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As it turned out, being shot through the stomach by a military grade atomic nuke of a gun wasn’t so easy to walk away from.
Despite playing kumbaya and embracing his newfound surge of arachnid DNA, Peter spent most of his days after leaving the hospital laid up on his tatty, ever so slightly bloodstained couch in his asbestos infested apartment. Because he could smell that now. In all its musty glory.
Maybe he’d finally get a job, stop living off Tony’s inheritance he’d managed to secret away, move out of this shithole, and live somewhere tasteful. Make it a part of his newfound choosing to not be alone initiative. Like a new year's resolution without the bang- Frank typically had those covered anyway.
The thought of moving forward made him nervous, though. Because blank slates and page turning always seemed grand in the moment they were vowed, but at 3pm on a Thursday? Nothing short of terrifying.
Until now, Peter Parker had been sealed into a lockbox, thrown into the wreckage of the Statue of Liberty, and Spider-Man had risen from the forgotten ashes.
But he’d chosen to be both. Not Peter Parker, not Spider-Man- the best and the worst of both. Because maybe MJ was right, maybe he didn’t deserve to be treated like a monster. And even he could admit that it was Peter Parker who built Spider-Man brick by brick, day by day, and tear by tear. From deciding to use his powers not for fame or fortune, but to prevent bad things from happening, to telling Tony Stark that he’d rather look out for the little guy, to going to space and falling to dust under an unfamiliar sun, but painfully familiar eyes. And then to having no familiar eyes to look into at all.
He’d made a lot of mistakes in his time, and he was still making them. He shouldn’t have trusted the Department of Damages so readily, he’d been burned by that one before with Beck and yet he’d bought the comforting lie like a mouse lured to cheese. He’d almost got Jean killed over it. That’s why he couldn’t just be Spider-Man any more, he needed to learn from Peter Parker’s mistakes once and for all, not just hide from them like he’d been doing all these years.
May was right, his power was a responsibility. And he had to step up to the task each and every day. He couldn’t shirk away from it, and like it or not, Peter Parker was a cup he had to start pouring into.
His aunt had been the biggest gift he could give to Jean Grey.
You’re beautiful. And the people who love you, we love you not because you’re special, we love you because you’re you.
He wondered if May would think the person he’d become was beautiful. At the very least, the flowers he brought to her graveside were.
His headaches weren’t going away. He’d thought naively that the moment he stopped fighting his nature, let matter win over the mind, that his body would finally regulate itself. That he could move on.
But, just like the ill gotten kiss he and ‘MJ’ had shared, life didn’t quite work like that. Sue Peter for wanting just the tiniest dose of a fairytale ending.
I understand why she loved you.
The phrase made him sick. It pounded in tandem with his aching head like poison. Sometimes, when his eyes bled black and his overloads sent him barrelling to the floor, he’d mutter it to himself like it was all he’d been taught to say.
A week after his release, after the glow of walking amongst the crowd of his supporters, Jean Grey visited him in his dreams.
I’m sorry about your sister. I’m sorry about your aunt.
“You’re okay.” She hugged him, and Peter seized for a moment in surprise before wrapping his arms around the teenager in what he hoped was a comforting way. He was a little rusty.
“How are you doing this? You’re not standing over me, are you? Because, I’ve gotta say, a little creepy.” Peter let Jean break away first and surveyed his surroundings. This time, they weren’t standing in his old bedroom, but occupied his and MJ’s rooftop on top of the school. He hadn’t been back there in a while.
I understand that you did what you had to do to protect her.
“Whatever they did to me back there dialled my powers up to a hundred,” she answered. And if that didn’t sound painfully familiar. “I don’t need to stay within thirty three feet to form a connection anymore. I’m in Westchester laying low.”
“Fancy,” Peter commented. May had taken him pumpkin carving there once in the fall. The place was brimming with plush trees, traditional museums, and old manors. He hoped she liked it there. “And you can handle it? The extra juice?”
“Better than you did,” Jean said cheekily, not seeming to have any qualms about using the memories she’d plucked from his head against him.
She then peered over the ledge, watching as a crowd of dream students sat cross legged by a sturdy willow tree, making signs for a protest Peter half remembered. He briefly wondered what sort of childhood Jean had, if it had ended with the death of her sister or whether she’d even had one.
People like us, we don’t get to have friends. Or family.
“I need to thank you. Thank you for saving my life.” Peter locked his eyes onto hers. Frank had filled him in on how the girl had jumped into his body, inflated his dying lungs with air when he could no longer pull in breaths himself. Over, and over, and over again. He’d told her to leave him, accepted death like it was an old friend- even been relieved. But he’d chosen life now, and he needed her to know how much he meant it.
She pursed her lips into a smile, her fringe sweeping away from her face, caught in a gentle breeze. “You saved mine first.”
And then she paused, her insecurity suddenly making her look her young age. Peter hadn’t looked so young at seventeen, had he?
“You meant what you said?” She asked intently, wide eyes darting back over to the view.
Peter knew immediately what she meant, had been wistfully thinking the same thing himself. “You have me,” he repeated what he’d told her before. “Though, I’ve gotta warn you, you’ll probably need to brush up on your pop culture if this friendship is gonna work out. Have you seen any Lord of the-”
And with an oomph of air being whooshed out of his lungs, Peter was being hugged again. It already felt a little more natural.
It was nice, waking up with a friend. They agreed to meet again in Peter’s mind the same time the following week, and maybe talk about seeing each other in person once the dust had settled a bit more. There was no sense in putting Jean in danger from any Damage Control stragglers if they could absolutely help it. Peter was content enough with the arrangement. After all, he hadn’t had standing plans in a very long time.
Advil wasn’t cutting into the pain. He lived in a perpetual cycle of cold flannels, closed curtains, and loop ear plugs; the latter of which had been brought over by an eager to attend Punisher. Frankly, pun intended, Peter was beginning to find the man’s nursemaiding off putting.
“Can I use my chit to cancel out whatever this is?” Peter addressed the man, who had gruffly forced his way into Peter’s meagre lodgings and commandeered his kitchenette. “You’re gonna tear-gas the wall raccoons with garlic.”
“First off,” Frank banged a cupboard shut so roughly that it shuddered through Peter’s walls and reverberated into his aching brain. “This is a shallot, who the hell taught you how to cook, kid?”
“We were more of a takeout kind of family,” Peter shrugged, thinking idly of smoke alarms and evacuating the apartment in the wake of burned meals.
“And secondly,” Frank ploughed on. “I broke you, I fix you. Fair’s fair.”
“As long as you’re not breaking and buying me,” Peter grinned, but Frank had already turned his back, so he let it melt away. “Seriously. Dude. Don’t be a martyr, it’s freaking me out. I liked the Staten Island you. Go back to that Frank. Besides, these headaches were an issue way before you shot a hole in me, you’re in the clear.”
Peter tried to speak the guy’s language as best he could, he knew any serious emotional outbursts wouldn’t be welcome here.
Stubbornly, Frank continued to poke at his shallot with a wooden spoon he’d spirited up. Peter certainly didn’t own it. Then, they each ate a more than healthy serving of pasta on Peter’s couch, relative silence interspersed with the occasional raging bicker. If nothing else, at least everything was normal on that front.
Jean was right, there were some serious issues going on inside Frank’s head. But the man had sat with him, guarded Peter’s unconscious body from any onlookers. So, maybe, just maybe, he’d had a friend in the all bark, plenty of bite man all along.
A few days after that, Peter squared his shoulders as he waited to see if Doctor Banner would approve his visit. He’d had to use Ned’s name again, but he figured his old friend would be more than happy to have it used for this purpose. The two of them had once spent an entire weekend building a limited edition Hulk LEGO set, and, in honour of its namesake, capped it off by smashing it bits.
You invented spidey tracker?
There must still be a small piece of Peter living inside Ned, lying dormant. He knew his friend- old friend, was a nerd, but this defied all reason. Peter thought he’d been the one stalking Ned all this time, through his stories, but really they’d both been watching. It certainly coloured the last years differently, every fight he’d lost, every alley he’d crumpled defeated in, knowing that Ned was just behind a screen rooting for him.
His guy in the chair without even knowing why.
The psychiatric ward was specifically designed to contain enhanced individuals, no amount of tree painted walls and ambient classical background music could change that. It couldn’t hide the thrum of the electric gates, or the several hundred armed to the teeth guards stationed at the facility.
Peter wasn’t really exactly sure why he was here. It probably had something to do with seeing the hundredth news title that branded Banner as an out of control monster. It seemed so wretchedly unfair, especially in contrast with the glowing media attention Spider-Man had been getting recently.
I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?
It left Peter feeling hollow, knowing that the professor was trapped here all alone. And, for the first time, he began to wonder whether it was truly a wise decision to have Jean roaming around unchecked. The things she could do. She’d thrown a man into the path of oncoming traffic without even blinking.
He shook his head. Jean could be good, he knew it. She just needed time. They all did. Trusting her wasn’t the mistake it was with Beck or Metzger, she was just a scared kid experiencing a world of grief.
Her only crime was that she was special.
His stomach knotted even further as the receptionist gave Peter the go ahead, and all too soon, he was rapping a polite knock onto Doctor Banner’s door.
“Come on in,” a quiet voice beckoned.
The professor sat cross legged in the centre of the room in white pajamas, channeling deep breaths into his nose and out through his mouth. He offered Peter a small smile as he shut the door gently behind himself, suddenly feeling like he was invading a private sanctuary.
“You won’t mind if we keep the volume on the lower side, will you? Just trying to keep everything all in check. You know how it is, Spider-Man,” Bruce greeted weightily.
So they were skipping all pretences of secret identities. Peter thought it was fair enough. This person before him was a shadow of the one he’d met at ESU, it was like he’d deflated, all dark puffy eye circles and repetitive, clockwork breaths. Peter would be cutting to the chase too.
“Sure thing, Doctor Banner.” For a lack of anything better to do with his body, Peter awkwardly plopped himself onto the ground next to the man, knowing he’d rather die than sit on a chair towering above him.
Then he just stared, mind completely stalling.
“Why don’t you tell me your real name?” Bruce prompted him generously.
Peter didn’t hesitate, he owed the man that much. “Peter. Peter Parker. I’m sorry I lied before.”
“People have lied to me about far worse, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Bruce brushed him off. Then he took a measured pause. “Is, uh- well, it’s just that nobody will tell me anything in here. Did anybody, uh, did anyone-”
“There weren’t any casualties, Doctor Banner,” Peter reassured him, feeling his heart break a little at the display. “And even if there had been, it wouldn't be your fault, none of it was down to you. You were put in an impossible position.”
Go ahead, Peter, touch her.
The professor began to clean his glasses. Peter thought maybe it was so that Bruce wouldn’t be able to see him as clearly. He looked ashamed.
“Kind of you to say, Peter, but the Hulk has always been my cross to bear. Mine and mine alone. I got complacent this last decade. But he’s my responsibility, I made my peace with that a long time ago.”
And if that didn’t sting.
“I can build you a new inhibitor. You know, if you wanted?” Peter offered, though he didn’t want to, not really. He’d seen real pain in the Hulk’s eyes. Could something be a monster if it could feel pain? But every last strip of agency had been wrenched from Doctor Banner, the least Peter could do was this.
I’m a friend.
“I don’t know,” Bruce shook his head, “I never trust an inventor who won’t use his own tech.” He gave Peter a smile. “You stop fighting your DNA?” He brought a hand up to the back of his neck, pointedly calling out Peter’s vanished inhibitor.
“I dropped it somewhere,” Peter said with a casual shrug. “And maybe someone a whole lot smarter than me told me I’d be better off without it.”
Immediately, Bruce was shaking his head. “You’re one of those generational talents, you realise that, don’t you?”
“Me and, uh, Mr. Stark-” Suddenly, despite the fact that Peter had never quite broached into casual territory with the billionaire, all sirs and non-stop blustering, it felt strange to be referring to him so formally. “Me and Tony worked together. Sort of.”
“That so?” Bruce inclined his head.
“You’d disappeared by that point, but he took me under his wing for a hot second there. Talked about you every so often.” It’s not like Peter was lying. He just hoped to God the doctor wouldn’t try to fact check him.
“And what did he say?” Eagerly, Bruce leaned forward, as though drinking in a lifeline, and it struck Peter that his closest friends, his Ned and MJ, were dead.
“Well, what he didn’t say was that he missed you, but that was the most obvious thing. He liked to add what your opinion would’ve been when we were debating a science issue. It was a little schizophrenic, if you ask me.”
Bruce jerked out a surprised laugh at that, and Peter continued. “He talked about how obnoxious you were for getting so many phds, that you were a hippie. How the Hulk was just a hyped up fun fair prize.”
“All good things then,” Bruce’s smile got wider, and his breaths became something more natural sounding.
“I’m reading between the lines here, but hear me out,” Peter watched Bruce for any sign he was overstepping. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to be so afraid of yourself. I know it’s not so easy. It never is when you’re different. But you deserve better. And I hope one day you’ll get to stop fighting with yourself too.”
Bruce whipped his head towards the window. “Go. Please.”
The man was furiously trying to regain his calm, but there wasn’t any green in his tired eyes, just the same old pain the Hulk had in his.
“Okay,” Peter replied lowly, bracing himself on his thighs and standing to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Doctor Banner. I’ll leave my number at the front desk if you want it.”
Just because we lost someone, doesn’t mean we have to do this alone.
When he got back to the loft, Peter tore up his note to MJ and threw it away, the coffee cup he’d kept like a mural following. He couldn’t keep a shrine to a girl who was still alive, it wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t fair to him.
I don’t love you, because I don’t even know you.
It was okay, though, Peter thought, because he didn’t really know himself anymore either.
And he didn’t know what the future held for him either, but it had to be better than this purgatory he’d trapped himself in. His life, like his anatomy, was in flux right now, but he’d weather it. He’d earned every throb of his head and every small child who decided to dress up as him. Spider-Man wasn’t a mask, he was a person, and he was beautiful, blemishes and all.
That is your deepest responsibility.
It would be a brand new day tomorrow. And the day after that, and the day after that too. So, Peter decided, then and there, at 3pm on a Thursday, that he was going to live.