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I.
It’s quiet.
A comforting hush has fallen over the room—a room that just hours before had been alive with nurses and doctors, with friends and family. There’s a soft and steady lull to the silence that has his heart ready to overflow as he sways back and forth on his feet, the warm weight in his arms snuggled to his chest.
And he can’t help but think how impossibly tiny her hand is, wrapped around his finger.
“Nice to meet you,” he murmurs, his lips pulling into a smile as his thumb smooths across her little knuckles, as she wiggles against him. He glances over his shoulder, and his heart swells, his vision clouding at the sight of his wife, his MJ, fast asleep, her hand tucked under her cheek.
The warmth, the happiness, the love that blooms in his chest feel almost too much to ever possibly contain; as if it’s about to burst through at any given moment as he stands there in the dim light of the birthing suite with his two girls. His heart swells with pride at just how strong MJ had been, and he feels another surge of emotion as he just looks at her, his throat tightening.
God, he loves her so much.
The feeling is indescribable, having made this journey with her.
Nine months. Nine long months, a fourteen-hour labor, his hand in his wife’s the entire time, and she’s here . The most beautiful six pounds, seven ounces he’s ever seen.
Dahlia May Jones-Parker.
The bundle in his arm stirs, gurgling softly, a sound that instantly tugs at Peter’s heartstrings as he looks down at her.
“Hey, bug,” he mumbles, already feeling the burn of his eyes welling with tears all over again. His voice is soft, gentle—as if the very sound of it could break the tiny infant. “Couldn’t wait to meet us, could ya?” He chuckles, shaking his head lightly. “Four days early. Wow,” he breathes. “Felt bad for kicking your mom in the ribs so much, huh?”
The newborn wiggles again, her hold on his finger tightening ever so slightly.
Fondness pulls at his chest. Somehow, his smile widens. “Oh, so strong,” he says, chuckling softly as he gently shakes her tiny hand again, unable to hide his amusement as she refuses to let go. “Just like your mama.”
Reaching up to smooth his thumb across her chubby cheek, his grin softening when the little one turns her head towards his hand, her face contorting into all sorts of expressions as she starts to exercise those facial muscles. There’s a furrow in her brow, a pout on her lips that is almost a mirror image of MJ, and he melts again.
And she squirms again, fussing softly.
“Hey, shh,” Peter soothes, rubbing the back of her tiny hand with his thumb as he rocks her gently. “I gotcha. I’m right here. We gotta let Mama rest. She’s tired.”
It’s as he’s holding her for the first time, as her tiny heart beats impossibly fast, as he hears the soft whistle from her nose as she takes in each new breath, that he feels the same surge of warmth and love well within him. So much so, he’s not quite sure what to do with himself.
“Your mom and I,” he continues, voice hushed. “We love you so much. ” He emphasizes his point with a delicate kiss to her head, feeling a tickle at the back of his throat. “Our little bug…”
II.
It never ceases to amaze Peter how something so small can make a noise so incredibly, deafeningly loud. Right in his ear, too. The sheer power in such a little human is mind-boggling. How she puts her tiny body into every scream, how she tenses, every single muscle tight with each hiccuping wail. How her legs kick out, how her hands ball into little, angry fists that she holds against her face.
It’s exhausting to watch.
Much less listen to.
At this point, Peter’s tempted to just start screaming with her.
The rocker is abandoned, along with the bottle she’s just refused for the third time as Peter walks back and forth across the room, breathlessly humming a mix of every lullaby he knows as he gently pats Lia’s back, murmuring softly into her curls as she screams in his ear.
Nothing’s worked—absolutely nothing he’s tried has gotten their baby to stop crying. She won’t sleep, her wails only getting louder when he’s tried to put her in her crib. She has a fresh diaper—another instance where she’d very loudly voiced her disapproval. Any songs he sings are drowned out by her cries.
“Just call me if you need me,” MJ had said before heading out the door.
But he can’t call her. As much as she won’t admit it, she needs this—this break, this night out with friends, and Peter’s determined to give that to her, and more. He’s not about to interrupt her night, to become one of those partners who can’t do anything on their own.
No, he’s just going to hold their little girl and wait it out.
Because sometimes, as they’ve come to know in their three short months of parenthood, babies just cry. There doesn’t always have to be a reason for it.
“I know,” he says softly, his fingers drawing slow circles over her back. “I know.”
Lia’s body tightens with another wail as she burrows her face into his neck, his t-shirt twisted in her tiny fist.
“It’s okay to cry, bug,” he soothes, his jaw setting as she takes a breath, and for a moment, it’s quiet—though now the lack of any sound at all somehow just as deafening.
But then, her silent scream cuts through the air, tired and angry.
Taking his own deep breath and letting it out slowly, he goes to sit back on the rocker, his heart aching at the way she whimpers, urgent and breathless. Inconsolable.
And still, he holds her, rubbing her back as he murmurs softly into her hair.
III.
“Bizzy Bear, Bizzy Bear, what do you see?” Peter reads from the board book, his voice tinted in hushed excitement, his cheek pressed against Lia’s head as he holds her in his lap. “Bizzy Bear, Bizzy Bear, one — ”
She coos softly, giggling as her legs thrash wildly in the sleep sack, reaching out to grab the pull-tab like she’s done it a million times already—which, to be fair, she probably has, given how much Peter reads it to her. It’s a staple at bedtime now.
“Two…” Peter draws out, grinning as Lia wiggles in delight as each duckling on the page is revealed. “Three! Three baby ducks!”
And as it does every night he has bedtime duty, her little laugh makes his heart swell, too big for his chest. Here, it’s so incredibly warm, so homey and cozy that he could fall asleep right there on that rocking chair with his little girl in his arms. There’s a calm to sitting there with her, under the glow of the cloud lamp, the soft hum of the white noise machine droning in the background. It’s one of his favorite things, this calm—and it has been for the past nine months. He jumps at the chance whenever he can, knowing that as soon as she’s in her crib, he’s leaping through the window and beginning his patrol.
And it’s one of the many things that grounds him, that centers him when he’s lost in the weight of the world, too far gone. When he goes out every night and risks his life for the people of New York, it’s his girls that he leaves and comes home to.
And deep down, he knows—knows that this could be a fleeting thing in the grand scheme of their lives, that he might not always be here. That there could be a day where he leaves and doesn’t come back to them.
It’s this thought that always makes him hold them both a little tighter, a little longer in the hopes that they’ll be able to feel all the love he doesn’t already say.
Lia’s tiny, chubby fingers pinch at his wrists, an unconscious thing as she looks at the colorful pages of Bizzy Bear working on his farm. Peter plants a gentle kiss to the side of her head, holding her closer to his chest as he turns the page with his other hand.
“Bizzy Bear, Bizzy Bear…”
IV.
Today is finally the day.
The day being the first day Peter and MJ get to have Saturday morning off work or patrol at the same time—Peter manifesting a slow day in New York City for crimes or major villainous activity. In celebration of such a rare occasion, Peter does what he does best on his days off.
He makes his family breakfast.
(Mostly because MJ still doesn’t cook very well).
(But he won’t tell her that).
Peter starts with loading 10 slices of bacon on the pan, more for himself than the rest of the family—saving two slices for Lia and MJ each. He knows the moment the bacon begins to cook, Lia will catch the first whiff, and interrogate him about eating.
Quickly, Peter cuts up slices of oranges and apples, making sure Lia has a balanced meal, knowing how opportunity he has to truly take time to cook food for his loved ones—to take time to eat with his loved ones.
Just as he pictured, Lia, almost at random, appears right by his legs, hugging one of them tight. He swears if she tries, she could maybe lift him for three seconds. Maybe today is the day he can assess her potential powers, knowing that Lia’s sense of smell most definitely didn’t come from her mother.
“Bacon!” she says with a smile in her voice that warms his heart. She hasn’t let go of his leg.
“Bacon,” he says back, keeping her away from the splattering oil, walking over to her high chair as she continues to cling tight. As they reach her destination, he gives her a soft, pointed look, watching her pout turn into a giggle as he lifts her up and places her carefully in her seat. “You wait here, okay? Don’t move!”
“Don’t move,” she repeats, still grinning at him. Peter works his way back to the stove, peeling the slices out and ensuring he chops Lia’s slices into bite-sized pieces, mixing her slices in her scrambled eggs, plating it in her favorite orange bowl. He slides across their small floor, heading back to Lia as he says, “Here you go. Don’t spill.”
She nods, taking the instructions very seriously as she dips her fork slowly into the bowl, but still not being able to scoop anything up.
“Good job, Lia,” he says, running his hands through her small, curly hair. “Mom’s gonna be proud when she wakes up and you have a happy plate!”
Lia keeps working at her food slowly, the citrus scent from the cut-up oranges making him feel calm and ready to experiment with Lia’s superpowers.
It has been approximately 45 minutes since Peter has tried to get Lia to stick to their apartment’s walls—30 minutes of Peter explaining to a 18-month-year-old child how to protect herself against villains and 10 minutes of trying to convince said child, and 5 minutes of her pressing her hand against the wall and removing it.
“Not sticky.”
“Gotta be the wall,” he says.
“It’s not the wall, Pete.” MJ walks to him, carefully pressing herself against her back as she leans her chin on his shoulder. “Maybe she’s not a spider-baby.”
“I doubt it. She can smell dinner before I start making it.”
“We have poor ventilation in this apartment. I can start smelling dinner, and yesterday’s dinner, too.”
“Meaning we also have poor walls.”
“You can stick to the walls.”
“I’ve had training, Em,” he says smugly. “I’m a professional. ”
“Professional dummy,” she gushes subtly. “Anyway, I think maybe you should try again later. She’s not ready.”
“There are better methods!” he insists, walking slowly to Lia, bending down, and picking her up. She lets out a small yelp, but clutches onto his chest. “We’re gonna try one more time, okay, Lia?”
Lia waves her hands wildly back and forth. “All done!”
He hears a sigh from MJ and then, “I’m gonna just sit down, and not be a part of this.”
She tucks herself in the couch and brings out her knitting supplies, Peter following her every move until she’s properly knitting. He grins.
“What?” she asks.
“Love you,” he says, slowly spinning Lia around to face the wall.
“Love you too,” she says. “Please don’t drop her.”
“I’m not going to drop her! How dare you say that? And don’t say the d-word! What if she knows what it means?!”
He carefully edges closer to the wall, using his own hand to press Lia’s hands and feet to the wall. “You got this, kiddo.”
She starts to groan, the same noise that lets out of her mouth before she starts crying. “No! Down! Drop!”
“I knew she knew what it meant!” Peter says, still trying to get her to stick, although nothing works. He frowns as her cries start getting louder, hearing MJ from behind instructing him to let her down.
“Fine, fine,” he says, slightly upset that his daughter may not have the same powers as she does, but a little relieved in the same sense. Slowly, he places her back on her feet as she collects her balance.
She’d been quicker to start walking a few months ago, quicker than most of his friends’ kids, even. Peter attempts to mask his disappointment, knowing that he shouldn’t really be with how little he knows about the science behind his own powers. However, just as he sulks across the floor to sit next to Em, he catches Em lift herself up slightly and point behind him.
When he turns around, his heart flutters.
Lia tries to climb the wall herself, using the surface to push herself on her toes and press her hands and feet against it.
“Oh, Lia! You can do it! You can do it!” he claps as MJ starts cheering her on, too. Yet, just as quickly as she tries, she stops, turning back around and waddling over to Peter and MJ, hugging Peter’s leg again. “It’s okay, Lia.”
He ruffles her hair again.
“Yeah, it’s okay. Come here,” MJ says, Lia immediately hugging her. MJ picks her up, and rests her on her lap. “You are my superhero, Lia.”
“Mine too,” Peter smiles, watching both of them in awe. “I’ll be right back, I’m going to change out of this bacon-y shirt.”
It’s okay that Lia can’t crawl. Yet. Totally fine, Peter finds self-reassurance as he digs through his drawer for a sweatshirt. He quickly changes, pulling a sweater on as he repeats out loud, “It’s okay.”
He sits quietly on the bed, pulling himself into an endless loop of thoughts about heroism, hoping to not fall into a rabbit hole of existential crises. Maybe she won’t have to have the responsibility that he has. Maybe it’s a good thing.
Then, suddenly: “PETER!” With zero hesitation, he bounces up again, headed toward the door as he hears “Come quick! Bring your camera!”
With his camera looped around his neck, running through the hallway, Peter’s eyes widened with pure, ecstatic joy because right before his eyes was his little girl about one foot above ground, sticking firmly against the wall.
Peter runs to MJ immediately, picking her up and spinning her as they cheer in joy. He says, “I knew you wanted her to be a wallcrawler.”
“I’m too excited to pretend that you’re right!” she says, hugging him tightly. They come to a stop, keeping their eyes on Lia, her laughter echoing through their little home as she gets higher and higher almost about nine feet high until—
She starts to cry.
“Oh,” Peter says. “Oh, no.” He scrambles around, MJ beginning to panic and asking him to take her down immediately. “Wait, I still haven’t taken the picture.”
Lia keeps crying louder, asking for her dad.
“Forget about the picture, Pete, get your child!”
“Fine, fine, here,” he tosses the camera to MJ as she catches it, Peter rushing to the wall and slowly climbing it with ease as he gets to Lia, whose hands are stuck to the wall like glue. He crawls as close as he can to her, her face pressed against the wall with her eyes shut. He starts to soothe her, hushing her as he pats her on the back slowly, relaxing her so that she loosens her grip. “It’s okay, Lia. I got you. I always got you.”
Peter rearranges his form, using one hand to extend his arm to support Lia, and another arm to hold himself against the surface. Slowly, her hands start to peel away from the wall, and the moment she finally lets go, Peter catches her effortlessly as her screaming starts to fade and the stream of tears down her cheek fall silent.
“I got you. I told you,” he whispers, kissing the top of her head, as he continues to hold her, lying down flat on the couch and placing her against his chest. After carefully getting her out of danger, Peter’s exhaustion reminds him of how worried he can get about Lia, about how the danger will only get worse as she gains more powers—more responsibility.
But for now, as she dozes off yawning against Peter’s chest, both of them preparing for a late afternoon nap, he holds her tightly, tapping his finger softly on her nose.
“And I’m never going to let you go.”
V.
The summer sun beats down on the back of Peter’s neck, certain he’ll get sunburnt despite how much sunscreen he slathered on himself. He sits by the bench, looking at Lia making friends in the sandbox, a content grin sweeping across his face watching his little social butterfly, despite the fact that he brought her to the park so he can hang out with her.
He chuckles as Lia waves goodbye to her new friend, wondering if they’ll ever see each other at the park again—thinking about how easily it takes for children to connect with others, realizing how blissful it may be to think everything is good and pure in the world at almost 3 years old.
Peter crosses his arms, leaning against the bench as Lia runs toward him. She rests her chin against his knee. “Hi.”
“Hello, bug,” he says. “Make new friends?”
“Yup,” she says, plopping her lips. “Leah.”
“You’re Lia.”
“Lay-uhhhh,” she says, laughing, still catching her breath from running around. A beat, and her big eyes turn into a pleading, innocent stare as her hand extends, pointing to the swingset. “Push me!”
“Oh, now you want to hang out with Dad?” he lifts his eyebrow.
“Okay,” she says, smiling and rushing away before letting him answer. He chases after her, following her to the left swing, her favorite one. Once she plops on the seat, feet tapping against the rubber playground, she keeps her hand wrapped around the metal chains. “Ready!”
With great control, Peter begins pushing her lightly. The second she gains more momentum, Lia starts swinging her feet to go higher and higher. He applauds at her strength, continuing to push her up as she swings back to him. She requests, “Push more!”
He listens, slowly backing away as soon as she’s soaring through the sky, imagining how it would be like the moment he builds her own webshooters.
The next time she swings down, she says, “Wait! Sticky!”
“What?” Peter asks, but doesn’t have time to hear an answer as Lia lets go of her grip, jumping high and landing on her knees against the rubber surface. He whispers, “Shit.”
Peter gives her time to settle down, walking to his backpack first before slowly approaching her. She’s quiet, but her shoulders rise and fall quickly—Peter immediately grabbing his first aid kit and a Kleenex to wipe her tears. He sits flat on the ground with her as she holds her knee.
“I got—” she sobs “—an owie.”
“Not an owie,” he frowns, grabbing the rubbing alcohol and a bandaid out of the kit. “I wish Momma was here. She’s kind of better at first aid than I am. She fixes my owies all the time.”
“Oh,” Lia sniffles, shutting her eyes as he wipes away the dirt on her knee.
“I know a thing or two about owies, though,” he says, cleaning her tiny wound. “Between me and you, this owie will hurt a lot less for you tomorrow, and then by the end of the week, the owie will be gone forever!”
She pouts, and he pouts back playfully, carefully sticking the bandaid on her knee. He gives the knee a quick kiss, and he looks up at her.
“Thank you,” she says, her lips pursed as she holds in her crying, lips slightly trembling.
“It’s okay to cry, Lia,” he says, using one thumb to wipe her cheek. “Strong people cry, too. And you’re one of the strongest bugs I know.”
She starts crying, but uses the back of her hands to wipe it away. “I’m okay.”
“Okay,” he says. “Why don’t we go home now? I’ll even give you a piggyback ride.
Lia nods, holding out her arms. Before turning around and letting her get on his back, Peter embraces her, lifting her up and swinging her around. “All better?”
“All better,” she says through sniffles. He kisses her forehead, and carefully puts her on his back, Lia helping as she sticks to him, crawling against him.
“You holding on tight?”
“Yeah,” she says, Peter still hearing the pout in her tone.
He chuckles and says, “You’re so brave, Lia. It’ll all pay off because one day, these little owies won’t even hurt.”
“They won’t?” she asks.
“Nope,” he says. “Not when you’re you .”
“Me you?” she sniffles again.
“Yes,” he laughs again, walking back home with his little spider-kid crawling on his back. “Me you.”
+I.
“...two have been hospitalized, and we do have one confirmed casualty…”
If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that it never gets easier. Never. No matter how long he’s been doing this, how many years he’s been protecting the people of New York, the failures hit him just as hard as when he’d first started as a young teenager.
Right now, he wants nothing more than to sleep, to climb into bed with MJ, to forget about the world for a few hours.
But he can’t. Not yet.
He needs a moment.
His eyes burn as he continues to stare at the screen, vision blurring, clouded with stubborn, unshed tears that he roughly wipes away. It’s frozen on the same shot of the building seconds before disaster, the headline louder than anything the anchor has said. His throat tightens, the lump that much harder to swallow as he tears his gaze away, sitting back against the couch, his arms resting on his knees.
And he takes in a deep, shuddering breath.
But then, the silence of the apartment is shattered; he picks up on the soft pitter-patter of little feet darting across the wood floors, Lia wandering into the room with wide, curious eyes. She smiles, big and bright, seeing him on the couch.
“Hi, Daddy!” She whispers loudly, running to sit by him, throwing herself into his arms.
Peter manages a smile back—it’s weak and doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but still warm—as he makes space for her. He sniffs, setting her in the spot next to him. “Lia, what are you doing out of bed?”
“I heard you and I wanted to say hi,” she replies, her voice hushed with excitement.
“You heard me?” Peter asks slowly, maintaining that gentle, soft enthusiasm despite the way his heart weighs in his chest. There’s a brief sense of pride he feels, a glimmer in the storm cloud above his head. “Wow.”
Though it’s dragged down, knowing what it could mean for her.
He shakes the thought.
“I like your jammies,” Lia says, swinging her legs back and forth over the edge of the couch.
Peter huffs out a laugh, surprised but still sad as he looks down at the suit he still hasn’t taken off—littered with rips and tears, rubble and dirt, bloodied and bruised. It’s all a reminder of that night, of every mistake he’d made, and he can’t help but think about all the different ways, all of the different things he could’ve done.
If he’d only been that much faster.
He can feel his eyes burning again, and his jaw sets as he bites back the emotion that wells within him.
“Thanks, kiddo.”
Lia looks at him a moment, her gaze calculating—a moment where he sees every bit of MJ in her. “Are you sad?”
It’s almost funny how she asks, the little inflections in her four-year-old voice that tug at his heartstrings, added on to the fact that maybe she is picking up on those important life lessons about emotional intelligence and empathy he and MJ try to organically teach her.
And for a moment, he thinks about lying—saying that he’s okay, to thank her for asking and put her to bed.
But instead, he nods. “Yeah, I’m a little sad.”
At that, she holds her arms open, smiling up at him. “Do you want a hug?”
All at once, he feels his chest crack, the waver in his smile, corners of her lips twitching as his vision blurs all over again. Of course, she doesn’t know why he’s sad, doesn’t understand the reason that he’s so utterly defeated; that he’s sitting here in the dark, staring at the tv, battered and broken.
But none of that matters to her—not when she’s never seen Peter this disappointed in himself, let alone seen him don the suit.
No, to her, this is a simple thing.
She sees that he’s sad, she offers comfort.
“Oh, yeah, thank you, bug,” he says, welcoming her as she wraps her tiny arms around his neck.
It’s then, as Peter heaves another weighted sigh, that his resolve begins to crack, his chin trembling, eyes closing as he feels the first tear fall, trailing down his cheek and disappearing into her curly hair.
Lia’s voice is a sweet imitation of how MJ might speak to her; warm and gentle. “It’s okay,” she soothes. Completely, blissfully unaware of his pain, she pats his back—so soft and small a gesture, but one that makes his heart swell. When she pulls back to look at him, there’s an adorable, warm little grin on her face. “Do you wanna hear a spooky story?”
There’s something so undeniably amusing and heartwarming about this—even in this dark moment, with this thick fog looming over him, with the numbness in his chest; about this sense of deja vu, knowing that their daughter is simply mirroring what they do for her when she comes running to them with tears stained cheeks.
And sometimes, that involves a spooky story.
Peter’s heart aches at the sweetness.
He sniffs, his lips pressing into a faint smile. “I would love to hear a spooky story.”
At his answer, she grins up at him, giddy as she wiggles in his lap. “Okay, once upon a time…” She starts slowly, her smile faded, eyes wide with excitement. “There was a baby frog who lived in a pond! And he had—he had a friend that was a ghost! ”
Peter brushes the stray curls out of her face, tucking them behind her ear as he nods along. Warmth blooms in his chest, rising to his cheeks in a smile as he listens to the story she’s no doubt making up on the spot, inspiration taken from the many stories—both spooky and not spooky—that he and MJ have told her.
“And one night—” Her voice gets softer as she whispers, leaning close. “While they were… while they were playing in the pond, they… heard a noise!”
“Oh, no!” Peter replies, letting his jaw drop.
“But they… but they couldn’t find it!” She sighs dramatically. “They looked everywhere!”
“Uh, oh.”
“They thought it was… it was just the wind, but—but then—it was a werewolf!”
Peter’s brows raise, his eyes widening as the corner of his lip pulls at his smile. “A werewolf?”
“Yeah,” she answers him quickly. “And then the werewolf…” She pauses, thinking for a moment. “He ate them! The end!”
A surprised laugh—genuine and warm and real—bursts from Peter’s chest, his eyes screwing shut as he brings a hand to his chest. “Oh, no!”
Her eyes squint as she grins up at him. “Did I scare you?”
It takes him a second to collect himself, laughter still hiding under his breath as he replies.
She’s certainly got all of the elements of a scary story there.
“I was so scared.”
“Was it spooky?” She asks, drawing out the oo, wiggling her fingers.
“So spooky.”
Wrapping her arms around his neck again, she pulls him in for another hug. “Do you feel better?”
“Much better.” He holds her tight as she squeezes him back. “Thank you, bug.”
And it’s surprising how he really does, how just a moment with his little girl, a quick hug, and a silly, scary story can bring back the comforting glimmer of warmth, can make him forget—even if only for a little while—that hollow ache that sits in his chest.
“Daddy?”
Her voice is small, barely above a whisper—impossibly cute.
“Yeah?”
A beat passes.
Her fingers scratch at the texture of his suit.
The same wide-eyed curiosity tints her question. “Are you Spider-Man?”