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Betty Brant is so late. So, so fucking late. She runs, doing her best to weave in between the crowded sidewalk. The brisk air burns her cheeks, her elbows and shoulders bumping into person after person, each yelling some sort of crude remark after her. She hardly bothers with a ‘sorry’. God, of course her charger would choose last night to crap out on her, the first piece in a truly rube goldberg machine level of snowballing that led to her desperately trying to catch the bus to the Bugle. In the pouring rain. Without an umbrella. In the nicest shoes she owns because she couldn't find another pair. God her life really sucks sometimes.
A man rushes past her, faster than she can even fully register, beyond the fact that he is clearly also running late for the same bus that she is. It, in a grim and sort of cruel way, makes her feel a bit better. At least she isn’t the only schmuck in NYC running late. And, even at the speed that the man is traveling at, still isn't able to reach the bus in time. Betty watches as the man sags in defeat. God, I’m right there with ya, buddy, she thinks with a bitter sigh that comes out a bit more strangled than she intended thanks to all the running.
“Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me!” the man yells, his voice a familiar thick Queens accent. She knows that voice.
Betty finally reaches the bus stop herself, heart pounding and feet aching. Her shoes are most definitely not designed to be run in.
“Peter?” she questions between deep gasps of air, her lungs starved for oxygen, hands on her knees.
“Wha…?” Peter whips around, his frankly amusingly frustrated face softening when his eyes lock with hers. “Oh, Betty! Long time no see! How ya been?” He doesn’t even seem fazed from his mad dash for the bus, the only thing giving it away is his slightly wind-reddened cheeks and tousled hair. Lucky bastard.
“Oh, nothing much, just missing my bus.” She rolls her eyes. “What about you?”
He laughs sardonically, “Same. I’m guessin’ ya heading to the Bugle?”
“Yeah, you too?”
“Got an email from Jonah. Wants me for photos for some article on condemned buildings or somethin’. I could use the extra cash. Teaching doesn't exactly pay well.” He laughs again, more light-hearted this time. “You wanna walk with? At least we can be late together.”
She nods, finding herself grinning despite herself. Even if the two of them didn’t work out romantically, she is still able to acknowledge that Peter can be effortlessly charming. Sometimes to his own detriment.
The two of them fall into step, resigned to being late, but a bit more chipper than before.
“How is the teaching job going?” she asks after a few minutes of silence between them.
“Well, I haven’t been fired yet, so that’s somethin’,” he says, bobbing and weaving between all the people crowding the sidewalk expertly, occasionally yelling out an ‘Ey, move!’, inadvertently clearing a path for her as well. God, he really is the quintessential New Yorker, isn’t he?
“That’s good,” Betty says with a small huff-laugh. “What do you teach again?” Guilt stabs at her chest for forgetting. She is sure they have had this conversation before. But she's been a bit busy, what with the uptick in super villain (and hero) activity. She - and every reporter at the Bugle really - have been in crunch time. It unfortunately meant certain information leaked out of her brain like it’s a sieve. Such as what subject one Peter Parker taught. Sue her.
“Chem,” he says as they cross the street, not an ounce of anger or annoyance in his voice. Thankfully. “And occasionally I’ll sub in for the Physics teacher.”
“Oh, that sounds… fun?” Her voice lilts up at the end, making it painfully obvious that she in fact, does not find the prospect of teaching a bunch of teens chemistry fun. She winces a bit, realizing just how rude that probably came across. But she can’t help it, the idea of having to deal with high-schoolers all week made her want to crawl out of her skin.
Peter just laughs, “It’s better than it sounds, really. Most of my students are pretty engaged in the course material, thank fuck.”
They fall into a comfortable silence again, save the ever present hum of the city. The chatter from their fellow pedestrians, the cacophony of the engines of the cars and buses, as well as the general background buzz from the electronic signs, constantly inundating everyone with ad after ad. Really, it is moments like these that make it clear to Betty why the term ‘Concrete Jungle’ caught on as much as it did.
“I didn’t think you'd still be in Jameson’s pocket after getting a more steady gig,” Betty says after a few minutes. They are about five minutes from the Bugle. And going on fifteen minutes late. “Hard to believe you’d willingly take up a job at the Bugle again.”
“What can I say, the adrenaline’s addicting,” Peter says with a smirk.
Betty just shakes her head, a small smile upturning the corners of her lips. She knows the gossip from the Bugle when Peter was still a regular there was that he was a bit of a coward, a bit of a wimp, but she (and a few others - Jonah especially) knew better. He was - and probably still is if he’s still taking jobs from Jonah - certifiably crazy. The kid - well adult now - willingly got pictures of Spider-Man in action, you had to have at least a few screws loose to consider that a viable career path in any way.
“And I still email Jonah pics when I get the opportunity, so it’s not like I ever stopped really. Just haven’t had a reason to come into the office until now.”
She just hums in response. That makes sense. Digital cameras made bringing in raw film redundant. Though she can’t help the small ping of concern that registers in the back of her mind. Peter is still actively chasing down Spider-Man for pics?
She doesn’t get a chance to question him on it, when Peter suddenly grabs her by the shoulders and switches their places. Not a second later a car, recklessly weaving through traffic, hits a deep patch of water on the side of the road, splashing up onto the sidewalk, and drenching Peter, quickly soaking through the bulky, cream colored cable-knit sweater he’s wearing, as well as the loose fitting black slacks.
They both stop, the city still moving around them, not paying them any mind. Peter is holding his arms awkwardly away from his body, shaking them in a futile attempt to try and get the water out. His normally wavy hair is plastered to his forehead, but he doesn’t look too upset. If anything he just looks resigned - a tired, ‘of course this would happen’ kind of look on his face.
“Peter, why did - how did - ?”
“Better me than you,” he says with a surprisingly light laugh and a shrug. “Your clothes look more expensive than mine. This is just shit I grabbed from a thrift store years ago.” He turns on his heels, beginning to head back the way they came from.
She grabs his arm, causing him to stop. He raises an eyebrow at her, confusion palpable.
“Where - where are you going?”
“Back to my apartment to change? It’s like 40 degrees out. I’d prefer to not turn into a Peter-cicle.”
“Ned should have an extra change of clothes at the Bugle.” She quickly scans Peter up and down, it's hard to tell with how baggy his current clothes are, but she thinks they are a similar size. “I’m sure he won’t mind you borrowing them. That way you won’t have to be late. Well, late-er.”
Peter looks like he’s about to argue, before exhaling through his nose and nodding.
“Thanks Betty, I owe ya one.”
“Call it even, you did just keep me from getting drenched after all.”
🕸️
The rest of their walk to the Bugle is thankfully uneventful. Which leads them to where they are now, with Betty making a bee-line to Ned’s desk, Peter trailing behind a few feet.
“Hey, you still have that spare change of clothes, right?” she asks, hoping she remembered correctly.
“Yeah…?” Ned replies, looking up at her from his computer. “Why?”
“Hey, Ned,” Peter says in response, causing Ned to crane his neck past her, eyes locking on a still dripping-wet Peter. He winces in sympathy, quickly digging into the bag under his desk and pulling out a red button up and brown slacks.
“Here man,” he says, handing Peter the clothes. “Hurry and get changed before Jonah sees you.”
Peter gives a mock salute and dashes out of the bullpen. Betty just laughs, sitting down at her desk across from Ned.
“Fun commute?” he asks, voice filled with amusement.
Betty rolls her eyes, “I guess you could put it that way.”
Ned just hums noncommittally, going back to whatever it is that he’s working on. Betty boots up her own computer, sinking into her chair as the familiar background noise of the Bugle filters in. The article she’s been working on has been a pain in her ass as of late, the damn thing seemingly taking on a mind of its own, petulantly refusing to be written. Of course she knows that it’s just a mild case of writer's block, but with the way the week (and especially the day) have been going, the far too few words on the digital page might as well have been giving her the finger.
Still, she types away all the same, perhaps with a bit more force than she normally would, the rest of the bullpen falling away as she manages to get into some semblance of a groove. She’s still writing much slower than she normally does, but at least she’s writing at all. It’s more than she’s been able to get done in the past few weeks combined. Which is why it takes her a bit longer than usual to notice that the bullpen has gone quiet. Pin-drop quiet. She looks up from the paragraph she’s working on, and locks eyes on Peter, who is walking back in after changing, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder. And for a moment she thinks she gets what’s going on, chuckling as she rolls her eyes, turning back to her in-progress article.
She had guessed correctly that Ned and Peter were similar sizes, but the clothes still weren’t a perfect fit. They were a bit tighter on Peter than they’ve ever been on Ned, stretching across his chest, causing the buttons to gap slightly, as well across his biceps and thighs, showing off the lean muscle there. She just shakes her head. So Peter’s been going to the gym lately, what of it? People really need to get better at not staring and minding -
“Oh God, Peter, is that blood!?”
Betty whips back around at that, eyes landing on a darker, damp patch of red on Peter’s left side, the side that had been turned away from her when he walked by. God, she’s so fucking stupid. The Bugle is a professional environment, contrary to popular belief (even her own sometimes). Her coworkers aren't going to stare at Peter because of some presumed, cliche, ‘high school nerd glow-up’. They would, however, stare and go silent if he walked in with an actively bleeding stab wound.
“Oh,” he says, starting down at the darkened red fabric. He doesn’t look panicked, or like he’s in shock. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed, and that concerns Betty even more. “Yeah. Sorry Ned, I can take it to the dry-cleaners later to get the stain out.” It’s said entirely too nonchalantly.
“Don’t worry about the shirt, we need to take you to a hospital!” Ned yells, jumping to his feet and over to Peter. Betty quickly follows, thoughts racing a mile a minute.
When did he get stabbed? Did he have that wound this morning running after the bus? Surely it couldn’t have happened within the few minutes it took for him to change.
Woah! I’m fine, I’m fine,” Peter says in a way that is probably meant to be comforting. It’s not. “I just got mugged last week, musta popped a few stitches running after that bus earlier.”
“All the more reason to go to the hospital!” Betty shouts. Peter opens his mouth, clearly about to argue, only to be cut off before he gets the chance.
“What’s with all the shouting?! You all have jobs to do, so get back to -” Jonah’s voice abruptly ends as his eyes land on Peter, particularly on the very obvious blood patch blooming from his torso.
Wordlessly he walks back into his office, and comes back out with a first-aid kit, pressing it into Peter’s hands.
“Patch yourself up, Parker. God knows you're too stubborn to listen to reason and go to a hospital.”
“Aw, you do care,” Peter says with exaggerated, mocking sincerity, hand placed over his heart.
“Hmph,” is the only response Jonah gives before retreating back to his office.
Peter starts toward the door again, before Betty all but jumps in front of him. Jonah might be fine with this, but she sure as shit isn’t. Peter stops, quirking an eyebrow up at her.
“If you won’t go to the hospital, then at least let me help you.”
Peter looks like he’s about to argue, so she quickly adds -
“See it as a thanks for saving me from that puddle.”
He huffs, but smiles, “Fine.”
The two of them make their way out of the bullpen and into one of the few single stall bathrooms the Bugle has. Jonah, contrary to popular belief, is actually quite open-minded when it comes to just about everything but Spider-Man. And that included gender-neutral restroom options.
“Okay,” Betty says as she shuts and locks the door, “lose the shirt.”
“Betty!” Peter says with mock offense, “I’m a married man!”
“Are you seriously trying to joke right now?” Betty asks, crossing her arms, hoping to cover the slight concerned shake in her voice with frustration. It feels flimsy, even to her.
“Depends, is it working?”
“Peter…”
“Okay, okay,” he says, unbuttoning his borrowed shirt, wincing slightly as the drying blood pulls at the wound.
It - well it’s hard to tell just how bad it is with the blood covering it, but it doesn’t look good. The cut is long and jagged, starting a few inches from his navel and nearly curving around to his back. There is still blood lazily leaking from it, the occasional rivulet running down Peter’s flank. She notes that there are no stitches and that it looks much, much fresher than a supposedly week old injury.
“I thought you said you got stitches for it,” she says, wetting a washcloth. Peter makes a move to grab it, but she just starts wiping the blood off before he can.
“You caught me,” Peter says, raising his arms in mock defeat. “But in all fairness, teaching doesn’t exactly come with the best healthcare plan. I can’t afford stitches.”
Betty wants to shout at Peter for that, but holds her tongue. Medical care is expensive, and if he can’t afford it, he can’t afford it. It’s not a comforting thought. She finishes up wiping the blood away. The cut doesn’t look nearly as bad now, it is much shallower than she had initially thought. A bitter silver-lining. She pulls out some alcohol wipes, cleaning the area around the wound. She knows enough about first aid to know to not put it directly into open wounds.
As she is, her eyes can’t help but wander up and down Peter’s exposed upper body, scanning for other injuries. And while she doesn’t find any other fresh ones, she is surprised to find the scars from older ones. A lot of them. In particular there are two on his right shoulder that look distinctly like old gunshot wounds.
Her mind reels as she starts to wrap the gauze around Peter’s torso. What could he possibly be doing in his free time that would result in so many injuries? Because it’s not just the bullet wound scars on his shoulder. His chest has three, long, silvery scars, there are even more scars from bullets around his hip. There is something… familiar about their placements. It nags at her.
“There, all-” It hits her like a truck. Two bullets fired from a cop’s gun, aimed at Spider-Man’s chest that hit his right shoulder instead. The Lizard slashing at Spider-Man’s chest, more bullets from hired guns that also failed to hit the vigilante’s heart. The way Peter was able to run so fast, the way he knew about the car. The borderline carelessness with how he viewed a gaping wound in his side.
Betty’s back hits the door, and she slowly slides down it. Peter is kneeling next to her not a moment later.
“Betty, what's wrong? Is it all the blood? I know some people faint at the sight… of it…” Peter’s voice tapers off as he meets her eyes. And thank God Peter’s cleverness isn’t just for show - his eyes widening in understanding - because she doesn’t trust herself to speak, not without screaming or cursing at him. Not yet.
He doesn’t talk either, electing to just sit down next to her, far enough to give her space, but close enough to still be there, and she doesn’t mean physically. She knows that they aren’t as close as they once were, but they're still friends, and it still stings. The now distant, logical part of her brain can understand why. It’s dangerous information to have. Knowing it would - does - paint a target on her back. Peter (she can’t bring herself to call him Spider-Man, not yet) has dangerous - but more important than that, smart - villains. Ones that are willing to exploit whatever they need to in order to get the upper hand. But goddamnit it still hurts, still feels like a betrayal, still feels like she wasn’t trusted.
Still, her anger and shock slowly ebb away as she and Peter sit in silence on the bathroom floor, nothing but the stuttering hum of the air conditioner to fill it. Then another, far more horrifying fact makes itself known, her brain having run the numbers in the background.
“You were fifteen…” She almost chokes on the words. Fifteen. A freshman in high school. Fifteen.
“Yeah.”
She looks at Peter. He doesn’t look mad, or scared, but instead resigned, a sort of melancholic, bittersweet sadness that is almost too painful to look at.
She takes a deep breath before asking her question.
“Why?”
“My -” His voice breaks, just barely. “My uncle died. I coulda stopped the guy who did it. But he stole money from a guy I didn’t give two shits about at the time. He short changed me. So I - I just let the thief run by. I thought I didn’t owe him - owe the world anything. It sure as fuck felt like that’s how it felt about me.” Peter pauses and takes a deep, shaky breath. “But all that thought process does is make ya bitter and angry and apathetic. All it does is get people dead. I have the ability - more than most - to help people. So if I can run into a burning building and keep a parent from losing their child, I will. Because if I don't then their death is on me. That’s why I do it.”
Betty just takes in the words for a few moments. She has half a mind to tell Peter that there is no possible way he could have known that the thief would go on to kill his uncle. But she stops herself. Instead she hugs him, and hopes, hopes to any and all gods that do or don’t exist that all of her understanding and sorrow and love come through.
Peter hugs her back. There are no body shaking sobs, no hot tears. His pain is an old one, and all that is left is that deep sadness in his eyes. He pulls back first, giving her a small smile.
“Sorry this is how you found out. I always debated on telling you. But then we stopped hanging out as often and - I guess I didn’t want to pull you into my bullshit,” he says with a weak laugh.
She laughs a bit with him, shaking her head. She’s not happy to have been lied to for a bit over a decade. But…
“I get why you didn’t tell me. I still don’t like being lied to, but… I get it.”
Peter nods.
“We should probably get back to the bullpen before Jonah pops a blood vessel.” He laughs again, louder and easier now as he stands up. Betty follows suit.
“Yeah, we wouldn't want -” She cuts herself off, another thought popping up. “Please tell me MJ knows, because I swear to God Peter if she doesn’t -”
“She does, she does,” Peter says as they start on their way back. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of proposing or getting married without her knowing about - ” he mimics shooting webs.
Betty lets out a sigh of relief. “Good, that's good.”
Just as they are about to enter the bullpen, the sound of sirens float up from the street below. Peter immediately rushes to the nearest window, Betty quickly following after. What she sees is a man - a very large man - dressed as a rhino careening down 5th Avenue with no less than twelve cop cars chasing after him.
Peter immediately opens his bag, pulling out a familiar suit of red and blue. He looks up to Betty and gives a wry - but still somewhat sheepish - smile.
“Well, duty calls.”
“I - I’ll cover for you.”
His smile grows wider before disappearing under the wide-eyed mask.
“I owe ya one.”
“Oh, you owe me way more than one, Parker.”
He laughs, giving her a final salute before jumping out the window.
Betty just stares after him for a few moments, mind still trying to process… everything. Instead of going back into the bullpen right away, she pulls out her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she finds the right one. She dials it.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end answers after a few rings.
“Hey, MJ! I know it’s been a while, but I was wondering if you’d be free to get drinks tonight?”