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Glasses clinked, people laughed, dresses swayed, and Peter Parker had never felt so out of place. Not when he had met Tony Stark and had begun working with him in the lab. Not even when he was on the Avengers team for the first time. Something about people with money and fancy events made Peter feel like he didn’t belong.
Probably because he didn’t. He only had enough money to buy supper for the rest of the week, and new fabric to repair his Spider-Man suit. He didn’t come from money. He didn’t live in a three story house in New York, or a fancy apartment. He didn’t even know if his apartment could be classified as a home. Not with its moulding walls, mice hiding in the framework, and creaky sink. It didn't matter though. He had a job to do, and he would do it. No matter how uncomfortable he felt.
Peter pasted on a bright smile as he began taking photos of the grand ballroom around him. People saw his camera, his badge that displayed the words “Daily Bugle” in bold, and waved him over, demanding a photo. They were always dressed in fancy outfits, more expensive than Peter could ever dream of wearing, fake smiles on their faces as they posed.
“Parker! Get a photo with me and the Mayor!” J. J. Jameson, Peter’s boss, shouted. Peter gave a polite goodbye to the couple he had photographed before, and made his way over to the voice, sidestepping dancers and those who were chatting. It wasn’t hard to find the loud man, who was standing beside a beaming Mayor Fisk. Peter knew from Daredevil, and his Spider-Sense that wouldn’t stop ringing, that Fisk couldn’t be trusted, not really, but Peter wasn’t Spider-Man right now. He was just the photographer. So, he would do his job, and leave Mayor Fisk alone.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mayor.” Peter said with a smile as he took their photo. Fisk’s arm was around Jameson’s shoulder as if they were old buddies. The sight made Peter uncomfortable, but he had to keep smiling.
“You as well. Peter Parker, is it?” Mayor Fisk asked pleasantly, and Peter nodded, lowering his camera.
“Yes, sir.” Peter reached out and took Mayor Fisk’s outreached hand, shaking it. The grip was strong, stronger than Peter could’ve predicted, and immediately knew that the man could even face Spider-Man in a fight if he wanted to.
“He’s the one that gets all the photos for The Bugles’ front page, including those of the menace Spider-Man!” Jameson proudly declared, puffing out his chest. “He’s sold me more papers than I pay him for!”
Peter nodded, biting back his arguments that Spider-Man wasn’t a menace. Mayor Fisk wasn’t the right man to speak of these things. He was the one who was trying to get all superhumans registered and off the streets.
“Tell me, Peter. How do you do it? No one else can get good photos of Spider-Man.” Fisk asked, taking a drink from a moving waitress behind them.
“I don’t know, I’m just lucky, I guess. I’m always close to a fight.” The answer was automatic, rehearsed to many others before Fisk. Peter just hoped that the man would believe it, and that he couldn’t hear Peter’s heart pounding in his chest.
“A young man like you should run when you see danger.” Fisk said calmly. “Why don’t you?”
“It’s not how I was raised, sir. I don’t run when things get tough.” Ben made sure of that. May did too. Even Mr. Stark, who raised Peter more than the other man may have admitted, taught him that staying and fighting was better than running and saving your own skin.
Fisk nodded. “Even so, you must be careful. With these vigilantes and super-humans running around New York with no restraint, the streets are full of violence and uncertainty. I would hate for you to get caught in the cross fire.”
“Thank you, I’ll be careful.”
A tall man, one that looked like a security guard, came up behind Fisk, whispering to him. Peter couldn’t catch it amidst the loud din of the room, despite how much he wanted to. Eventually Fisk stepped away, giving Peter and Jameson an award-winning smile.
“I must be off, but it was good meeting you both.”
“It was an honor, Mayor Fisk!” Jameson exclaimed, before running off to find another famous person to mingle with. Peter followed him aimlessly, wondering if he had protected his identity. It seemed like he did, but he could never be too careful with Fisk. Matt Murdock, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, had warned him many times about the man.
So the night moved on, time slowing down as Peter took photo after photo, smiling to people he didn’t know and whose names he forgot instantly. It was only when Peter heard a scream from a hallway that Peter’s smile dropped from his face.
Spider-Man couldn’t be seen at this party, but if someone was in danger…Peter had to help as Peter Parker. No webbing. No fancy moves. No climbing on walls.
He ducked into the hallway, dropping his camera and badge in the nearest wastebasket. At the end of the hallway, by a large grand door, was a young woman who was being held by a man with a gun. Both were dressed in fancy outfits, but the woman had a cut on her lip that ruined her perfectly done lipstick. Her red hair, which Peter assumed was done in a pristine bun, hung loose around her face.
“Hey! Leave her alone!” Peter exclaimed, running to them, and the man’s head whipped around to him.
“She’s not allowed in this room!” The man explained, “She was snoopin’!”
“Then I’m sure that she will head back to the party now that you’ve informed her that the room is off limits.”
The woman nodded, her voice angelic and firm at the same time. “Yes, I’m so sorry.”
The man didn’t let go of her, and Peter knew that he had to do something. He stepped closer, close enough to grab the woman if he had to, and raised his arms out in surrender.
“Why don’t we let go of her, yeah?”
“No! She deserves to die!”
If this man worked for Fisk, Fisk needed better security. This guy was crazy.
Peter’s Spider-Senses blared out, and Peter kicked the man’s knee. The gun shot, the bullet hitting the roof, plaster and flakes of dried paint falling down upon them. The man fell to the ground, groaning, before grabbing a knife and taking a swing at Peter. He ducked, weaving out of the way. He kicked him in the jaw, but not before the man jabbed the knife dizzyingly quick, right into Peter’s side. He screamed, and punched the man one last time, the man falling unconscious quickly.
Peter swayed, getting to his feet and leaning against the wall, clutching the knife lodged in his abdomen. Agony burned through his chest, and he wheezed, fighting to get his footing. This was not how he expected the night to go.
Strong arms wrapped around him, hoisting him up by his armpits, but before he could fight back, he saw the familiar red hair in the corner of his eye. The woman.
“Here, I got you.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar. You’re bleeding out!” She said, and Peter couldn’t argue with that. His vision was becoming blurred, and knew that he wouldn't get far on his own. His Spider-Sense seemed to trust her, too, so he could let her help him, but only this once. So he stopped fighting her, and the two made their way quickly to the woman’s bathroom, down the other hallway.
His hands became coated in blood as they moved, the knife shifting where it was embedded in his body. He groaned, every step causing waves or torture through his body.
Usually, whenever he got hurt in battle, he could keep going despite it. Yet today was different. He wasn’t running on pure adrenaline. The fight was over. And, yes, maybe he didn’t get a chance to eat before he came here.
The woman led him into the handicap stall of the woman’s washroom, and set him down onto the toilet seat. She helped him take off his suit jacket, exposing the knife even more. Effortlessly, she began ripping the bottom of her dress, creating long strips of what Peter believed to be bandages.
“I would call the cops and an ambulance,” She said, “but something tells me you don’t want to deal with all that.”
Peter nodded, taking quick breaths. “Is it that obvious?”
She shrugged. “You did beat up a security guard.”
“A security guard who was holding a gun to your head. I think it was justified.”
“Fair.”
She fell silent, gathering the fabric in her hands, and eyed the knife. “Do you want me to pull it out, or leave it in? Leaving it in would be smarter, and then you can head to the hospital right away.”
Peter shook his head. “No…I can’t do hospitals. Take it out, and I’ll stitch it up as soon as I can get home.”
The woman looked like she was going to ask a question, but didn’t. Instead, she grabbed the handle, gave a quick countdown, and pulled out the knife. Peter bit down on his lip, suppressing a scream, and closed his eyes tightly. She began wrapping the wound tightly, as if she had done it before, all the while glancing at his face. Making sure he was awake, no doubt.
Peter would be lying if he didn’t admit that he was looking at her, too. She was beautiful. She had green eyes the color of emeralds, fair skin, and a splash of freckles on her cheeks. If things weren't so strange, if he wasn’t bleeding to death, he might’ve asked for her number.
“What’s your name?” She asked, finishing off the bandaged, and Peter felt around it, comfortable with how tight it was.
“Peter. Peter Parker.”
“Well, something tells me you’re not a rich politician. What are you doing here?” She asked, curious, yet Peter could see a cunning look in her eye. She was interrogating her in a subtle way, smart.
For some reason, Peter didn’t mind. It felt like a challenge to him, a game, and he was happy to play.
“I’m a photographer for the Daily Bugle.”
She nodded. “And photographers just beat up security guards who hold guns to people's heads?”
“And a young woman like you just gets guns pointed at her head like it’s a hobby?”
“You got me there.” She smiled, “I’m a reporter. It sometimes gets me into trouble.”
“I get it.” Peter shifted on the toilet seat, trying to take a deep breath. He couldn’t, but at least he wasn’t bleeding out.
“Thanks, by the way.” She said, “I couldn’t have gotten out of that one myself.”
“No problem. I couldn’t just leave you there.”
“You could’ve.”
“And you are?” Peter asked, not willing to argue the fact that saving people is just what he did. “Your name?”
“Mary Jane.”
Mary Jane. It was pretty.
“Here.” She said, taking out a business card from her pocket. Her blood covered fingers stained the card with red, but he took it anyway. “Text me your name and number. A reporter has to have contacts, and something tells me you’ll be a good one to have.”
He smiled. “I will. Thanks.”
“Of course.” She got to her feet, casting him a concerned look. “You’ll be okay?”
“Yeah. Have a good night.”
She nodded, and in a blink of an eye, she washed her hands and was out of the bathroom, her heels clacking against the floor.
Peter took a moment to compose himself, and took his time getting up. Grabbing his jacket from the floor, he buttoned it up, covering the makeshift bandages and the blood that escaped them. He washed his own hands quickly, getting rid of the blood that covered them, and left. He couldn’t see Mary Jane in the hallway or in the ballroom. After receiving his camera and badge, he made his way back to Jameson, intending on making up an excuse to go home. As he did so, he couldn’t help but spot Mayor Fisk in the crowd, eyeing him with something too close to recognition. Maybe concern, a concern that he was more than what Peter said he was.
He couldn’t worry about that now. He had to go home and get patched up before he collapsed. If Fisk was onto him somehow, that was a problem for Peter to deal with later.
Distantly, he hoped that Mary Jane would be okay, and that she would stay far away from trouble. But who knew? Maybe like him, she couldn’t avoid danger, and would often run towards it when others would run away. Maybe the two of them were destined to meet again.
Peter could only hope.