Chapter Text
The light was blistering. As Peter opened his eyes, his senses flared into overdrive. The harsh fluorescent bulbs felt like they were piercing straight through his eyelids, the air tasted bitter, and the room reeked of clinical antiseptics. He squinted hard, trying to block out the overwhelming stimulation. He was in a hospital room—that much was obvious. To his right was a blur of blue and red Spider-Man drawings taped to the wall, and to his left... a sleeping Frank Castle.
He was alive. He had survived.
Instantly, his mind began compiling a rapid-fire checklist. He needed to call DeWolff to check the damage. He needed to get flowers and go to May’s grave. He had to figure out his shifting powers. He had to—
Suddenly, Peter realized the familiar, comforting compression of his suit wasn't there. He glanced down and spotted his mask crumpled at the foot of the bed. Panic spiked in his chest. How many people had seen his face? Doctor-patient confidentiality covered secret identities, right?
His sudden thrashing made the chair beside him creak. Frank stirred, his eyes snapping open with militant speed.
"You're awake, kid," Frank grunted, his voice a low rumble. "Good. I got a plan. We're busting you out of here before Damage Control show up."
An hour later, Peter was officially out. He knew he had to go to May’s grave first, so he stopped by the usual shop, picked up some flowers, and began his commute. Pulling out his phone, he dialed DeWolff. He braced himself, fully expecting a lecture about taking it easy and staying off the streets.
"Spider-Man?" Her voice cracked through the speaker, sharp but breathless.
"Hey, Captain. Just wanted to let you know I'm—"
"You're out of the hospital." It wasn't a question. Peter could hear the subtle exhale of relief in her voice, dropping the hardened-cop act for just a fraction of a second. "Good. I was getting tired of covering your shifts. Take care of yourself, idiot. Don't push it."
To his surprise, there was no lecture. Peter smiled, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. "Just tying up some loose ends, Jean. I'll behave."
***
Peter settled back into the rhythm of his life, though everything still felt slightly off-kilter. He pushed through a jog around the surrounding blocks, took a hot shower to wash away the lingering hospital smell, and grabbed a quick breakfast.
His next stop was the local shop. May had always told him that whenever he got his own place, he should keep fresh flowers around—she said it made an empty space feel like a home. Since his last bouquet had wilted while he was hospitalized, picking up a fresh bunch seemed like the perfect, quiet task to ground himself while he was benched from Spider-Man duty.
However, as he walked down the aisle, a familiar voice caught his attention. Peter turned and spotted Ned sitting at one of the small café tables near the window, eating a pastry.
Peter took a steadying breath. He wanted to do this right. Not as "Maynard," the fake name he'd panicked and used before, and not as Spider-Man. Just Peter.
He walked over. Ned looked up, recognition instantly flashing in his eyes—Ned had always been sharp, and he clearly remembered Peter from the party.
"Hey," Peter said, extending a hand. "I don't think we were properly introduced before. I'm Peter."
"Oh, hey! I'm Ned," he replied cheerfully, reaching out to take Peter's hand.
As their palms met, an impulsive, desperate instinct took over. Peter didn't just shake his hand. He shifted his grip and initiated the handshake.
And it worked. Slap, grab, slide, snap—every movement flowed naturally, perfectly in sync. It was pure muscle memory on Ned’s part, a ghost of a bond he didn't know he still had. For Peter, it felt like coming up for air. It hurt to know Ned didn't remember why they knew the handshake, but the fact that his hands still knew the rhythm felt like a victory. It felt as though Peter could protect him this time, even if thinking the words ‘this time’ tugged painfully at his heart.
As they finished the final motion, Ned froze. He stared at his own hand, then slowly looked up, his eyes widening to the size of saucers.
"Peter," Ned gasped.
For one agonizing, hopeful second, Peter thought the spell had broken. He thought Ned remembered.
But then Ned pointed a trembling finger at him. "Wait. MJ called him Peter. You're... you're him."
Peter let out a breathy laugh, the tension breaking. It wasn't the full truth, but it made this whole situation a lot easier. "Yeah. I'm him. MJ actually texted and said I should swing by. You want to walk over there with me?"
They hastily made their way out of the shop and toward the apartment so they could dissect everything. Just as Peter expected, Ned didn't stay quiet for a single block. He threw out rapid-fire questions with every breath, completely enthralled by the fact that he was casually walking down the street with Spider-Man.
Later that week, once the dust had truly started to settle, Peter made one last stop. He didn't wear the suit. He just threw on his usual jacket and took the train out to the facility where Dr. Bruce Banner had been recovering since the recent Hulk incident.
Peter found him in one of the lower labs, quietly tinkering with a spectrometer. Bruce looked tired, but the tense, guarded posture he usually carried after a code-green event was gone.
"Hey, Doc," Peter said softly, hovering near the doorway.
Bruce looked up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. A warm smile spread across his face. "Come on in. I was hoping you'd stop by."
Peter stepped into the lab, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I just wanted to check in. See how you were doing after... well, everything. You took a pretty hard hit."
"I heal fast," Bruce chuckled softly, leaning back against the workbench. He crossed his arms, his gaze turning analytical but gentle. "Though I have to admit, my brain has been working a lot harder than my healing factor lately. Trying to put some pieces together."
Peter’s spine stiffened. "Pieces?"
Bruce tilted his head, a faint, teasing smirk playing on his lips. "The kid from the university. Ned, right?"
Peter winced slightly. "Yeah, about that. It's actually Peter."
Bruce nodded slowly, his smile softening into something far more profound. "Right. Which perfectly explains why the Other Guy reacted the way he did."
Peter blinked, caught off guard. "The Hulk?"
"When I'm in the backseat, so to speak, it's usually just noise and pure instinct," Bruce explained, tapping his temple. "Fear, anger, adrenaline. But when you stepped in front of him the other day... you didn't put your hands up to fight. You just looked at him and said, 'I'm your friend.'"
Peter stiffened, his eyes dropping to the floor.
"He's used to people running away, Peter. Or shooting at him," Bruce continued, his voice dropping to a quiet, earnest register. "He's used to being treated like a monster. But you just stood there and offered him friendship. He felt how genuine you were. The rage just... evaporated. He didn't want to smash anything; he wanted to be better."
Peter swallowed hard, a sudden, tight lump forming in his throat.
"He didn't know who you were," Bruce said softly. "But he knew your heart in that moment. And if he trusts you, I trust you. So... thank you. For trying to help us out there, Peter."
"Always, Doc," Peter managed to say, his voice thick with emotion. For the first time since he had woken up in that hospital bed, the world didn't feel quite so fractured.