — shut up and listen, and not be so dominating with his words. 

So it wasn’t just silence from Tony that made Pepper worried. 

It was the persistent quiet that got to her — the quiet that accompanied a simmering heat and a dead look. Because she was never quite sure with him. Never quite sure whether he was holding his tongue because he was actively exercising caution, willfully trying to contain his temper before speaking, or… or if the quiet he currently maintained was like a kettle sitting on a hot burner, its contents growing more and more tumultuous until bursting forth into a screaming fit. 

So, as the team stood around in the lab, explaining the week’s earlier events to a quiet Tony Stark, Pepper was nervous. 

Especially since she knew her part in it all, her little secret that was inevitably due to come out, (that little detail she had been omitting from their conversations these last few years), might just be enough to flip his lid. It was a small thing, some might think; but to her husband, she knew, it would be a betrayal of the worst kind, and she didn’t feel quite ready to handle that. 

“I tested my blood when we got back,” Bruce is explaining, “and as we thought, it was a gaseous form of celeramine that affected the Hulk.”

“And the fact that it was in possession of a chimera,” Steve cuts in, “only solidifies the link between the two.”

“Or,” Natasha tacks on with a shrug, “it’s just a crazy, random happenstance.” 

“Coincidence or not, it’s one we can’t ignore,” Steve acknowledges.

There’s silence in the lab as everyone looks toward Tony, who sits on a stool with one hand in his pocket. He remains silent, staring stone-faced at an indiscernible spot on the floor.

With a soft intake of breath, Pepper tentatively takes over. “What does SHIELD have to say about it?”

“Nat and I have a meeting scheduled to discuss it with them tomorrow but, you know how they are.”

“Yeah, good luck getting any straight answers,” Sam scoffs.

“Have they interviewed the… chimera?” Pepper asks, her voice rising at the oddity of the term. 

“From what we’ve heard,” Steve says, “he won’t give them anything. I know they identified him, but I haven’t gotten any specifics beyond that.” He turns to Sam. “Have you found anything new yet?” 

“Nothing. Not a single person will turn on their source. It’s been impossible to track distribution.”

“That’s not loyalty,” Pepper states. “That’s fear. Who has that kind of power?”

“I know Murdock and Co. have feelers out,” Sam continues. “They’ve promised to contact us if anything solid turns up.”

“What,” Tony’s voice cuts in sharp and loud for the first time in the conversation, “does any of this have to do with Peter?” His jaw is stiff and set as he speaks, his tone tightly controlled. 

Looks are exchanged around the room, no one being willing to be the first to speak. 

“Tony, we told you what happened.” Steve takes the charge. “He told Sam—”

“And you just let him leave!” Tony stands, the stool screeching against the floor and nearly toppling. 

“It’s not like I had a choice,” Sam bitingly responds. "And Peter obviously didn't want to hang around."

"You should have—"

"Should have what, Tony?!" Sam snaps, his volume rising to meet Tony's. "The kid couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I wasn’t exactly about to keep him against his will.”

“You should have called me—”

“You were unreachable! You were at the cabin!”

“You would have gotten through if you cared enoug—”

“He didn’t want you to know!” Sam delivers that with a bit more rage than intended. It’s hard to miss the flinch that elicits from Tony, who turns away sharply, his back to the room. 

Sam takes a calming breath before continuing at a measured tone. “He asked me not to say anything. To you, specifically. He’s not a teenager anymore. And he’s not an Avenger. He’s been out there living his life for years, and we can’t go against his wishes just because he happens to be in town. He doesn’t answer to us… or to you.”

There’s no response to that and the quiet carries on long enough to become awkward. 

“And you knew?” Tony looks to Steve and Natasha. His voice is low now as he barely even attempts to conceal the expression of hurt (and incredulity) on his face. “He’s been here, what, months at the least, and you knew? The whole time?”

Steve is shamefaced, but Natasha holds his glower and raises her chin. 

Pepper draws in a small breath and steels herself. 

“Five months.”

Every head in the room turns and stares at her. Pepper ignores all of them except Tony.

“He’s been back for five months. Before that…” She has to take a resolving breath before she continues. “He was in Tennessee, with Harley.”

Without a word — simply placing a comforting hand on Pepper’s shoulder as she passes — Natasha leaves the room. Every other Avenger follows her lead, until Tony and Pepper are alone.

“I’ve been keeping tabs on him, making sure he’s safe.” Pepper refuses to break eye contact with her husband. She’s not ashamed, even if the guilt is killing her. “He only ever made you promise not to look for him. I made no such deal.”

A quiet Tony Stark always made Pepper nervous. And at this moment, in this room, the silence was entirely deafening. 

Peter fidgets nervously with the project in front of him, hands fiddling with delicate components even as his mind is elsewhere. He tries to focus on the task at hand, which proves all but impossible as he strains to extend his hearing out to the hallway until, finally, distinctive footsteps make their way towards the lab. 

‘Please be good news, please be good news,’ he thinks.

The lab door opens and Peter’s project is unceremoniously abandoned on the workbench as he jumps to his feet. 

It was the first day of fall classes at Empire State University when Dr Connors asked Peter to stay a few minutes late after their first lecture. 

“Uh, yes, sir?” Peter asked, making his way up to the front while wondering what he could have possibly done to have already gained attention. He couldn’t think of anything. He was intentionally making every effort to just lay low and be normal. 

“Peter Parker,” the doctor said slowly, looking up from the class list. “You wouldn’t happen to be…” Peter felt slightly awkward as Dr Connors seemed to study him. “Well, hell, you look just like him...”

“Sir?” Peter asked.

“You’re Rich’s boy, aren’t you?”

Peter straightened in surprise at the question, spoken more like a statement. “Um. Richard Parker was my dad, yeah.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Dr Connors removed his glasses and wiped them down with his shirt as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. 

“Did you… know him, sir?” Peter prodded. 

“I did,” Connors smiled gently. “We were actually research partners for several years, up until...well, until he passed away.”

The man who enters is middle-aged, tall and square-jawed, with dark brown hair in a classic men’s cut and wearing a white lab coat. His demeanor is calm, if not tightly controlled, as he closes the door softly behind himself again before looking up to meet Peter’s expectant stare. 

“Well?” Peter prompts. 

Dr Connors sighs. “I have been… officially encouraged to change the nature of my research.”

“What?!” The word explodes from Peter. “That’s bullshit!”

“Unfortunately,” Dr Connors resignedly makes his way to his workstation, “bullshit or not, it is what the board has decided, and we must make our peace with that.” He sits at the stool heavily. “And, it’s not wholly unexpected, you and I both know. I just hoped…” he trails off, then looks to Peter with a weary smile. “Well, hope is a feeble thing, no? And we must carry on.”

“That’s it?” Peter asks. “C’mon, Dr Connors, there has to be something we can do! We’ll show them the research, show them how close you are. We can make them understand—”

Peter is abruptly cut off by Connors loud chuckle. He frowns. 

“What?”

Connors wipes at the corner of his eye, expression considerably lightened. “You just remind me so much of your dad sometimes. He could never take no for an answer either.”

Peter is speechless for a moment, then cracks a small, uneven grin. “Well, maybe you could learn a thing or two from us Parkers.” 

“Oh, you’re not wrong there, Peter,” Dr Connors says, “but in this instance, sadly, the board has made up their mind.”

“It’s not right.”

“Maybe. But I can certainly see their perspective. And I’m old enough and experienced enough to recognize a losing battle when I’m in one.”

Connors had offered Peter the open internship position barely two weeks after their first meeting. 

Peter learned that Dr Connors’ ongoing research was the same project that his dad and Connors had been working on together back in the day. They had been studying ways to accelerate the healing capabilities in normal human beings, studying both natural life such as the regenerative abilities found in lizards, as well as the enhancements done to Captain America in the 1940s. They were trying to find a way to target specifically the gene that affected healing and force it to mutate to an accelerated capacity, without affecting any other gene mutations in normal humans. 

The doctor sits heavily into the lab stool. Before him, pages of research —  printed, handwritten, and largely, a mixture of the two — are scattered across the table. The look on his face incites a lack of words in Peter; it’s a tender subject, for the both of them, but he knows Dr Connors has given his life to this research. To be shown such a lack of faith in those funding said research… defeat hangs heavy in the air. 

There had been a fire in the lab just a few days before Richard and Mary were in the car crash that took their lives. All the research that Connors and Richard had worked on for years was gone, and he was left without his partner to help him recompile it. 

Connors’ son, Billy, passed away from a terminal illness in the following year.

The momentary quiet is so dense that Peter is almost startled when Dr Connors speaks. 

“Richard and I spent so much time working on this together, but your father was the real genius, you know,” Connors gives a small smile, “I’m man enough to admit that.” 

“C’mon, doc!” Peter immediately jumps in. He sits on a stool and scoots it close. “You’re like, the smartest person I know… or, at least in the top three… well, top ten definitely… I know that doesn’t sound great but I’ve known a lot of crazy smart people.” 

That elicits the chuckle from Dr Connors that Peter was hoping for, before he sighs again.

“I just wish I had some sort of base samples to work from. Maybe we’d see some actual progress then,” the man continues earnestly. “My own DNA is barely helpful. There are some remaining markers, but they just haven’t proved useful.”

Peter’s gaze shifts to Dr Connors right arm. He never quite got over it. Knowing that where there had been previously nothing, there was now a fully biological flesh-and-blood arm was incredible. 

Connors was a war veteran — a former army medic — and had lost his arm from an explosion during the Gulf War. Even before Billy got sick, he had started his research in hopes that he would find a way to regenerate his own arm, and in turn, help other veterans and people who suffered in tragic accidents.

Peter more and more found himself turning to Connors as inspiration. Here was a man, flying completely under the radar of most people, who could just change the world for the better. No heroics. No court of public opinion. Simply a scientist trying to improve lives. It gave Peter hope for his own future.

A small swell of anxiety builds suddenly at the thought of another man he had considered a mentor. Peter tries to push his thoughts away from the image of Iron Man suddenly showing up at ESU. 

“I’ve spent so long attempting this,” Connors continues, then he pauses. “I can hardly fault the board. Honestly, I think maybe I’ve started given up hope myself.”

Peter is hit with a familiar pit in his stomach, as so often happens when he’s in the lab these days; a sickening, anxious feeling.  

‘I could help,’ he thinks.

He’s tempted. He thinks of the blood flowing through his veins right now, knows that it could be a key breakthrough in the study, in this research that could help millions of people. 

He takes a small breath, but the words at the tip of his tongue never come. 

“But I’m just being defeatist, aren’t I?” Connors throws up his hands. “It’s a setback, certainly. But I’m lucky to have that endless Parker optimism back in the lab! We’ll pivot. You’ve been making progress on your drone project, yes? Why don’t you show me where you’re at and we’ll see if there’s something to build from there…”

Peter doesn’t share his secret. Not today. But as he walks the professor through his personal project, he can’t help but keep the thought in the back of his mind. 

‘I was Spider-Man… I can help.’

And Peter didn't remember til later that he entirely forgot to bring up Gwen Stacy.

Next time:  Mr Stark checks up on his kid...

Chapter Text

It’s just past 3 am when Peter wakes from the nightmare. 

He checks the time on his phone and falls back into his pillow, trying to get his racing heart under control.

“Haven’t had that one in a while,” he mumbles blearily to no one, running a hand over his face. 

He lies there for 20 minutes before grudgingly accepting that he won’t be falling back asleep anytime soon. And suddenly he’s starving. 

Wincing from the bright light as he opens the fridge, he’s disappointed to find very little inside and decides to head down to the 24-hour corner store a few blocks away. Some brisk, night air could do him good anyway. 

A short time later, Peter is walking back to his apartment, a yellow, plastic bag full of junk food in one hand, and finishing off the second of the two hotdogs he had purchased in the other. He takes the last bite when a familiar feeling of unease passes through him. ‘Is that your Peter-Tingle acting up again?’ May laughs before Peter can force away the memory. 

He stops in his tracks and looks around. Nothing immediately stands out to him, but he feels his spider-sense again and this time, it pinpoints an alley just ahead to his right. 

He hesitates for only a second before he moves towards the alley, quietly setting down his bag before sidling up to the wall to listen in. He may not be Spider-Man anymore, but that doesn’t mean he won’t help where he can when he can. 

He tunes in to the sound of voices from within the alley. A man and a woman from the sound of it. Predictably, they seem to be arguing. 

“—crazy! I keep telling you, this is the best thing for you,” comes the man’s voice. 

“No!” the woman shrieks, “You can’t do this to me!” 

There’s the sound of a scuffle, and something falling on the ground.

“Keep your voice down, you psycho! If you’d just—” 

He doesn’t need to hear more. Peter pulls the hood of his jacket up over his head and steps into the alleyway. 

“Hey!” he says with all the confidence of Spider-Man. “I’d say no means no, but if you haven’t figured that out by now then I worry about your memory retention.” 

The man is large. Absurdly so. He’s well over six feet, but his proportions are all off. His torso is built like a triangle, fairly thin at the waist, but growing disproportionately large in his upper abdomen. His head seems far too small atop his massive shoulders and it looks like his muscles are straining to bust out of his ill-fitted clothes. 

This guy has to be on some crazy steroids and bodybuilding routine, Peter decides.

The woman is considerably smaller, with frizzy hair and wild eyes. The man is holding her by the shoulder, one hand clamped over her mouth, as she hits his chest with closed fists. Her purse lays fallen over on the ground nearby.

“What the—” the man looks up, startled at Peter’s entrance. The woman takes the opportunity to knee him between the legs, causing him to release a stream of expletives and let go of her. She stumbles away from him, towards the fallen purse.

“Hey—no, stop!” the man moves to grab after her and Peter intervenes. He crosses the distance between them and grabs the man by his absurdly built forearm. 

“Hey buddy, that’s enough—” Peter barely has time to get the words out before a fist is flying at his face. 

He should have been able to dodge it. He knows this even as he flies back towards the wall, his feet leaving the ground, face immediately throbbing as tears spring unbidden to his eyes, blood rushing from his nose. He should have (could have) dodged. But whether it was his lack of sleep, his stress level, his mental status after a rough nightmare… Whatever it was, his body didn’t respond in time and suddenly his back and head are cracking against the brick wall with a force that would have seriously maimed a normal human.

The next thing he realizes is: that punch wasn’t from a normal human. Spider-Man had been punched by far too many enhanced beings in the past to know that feeling of power behind it. And Peter would say with one hundred percent certainty that this guy’s strength didn’t come from a sick workout routine. 

As Peter tries to reorient himself, the man turns back towards the woman, lunging after her almost desperately. She’s scrabbling for her purse in the dim light, reaching into it, and suddenly she whips around and holds a gun right up to the man’s face. 

He immediately steps back and freezes with a bitten-off curse. 

“Susan,” the man says, now sounding extremely nervous, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just give it to me, Arthur!” she screams, waving the gun at the man.  “I know you have it!” She, Susan, clearly doesn’t know how to handle the weapon, but that possibly only makes it more dangerous.

Peter doesn’t know if it’s the blow to his head or what, but he has no idea what’s going on anymore. He’s starting to think that maybe he had misread the situation.

“For god’s sake, here!” The man, Arthur, hurriedly reaches into his pocket, and pulls something out, throwing it to the ground between them. It falls with the soft rustling of plastic.

“Why did you throw it on the ground?” Susan asks, almost panicky. 

“I don’t know, you’re pointing a gun at me! I thought that’s what I’m supposed to do!” Arthur responds, voice just as alarmed. The man is seeming less and less menacing by the moment than Peter originally thought. 

It seems like neither of these people knows what they’re doing and it’s making Peter’s head hurt. Or maybe that was the brick wall. Either way. He stands up slowly, leaning on the wall. 

“Okay, one of you is going to need to explain what’s going on,” he says. And the next thing he knows, Susan is pointing the gun at him. 

“Woah, lady,” Peter holds his hands up, “I’m just trying to help you here.”

“Just—just stay right there!” Susan yells. 

“She’s crazy, man.” Arthur shakes his head. “Don’t even bother. Wait—” He double-takes his glance at Peter. “Wait, are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you that hard!”

I should have stayed in bed, Peter thinks in a daze. He hears the police sirens in the distance before the other two can. Someone must have heard the shouting...or maybe it’s completely unrelated. It’s not exactly an unusual sound in NYC. 

“Shut up!” Susan swings the gun back towards Arthur. In her frenzy, her finger must spasm on the trigger. Everyone in the alley freezes in silence for a moment after the startling sound of the gun goes off. The bullet embeds in the brick wall near Arthur.

“Susan! Oh my god!” Arthur exclaims.

“I—I didn’t mean to…” she gasps. 

Deciding it’s clearly time to end this, Peter takes advantage of their momentary shock. He kicks off the wall, flipping to cover the distance between them quickly. Breaking Susan’s hold on the gun, he easily disarms her and empties the clip onto the ground. 

“Alright, can we all just chill now?” Peter pleads wearily. “Because I am seriously—”

Susan gasps suddenly. “It’s the cops,” she whispers, as the sirens suddenly come within range of normal hearing. She takes a step back, and her eyes shift between the packet still lying on the ground and Peter, who is standing between them. 

Peter looks down at the packet lying near his feet and picks it up. It’s a clear plastic baggie filled with a crumbly, red substance. Peter instantly recognizes it from the news reports he’s been following. 

“Are these poprocks?” He asks incredulously. “Lady,” he addresses Susan, “don’t you know this stuff’ll mess you up? You’re better off without it...”

Peter looks up to see Susan booking it to the opening at the opposite end of the valley. 

“Well she seemed to take that to heart,” he murmurs, then yells, “I mean... Wait! You have to—the cops! I need to give you to the cops…” 

He sighs and drops his hands, then remembers Arthur. The man is still standing on the other side of him, the deer-in-the-headlights look on his face completely quelling any intimidation factor he gained from his sheer size. Peter realizes the man is probably not much older than himself. 

“Well, are you gonna wait around, buddy?” Peter questions, exasperated. “Cause I have no idea what happened here and they’re gonna need a statement, so—”

Arthur runs. 

Peter half-heartedly reaches a hand out, as if to grab him, but it falls back to his side limply. 

He lets out a long sigh. And then realizes he’s standing in a dark alley with a bag of drugs, a bloody nose, and a recently fired gun. 

“Oh… fuck.”

He moves to drop the packet of poprocks but hesitates. It would be interesting to take a closer look at these. After all, he’d be at the lab tomorrow…

Peter pockets the drugs.

As the police vehicles draw near, no one sees the dark figure that quickly scales up the side of the alleyway and onto the roof above. 

Tony isn’t nervous. 

He’s not. 

The only reason his heart is beating so fast is because he had to take the stairs, as the elevator had an ‘out of order’ sign that was clearly collecting dust. The only reason he feels sick to his stomach is that banana he had this morning that was definitely too brown and he only ate because Pepper was insistent that he eat something. And the only reason his skin feels clammy is… well, maybe he’s just having a heart attack. That could explain it. 

But he isn’t nervous. 

He’s standing in a dimly lit, unkept hallway of a small apartment building that has definitely seen better days. He’s already noticed four fire hazards and is seriously considering calling a city inspector to get this place up to code. It’s clearly unsafe for the residents. 

He clears his throat and drops his head to hide his face as someone walks past him down the hallway. They look shady. Definitely up to no good. He wonders what kind of ruffians live here. Certainly no place for a kid.

Forcing himself not to loiter for any longer than he already has, Tony lifts his hand and knocks solidly on the door four times. As he does, he envisions the next few moments.  

Peter opens the door. He looks grown; a fresh-faced young man. (When did he stop being a kid?) His eyes are wide, surprised to see Tony. 

“Mr. Stark?” he whispers. 

“Hey, kiddo.” Tony smiles. 

After a moment of shock, Pete’s signature grin splits his face and grabs Tony in a familiar hug. 

“I’m home,” the kid says. 

There’s no answer to his knocks. Tony frowns and knocks on the door again, impatient to see his kid now. 

He looks at his watch. 8:32am. That’s a reasonable time for a Saturday, right? He wanted to be early enough that he could catch Peter before he’d be heading out for the day to do... whatever he does now. He knows the kid was never an early riser, but he doesn’t know what kind of schedule he’s operating on now. 

He bangs on the door this time. 

There’s a thump from inside the apartment. He hears a muffled and clearly aggravated “hold on!” before the doorknob is suddenly turning and the door is yanked open, just far enough for the chain lock to catch.

The first thing he notices is the black eye. And then how pale the kid is. 

A tense beat of silence passes between them. The kid’s eyes widen almost comically, for just a moment, before his whole face closes off. 

“Hi, Pete,” the words leave his mouth without his control. His tone is flat, maybe a little sardonic. Not what he was planning on going for, but since when does he stick to plans?

“Nope,” Peter deadpans before slamming the door firmly in Tony’s face. 

Well, then.

Certainly not how he envisioned this going but...Tony can’t say he’s exactly surprised. 

He takes a deep breath, and then knocks again, softly this time. 

“C’mon kid,” Tony says, keeping his voice low and leaning towards the door. He doesn’t want to draw attention and he knows Peter can hear him. “I just wanna talk.”

Silence.

“It’s been three years,” he pushes, “you can’t give me ten minutes?”

More silence. 

Tony takes another deep breath, trying to calm his rising blood pressure. He switches tactics.

“You know how easy it’d be for me to get through this door, right? I’ll pay for the damages, your landlord needn’t worry. You, on the other hand...Well, I’m sure you’re trying to avoid drawing attention, and well, frankly I’m not exactly a low-profile kind of guy so—”

He hears the sound of the chain being undone. The door swings open, almost violently. Peter has already turned away, walking back into the apartment. Tony follows him inside and closes the door behind them. 

He takes a moment to examine the room. It’s small, a one-room studio. Tony knows for a fact he’s had walk-in closets bigger than the whole apartment. The furniture is sparse and Tony would be willing to bet that Peter found it all either dumped in alleyways or on street corners. And it’s not exactly… clean. There’s trash littered everywhere: soda bottles, paper wrappers, fast food bags. 

He looks up to find Pete staring at him, arms crossed, meeting his eyes with an expression almost daring Tony to say something about his home. He doesn’t. Instead, he now examines Peter. 

His shoulders have broadened, his jaw sharper. Not exactly fresh-faced; there’s a little stubble lining his face and dark bags under his eyes (not even taking into account the bruising).

Tony is shocked to find he actually has to look up slightly to meet his eyes — the kid went and grew taller than him; must have had a late growth spurt. 

And Tony wasn’t there to see it happen. 

He pushes away the mounting emotions with a harsh sniff. 

“Well, you look terrible, Pete.” He shrugs, looking away from the kid and jamming his hands casually into his pockets. It’s true. He wonders if the kid has been eating enough, and immediately concludes that he almost certainly hasn’t been. 

He notices the laptop lying open on the twin bed. The screen is paused on a tv show. 

“The Office?” Tony questions, nodding his head towards it. “You only watch that when you’re depressed.”

“Or if I’m bored.” Peter may have rolled his eyes, his tone laced with a disdain that made Tony’s hackles rise, but it’s the first thing his kid has said to him in over two years, and damn if he didn’t miss that voice. 

“Where’d you get that black eye?” he deflects. 

Peter looks away for a moment. “A mugging.” He shrugs.

Tony cocks his head incredulously. “You got mugged?”

“No, someone else.” The eye roll again. “I just stepped in. It’s fine.”

Tony hums. “Interesting.” 

Peter’s whole body tenses. Funny, Tony thinks, even just as Peter Parker, kid can’t resist helping people in need. And he’s so insistent he can’t be Spider-Man anymore. 

Tony casually walks over to the counter, where a textbook lies open. He flips up the cover to read the title, Essentials of Genetics. He wonders if the kid is going to school. 

In the corner of his eye, Tony sees Peter’s mouth moving in that way it always does when he really wants to say something but is trying to hold himself back. Pete closes his eyes briefly as he takes a deep breath. 

“So, did you just come here to tell me how awful I look,” Peter diverts, “or is there a point to this?”

“You’re back!” Tony says abruptly, spinning back to face him, hands in the air, a fraudulent smile thrown onto his face. 

“Yeah,” the kid says, unimpressed. “I am.”

“You didn’t tell me.” Tony works hard to keep the hurt out of his voice. It shouldn’t be this difficult for him. He’s used to putting on a mask — the majority of his life a Tony-Award winning level performance. But there was a time when he didn’t need to with Pete. 

“Yet here you are,” Pete shoots back without missing a beat. 

Tony can’t stand the hostility. It physically wears on him. He thought that, maybe, after all this time, things would’ve gotten to a point where they could actually talk, maybe start to rebuild their relationship again. It’s taking everything in him not to have wrapped Peter up in a hug the moment he saw him through that door, and at the same time, he wants to knock the kid over the head. 

It’s very conflicting.

“What do you expect me to do, kid?” He asks softly, earnestly, stepping closer to Pete. “It’s been three years,” he stresses. “Three years. And I kept my word. I didn’t go looking for you. I didn’t keep tabs. Complete radio silence…”

Tony looks away out the small, dingy window for a moment till the heat in his eyes cools off, then continues. “And then I find out you’ve been back? For months? And it seems like everyone knew but me. So. What did you expect me to do?”

Peter looks down, jaw tense. 

“I missed you, Pete. I just want you to come back.”

Peter’s brow furrows. “So, that’s it then?” he asks, “You want me back on the team?” There’s almost a sneer on the kid’s face and it’s so unlike the Peter that Tony knew once upon a time, it breaks his heart. 

“I don’t need you to be Spider-Man,” Tony says immediately. “I think it’d be good for you, sure. I think it’d be good for New York, for the world. But I just want my kid back.”

“I’m not your kid, Tony.” There’s no hesitation as Peter says it, his voice is so low that Tony barely hears it. 

Tony stills. He feels hesitant, unsure — all the things that he’s not. 

“I know that, Pete,” he says after a moment. “I still wish you’d come back.”

The silence lay heavy. 

Peter looks up at him. Tony swears he sees something break in the kid’s eyes; Pete opening his mouth with a slight inhale, as though to speak. And then something hardens in him, and his face returns to the impassive detachment he’d been maintaining since Tony stepped over the threshold. 

“Can you leave now?” Pete’s tone held no room for disagreement, and Tony couldn’t find it in himself to push the kid further. 

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll leave. But—” Tony pulls something out of his pocket and lays it delicately on the table. “Here. It’s a comlink. If you ever change your mind… or if you just need to get in touch, just turn it on and ask for the operator. You’ll be put through.”

Peter scoffs softly, but picks it up nevertheless, turning the device in his fingers. “Who’s the operator? FRIDAY?”

Tony lets out a low chuckle at that, switching his somber demeaning instantly to something, not light-hearted, but more casual. “Well, you’ll find out if you ever use it,” he says, intentionally cryptic. 

“It was good to see you, kid.” 

And Tony leaves. 

Chapter Text

What an absolute disaster. 

Peter grinds his teeth as he stands in the crowded subway train, on his way to ESU to meet up with Dr Connors. 

His adrenaline hasn’t come down since he first realized that it was Tony freaking Stark, the man himself, standing outside his door this morning. He doesn’t know what else he expected. He’d been thinking of little else the last few days, after all. 

But it was Saturday morning and he had barely slept at all that night after the nightmare and subsequent encounter in the alleyway. To be woken to pounding on his door was less than ideal, only serving to put him in a highly-agitated mood. He’d assumed it was Mr Ditkovich, back to hassle him about rent. 

He hadn’t meant to slam the door on Tony. Not really. It was just instinct — an undeniable impulse in response to freaking the fuck out.

As much as he wanted to just leave Tony standing out there and simply not open up again, that wasn’t really an option (even before the man’s threats about busting the door down). 

Shame crept in as he glanced around his dirty apartment. This wasn’t the way he wanted to present himself. The mess was embarrassing and he briefly considered grabbing a trash bag and to clear some of it before letting the man in. But he pushed those thoughts away.

No. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Tony was intruding on his space, unannounced, uninvited, and Peter wasn’t going to bend over backwards in concern of what the older man thought of him. So he settled for throwing on a (probably) clean shirt and flinging the door open.

The rest of the meeting was…

Peter didn’t know what to think about it really. 

It certainly didn’t go the way he wanted. He hadn’t meant to be quite as hostile as he ended up being. And he really didn’t intend to hurt Tony’s feelings (well, maybe just a little, but not quite as much as he’s sure he did). 

But the man had strolled in there so utterly...aloof, and Peter didn’t know where to go with that. His clearly judgemental glances around the apartment didn’t help in any measure, and Peter was just waiting for the snide comments, the off-hand remarks about it, that he wasn’t expecting when the man verbally attacked Peter himself, rather than the room. 

(And Peter knows he’s being dramatic, he really does). Tony’s questions were all borne out of thinly-veiled concern, not scorn or condescension, but he and Tony have always fed off each other — their conversations and interactions all an ongoing give-and-take. And their mutual uncertainty in how to handle the situation had led to...whatever that was. 

Yet, even when Tony extended an olive branch, had dropped the act, tried to open up a real discussion, Peter couldn’t help but think: It’s too late. 

The trust they once had was lost. And time — time that was meant to give Peter some space to breathe and process, and had lasted way longer than originally intended — had only served to further widen the divide between them into a veritable chasm. 

The crackling voice from the subway’s intercom breaks through Peter’s thoughts with an almost-unintelligible announcement informing that he is at his stop. 

***

“Peter! What on earth happened to you?”

While his face looks much better than it would have without his healing factor, the purpley-yellow bruise still sits extremely noticeable around his eye. 

He chuckles self-consciously, rubbing his neck. “Ah, nothing to worry about, Doc, really.”

Luckily, he hadn’t seen Dr Connors since Wednesday and could claim the ugly but fading bruise was received a few days ago if the man pressed, instead of the roughly 8 hours it had actually been. 

Connors makes a noise in the back of his throat, clearly unsatisfied with the explanation. “Well, it’s quite the shiner.” He hesitates. "Is...everything okay?" He clearly tries to make it sound casual, but his tone is anything but.

Peter feels a small blossom of warmth in his chest at the man's concern. 

"Yeah," he affirms enthusiastically, "I went out for drinks with some friends the other day and things... got a little out of hand." He gives an exaggerated shrug. The lie rolls off his tongue — and earns a chuckle from Connors.

"Well," the professor says, "I'm glad to hear you've expanded your social life, Peter. Even at the expense of your, ah, well, face. I was starting to worry you did nothing but work."

"C'mon, Doc," Peter protests, "I'm the shining example of a healthy work-life balance!" 

Connors looks comically unimpressed. “Right,” the doctor shoots back sarcastically, “and I’m Iron Man.” Luckily, Connors is already facing away and doesn’t see Peter’s grimace at that. 

“How’re your...nano...nesters... coming along?” Connors asks, speaking Peter’s chosen name for the device distastefully.

“Oh, great!” Peter is happy to change the subject. He unzips his backpack and pulls out the metal spheres. “Here, lemme show you what I’ve done.”

“And you’re still sure you want to go with that name?” Connors asks hesitantly as he walks around the table to take a closer look. 

Peter laughs and gives a cheerful, affirmative, “Yep!”

Connors groans theatrically before leaning in to listen. Peter shows the doctor his recent changes, and they talk through some new ideas he had. Once Peter is finished, Connors walks back over to the workstation he had been working at before Peter arrived. 

“You do look tired,” he says suddenly from his place across the room. “It’s alright if you want to skip out today. I’m mostly just reviewing some old data and making updates. I’d be quite fine on my own.”

“Nah.” Peter systematically removes the remainder of his work supplies from his backpack and starts working on the devices. “I could use the distraction, honestly.”

“Something on your mind?” Connors asks.

Peter is silent while he fiddles with the nano-nesters, allowing himself to look particularly focused on his task while he decides how to answer. Connors doesn’t push any further, allowing Peter to choose whether or not to break the silence.

“I, um...” Peter starts hesitantly as he fidgets with some wiring. 

He trusts Dr Connors. He’s comfortable sharing things with the man, but the extent of his involvement with Tony Stark and obviously the whole Spider-Man aspect are topics he needs to tread carefully around. 

While Connors knows the official cover story of Peter having “interned” for Stark Industries, and even that he had grown fairly close to Tony Stark himself, the doctor’s open distaste for the Avengers made it a bit of an awkward subject.

“I ran into an old friend— or, uh...” He struggles to classify his relationship with Tony. “Uh, mentor? I guess. And anyways, we had, like, a falling out a while back and haven’t really seen each other since, so it was...weird, I guess.” 

Connors hmm’s softly, changing out slides on the microscope he’s using. “Do you want to talk about it?”

This is what Peter likes about Dr Connors. The man never pushes. He prods certainly, out of concern, but he does it in such a “it’s not a big deal” way that immediately puts Peter at ease. It’s such a striking contrast to Tony who always pushed, who was always so overbearing, so protective, so much, that his concern often felt downright controlling. 

(That’s not fair. He changed. He was doing better.) Peter ignores his own unwanted thoughts.

“Um...” Peter considers. “I dunno. I think I just need to distract myself for now.”

“Of course.” Connors shoots him a quick smile. “But…” The man pauses and Peter looks up. “Do you have someone to talk to?” 

“What do you mean?” Peter asks, fiddling with the materials in front of him. Keeping his hands busy always helped steady him. “I—”

Connors folds his hands together, abandoning the pretense of focussing on his work and turning his full attention to Peter. “You know what I mean, Peter. You really never do talk about your life outside of the confines of work and school. Do you have anyone that you can talk to about these things?”

Peter opens his mouth to respond, but Connors continues. “You can always talk to me, of course, I hope you know that. But I’m not a part of your peer group. I can’t understand your experiences in the same way. It’s important to have friends your age as well.”

“I have friends!” Peter objects indignantly. 

Connors just raises both of his eyebrows. 

Peter takes a breath to argue, but just pauses with his mouth hanging open a little. He slowly grits his teeth back together. 

“Okay,” he says irritably, looking down, “fine. So I don’t have friends. But I really don’t have time for all that anyways.” 

(Yeesh, from one interrogation to another.) He tries to push down a surge of annoyance. (Give me a fricken break.)

“That’s something you make time for, Peter,” Connors says kindly. The man remains silent until Peter gives in and looks back up at him. There’s a patient smile on his face.

“What about your high school friends you were thinking about contacting?” the doctor continues. “Ned and Michelle, right? Did you ever reach out?”

Peter feels sudden guilt for responding so defensively. He knows Dr Connors isn’t wrong. And he appreciates the man remembering his friends’ names. It was weeks ago that he had mentioned them. Connors had clearly been listening and paying attention to him, and that small thing means a lot. 

“No, I haven’t yet.” Peter shrugs. “But you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Peter. I just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. I know better than anyone how easy it is to fall into your work and lose sight of everything else.” The words are said with a certain amount of bitterness that catches Peter off-guard. 

Peter smiles up at the man briefly. “Yeah. I’ve honestly been meaning to do better… Things just sort of build up, you know?”

Connors nods. “I know that well.”

They lapse into silence, each of them working on their individual projects. 

“Hey, Dr Connors?” Peter asks quietly after a while. 

“Yes, Peter?”

“What happened to Gwen Stacy?”

Connors looks up sharply. Peter waits, meeting his gaze. He has a sudden urge to know what happened to the previous intern that Connors never spoke of. 

Connors face falls, shoulders slumping slightly. 

“Ah,” he says, “I was wondering when you might ask about that.”

Peter doesn’t respond and waits for the man to go on. 

“What do you know?”

“Not much,” Peter says, “Just that she went missing awhile ago and she had been interning with you. I have a friend who knew her.”

“Well. I’m not really sure what to tell you, Peter.” Connors leans back in his chair. “I understand your curiosity but I really don’t know what happened with Gwen. She was...exceptional. A brilliant girl. But…” Connors takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “She was troubled. I don’t know what was going on but I think she made some bad friends, and I know she was under a lot of pressure, both academically and personally. And then she went missing.”

Connors scratches at his head and adjusts his glasses. 

“She never said anything to you?” Peter asks. 

“I tried to have a conversation with her, when it became clear she was struggling. But she was always a fairly private person and she never did open up with me.”

“What about Eddie Brock?” Peter leans in closer. 

“Eddie?” Connors questions. 

“Yeah,” Peter says, “my friend says they were dating?”

“Yes,” Connors confirms, “they met here at the university. But they broke up before Gwen went missing.” Connors pauses. “That may have contributed to her poor state of mind, but I understand she’s the one who called it off.”

“And you have no idea what could have really happened to her?”

Connors peers at Peter intently. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Oh,” Peter starts, “well, I mean, I just heard about all this recently. I guess I was just wondering…” He gives a half-hearted shrug. 

Connors sighs deeply. “Gwen was a wonderful girl, Peter. It...still pains me greatly to think about what may have happened to her. I apologize if it felt like I was keeping anything from you. That was never my intention.”

“Oh no, of course not, Dr Connors,” Peter rushes to assure the man. “I really was just wondering...Um, do you think she’s...I mean, do you think—”

“Do I think she’s still alive?” Connors interjects.

“Uh, yeah.” He feels bad digging into this, but he did promise Betty and, as selfish as it was, it was helpful in distracting him from his own problems. 

“I’m honestly not sure, Peter,” Connors responds. The man’s face twists with emotion, and he looks away. “I hope so,” he says, quietly. “Hope is all that is available to us right now. There’s been no progress from what I understand to point to evidence either way. But I certainly hope that one day Gwen finds her way back home, if she is still able to. Or at the very least, that her father can be brought some closure and peace.”

Connors sniffs and removes his glasses from his face to wipe the lenses with his shirt. 

Peter gives small nods, turning his attention down to the nano-nester in his hand to give the doctor some privacy while he composes himself. 

“I’m sorry,” the boy says after a few moments. “I hope so too.”

Connors smiles. “I’m glad Gwen has friends who are still concerned about her. It would be all the greater a tragedy if she were to be forgotten.”

After that, they turn their attention back to their research, exchanging ideas and advice in companionable comfort, and Peter is able to push away his stress and worries for a while with the distraction.

Peter leaves the lab around 2:00 pm. While he waits for the elevator, he pulls out his phone and opens the only text saved in his drafts. 

To: Ned, MJ

Hey guys. I’m back in New York. I was hoping maybe we could meet up sometime? And talk? I don’t like how we left things. Hope to hear from you soon.. :)

He only hesitates for a moment, then hits ‘send’. 

He doesn’t smile, but a burden lifts. 

He doesn’t want to be forgotten. 

***

Ned: Im just saying...maybe we should see what he has to say

MJ: We did already. He had his chance and we moved on, and he chose not to.

Ned: U don’t think that’s a little harsh? 

Ned: ?

Ned: I think we should. Anyways, I’m goingto even if you don’t

Ned: I miss him, don’t u?

Ned: Sorry, i know u do. I just think it would be good

Ned: For all of us

Ned: Mj?

MJ: Oh my god dude, just chill out, I’m thinking

Ned: K...just let me know what u think about

Michelle growls in annoyance and slams her phone onto the table. 

Angrily grabbing up the papers lying on the desk in front of her, she starts sorting them in the most aggressive way one can sort papers. 

“Uhhh, Michelle?...You okay over there?” Foggy Nelson asks hesitantly, looking up from his laptop. 

“Just peachy,” Michelle responds between clenched teeth. 

“Okay,” Foggy responds slowly, getting up from his desk, a folder in hand. “Well, in that case, could you follow up on this for me, please?” He drops the folder onto her desk. 

Michelle shoots him a sharp glare, which he pointedly ignores. 

“What is it?” she asks, opening it up.

“Arthur Nagan,” Foggy says, leaning on the edge of Michelle’s desk. “He may be either a possible witness or a suspect related to a poprocks case.” Michelle raises an eyebrow curiously at that. 

“Witnesses saw him fleeing an alleyway shortly after a gunshot was heard in Queens.” 

“And what does that have to do with poprocks?”

“Well,” Foggy continues, “the gun was recovered in the alleyway. It had fingerprints matching a woman by the name of Susan Monaghan, as well as another set that weren’t identifiable from the police database. Monaghan, however, has been arrested several times for possession of illegal narcotics. When the police confronted her, she struck a deal and named Nagan as her supplier of poprocks.”

“Seriously?” Michelle sits back, shocked. “Nobody’s been saying anything about where they’re getting that stuff. This could be huge if it’s true.”

“Exactly.” Foggy inclines his head towards her. “Except...there’s nothing on Nagan aside from Monaghan’s word. They can’t arrest him and when the police confronted him, he refused to talk to them or let them enter without a warrant.”

“Smart man,” Michelle hums. 

“Yeah, but reports say he was acting really shifty.” 

“So, you want me to go interrogate him?”

“Interview, Michelle,” Foggy clarifies for her, holding up a very deliberate finger, “Interview him. See if you can get him to talk to you. And stay safe while you’re doing it. If you can’t get him to agree to meet you in a public area, let me know. Either myself or Matt will go with you, we’ll just need to plan for when.”

“Can I just take Matt?” Michelle asks. “I mean, if you’re giving me a choice. All offense, but I’d much rather take him than you if we’re checking out shady drug dealers. I mean…well.” Michelle shrugs cheekily.

“Har har,” Foggy mocks, “Just try to find this guy and we’ll go from there.”

“Sure thing, Fog,” Michelle assures him. 

“You know, Michelle,” Matt Murdock says as he walks into the room, “Foggy was district wrestling champion when we were in high school. I wouldn’t underestimate him.”

“So like, forty years ago?” Michelle deadpans. 

“She does know I’m her boss, right?” Foggy asks, looking at Matt for help.

Matt clasps a hand onto Foggy’s shoulder and leans in close. “I’m not really sure she cares.”

“He gets it,” Michelle says, jerking her chin towards Matt.

“No respect,” Foggy laments, grabbing his coffee cup and leaving the room. “I get no respect at all!”

Michelle scoffs light-heartedly and leans back in her chair, picking her phone back up. 

After a moment, the young woman starts tapping out a text on the screen, her face settling back into a deep scowl. 

Matt breathes in slowly and walks over to her. 

“Let me guess. Peter?”

Michelle sighs slowly, one hand running through her wild curly hair. 

“I’m texting with Ned about him...He messaged us,” she explains, shaking her head. 

“He did?” Matt questions, eyebrows lifting slightly. 

“Yep,” Michelle stares glumly down at her phone. “He wants to meet up....Would’ve been nice to have gotten that text from him before I heard from Foggy of all people that he’s back in town.”

She turns her look to Matt, who very much appears like he’s trying to look innocent. 

“Might’ve been nice to hear it from you, since you apparently already knew anyways.”

“We’ve been over this Michelle,” Matt responds, only sounding a little apologetic. “It wasn’t my place.”

“I know, I know,” Michelle waves her hand dismissively. “I’m just sour about it. I just...I don’t know why he didn’t contact me first...or at least sooner. You know?”

Matt sinks into the nearby chair, ready to listen. Michelle appreciates the gesture. Matt knows her difficulty with opening up at times, and he’s one of the few people who don’t make her feel self-conscious when she does.

Michelle huffs out a slow but heavy breath. 

“I mean, I get why he didn’t.” She looks down. “The way we left things...the way I talked to him. I’m sure he thinks I never want to see him again.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t think that, Michelle,” Matt interjects. 

“I’m not so sure,” she snaps back, “I was...pretty awful to him. You should’ve heard it. Like, next level Michelle.” 

“You were hurt,” Matt says softly, “and frustrated. It’s understandable.”

Michelle looks away. “Sure, but he was devastated. And I could have been kinder about it. In fact, I think I literally told him that that was the last time that we would be talking. Like, pretty definitively. Not that I really remember all that I said, I kind of went off.”

She goes quiet, staring at the phone in her hand, her jaw working.

“I mean, I don’t know that I really do want to see him.” She fidgets with the papers on her desk, then pauses. “But it would be good...to, you know, at least let him know I don’t hate him.”

“Well, it sounds to me like you’ve made up your mind.”

“Oh, so you can hear thoughts on top of heartbeats too, now?” Michelle teases with a small, sad smirk.

Matt chuckles. “I can’t tell you what to do, Michelle. We both know you wouldn’t listen to me anyways. But I think it could be good, for all of you.”

Michelle laughs incredulously, then sighs exasperatedly. “That’s exactly what Ned said.”

“Well, it must be true then.” Matt grins, and spreads his hands. “I’m not saying you need to forgive him. Or even continue to see him afterwards. But I know he’d love a chance to resolve some things with you two.”

Michelle is quiet for a beat. 

“How’s he doing?” She asks softly. “Is he...okay?”

Matt takes a deep breath and leans back. 

“He’s okay,” Matt says slowly, like he doesn't even believe it. “He has some struggles certainly, but again, it’s not really my place to say.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Michelle says softly. “I’ll have to think about it some more. I just don’t know.”

“That’s perfectly understandable,” Matt smiles.

Michelle shifts and her whole demeanor changes. She was never one to allow herself to be open for too long and she clearly has chosen to switch her focus on the task at hand. 

“So, Nagan,” she says, “Why aren’t you just going to talk to him on your...nightly coffee run?”

Matt chuckles. “We don’t want to escalate things or scare him further. We just need some information. If you don’t have any luck, then maybe he’ll get a visit. For now, we just want to know what he knows and see if what Monaghan said is true. Then we can look into it further from there.”

Michelle nods. “Got it. I’ll handle it.”

“You tell me if you need help,” Matt says to her, standing. “Everyone here knows you’re perfectly capable, but it doesn’t hurt to have backup.”

“Yes, boss,” Michelle says sarcastically, but with a smile. 

Michelle gets to work.