Work Text:
The hopes we hold
🕷
Heads turned as Spider-Man entered the precinct.
The man at the front desk – an officer with the nameplate reading Johnson – fumbled his pen as he looked up.
“Spider-Man.” He sounded surprised. His heart rate increased as Spider-Man tilted his head.
“DeWolff wanted to see me?” He tried to keep his voice light but there was static in the air. He didn’t know what it meant. Spider-Man flexed his fingers, trying to ease the tension roiling through him.
Peter, Jean warned from his mind.
She didn’t need to say more. Spider-Man rolled his shoulders back and bounced on his feet, trying to distract himself from the claustrophobia that settled down on him here, in this building with all these stares.
“Right,” the officer hastily agreed, stepping around from the front desk. “If you’d follow me.”
Spider-Man let out a slow breath and obliged, gaze lingering on the way some of the nearby officers brushed their hands along their belts.
The door beeped behind him and he heard the mechanism sliding a bolt in a socket. A button depressed to his left. Another officer stepped up and the cuffs on her belt jingled as she walked alongside them. Her nametag said Ellison.
Easy, Jean reminded him. These are the police. No one wants to hurt you.
Spider-Man clenched his teeth under the mask. The fluorescent lights hid the shadows as they turned a couple corners through metal doors. Each one latched with that same mechanical buzz behind him. The sounds of footsteps faded as they got further and further from the bustle.
“Where are we going?” Spider-Man asked as he followed, his footsteps silent on the linoleum. He couldn’t help the edge of suspicion that curdled the inflection.
“The interrogation room, where Detective DeWolff is waiting. We just need a statement and you can be back out doing your thing.”
Johnson’s heart rate was elevated. Ellison’s pulse was equally raised. They snuck glances at him.
“I thought you’d be taller,” Ellison remarked. Spider-Man straightened, surprised. He shrugged, some of the tension bleeding out of him. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Lower center of gravity. Better aerodynamics. You don’t see Captain America swinging between buildings, do you?”
Ellison blinked. “I guess not?”
“Superheroes always seem larger than life,” Johnson snickered, grin quirking his lips.
Ellison shrugged. “That’s true. Didn’t mean anything by it, Spidey.”
They reached another metal door. Johnson hid the keypad as he pressed a few numbers, but Spider-Man could help but notice the distinctive tones for each number press.
DeWolff was seated inside, across a steel table. Two armed police men stood in the corners of the room, next to a two-way glass. Johnson and Ellison did not step inside.
The door slammed shut behind him, locking with a click and beep.
“Spider-Man,” DeWolff greeted, standing and ushering him over to the other seat.
“Detective,” he acknowledged, sitting as he eyed the officers stationed behind her. His goggles must have given it away, or DeWolff was surprisingly intuitive.
“Don’t worry about them. It’s some dumb mandate about security when having mutants in interrogation. Figured you wouldn’t mind.” She waved a hand dismissively as she sat down, taking a sip of her coffee. It was a Styrofoam cup, the words we are happy to serve you sending a painful tug in his chest.
MJ didn’t know him. She didn’t remember.
Spider-Man gripped the edge of the table.
Hey, hey. It’s okay. Jean soothed. I’m sorry about MJ. I shouldn’t have–
DeWolff glanced at his hand, frowning. “How are you doing? I think I might have been a little harsh on you, but you could have seriously hurt or even killed someone.”
Spider-Man swallowed and dragged his hand off the table. Little indents remained.
“I’m not great,” he said truthfully. He shook his head, staring into his lap. Miniscule bits of dried blood were still caught in the fibers of his gloves. Not that anyone else would notice.
Everything was falling apart. Not that there was much there to break in the first place. But the pieces that were left were crumbling, and he felt it acutely in that moment, looking at the warm eyes of the detective who had always had his back.
“What’s going on with you?” DeWolff asked, leaning forward. “Can I help?”
MJ falling as he was swept aside, unable to reach her.
Tony’s tired sigh as he slumped, body failing.
May’s dead eyes, staring up at him, blood running down her temple.
Spider-Man shook his head. “No!” He spat, then more softly, “No. You can’t. People get hurt when they try to help me.”
He didn’t say more as he stood. The officers tightened their grips on their weapons.
Whoa, those were intense. The spider doesn’t like those. I’m going to strengthen them. I know they’re painful, but they remind you of consequences. Consequences are good.
Spider-Man cocked his head as DeWolff turned and glared at the guards. “Relax, won’t you? Jeez.”
Her blink was slow as she looked back at him, dragging her gaze from his feet to his mask.
“I saw your scuffle with the Hulk. Looks like you made it out in one piece. That’s good. I was worried.”
The Hulk roaring, spittle flying as the winds tore around them. Freedom from restraint as the pain of his full strength echoes up his wrists and arms, tendons alight and muscles alive.
Spider-Man paced, restless. The tension was back, tenfold. He needed to move. He needed to do something – anything.
Stop thinking about that one, Jean sounded frantic. Breathless. Peter. Remember May. Responsibility. You said she cared about responsibility.
Spider-Man clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. He needed to leave.
“Why am I here?” He asked, voice a rasp.
“Officer Samson was injured after the vigilante known as Spider-Man upturned a police cruiser,” DeWolff said, voice turning matter-of-fact. “What I need to put on the record is whether or not that was an inadvertent incident of justifiable collateral damage.”
Spider-Man stilled. “It was the Scorpion.”
People trapped in a collapsing building. Scorpion laughing as Spider-Man held up the remains, trembling, sweating, urging them to run. Scorpion slammed his mechanical tail into Spider-Man’s ribs. He hissed as he felt the bone bruise. He would take it, he had to.
Then –
You think I’m Scorpion?
It might have not been Mac Gargan in control. But Mac Gargan deserved the pain he wrought onto others. Spider-Man would give it to him, pay it back tenfold. He soared into the sky, launching his webs and propelling himself downwards, feet first into the villain’s ribs. The bones didn’t just bruise. His ribs cracked into splinters.
It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough for the children that died.
Spider-Man hoisted the Scorpion by his tail. That tail, tip coated in blood as often as poison. He flung him around. He had to suffer. He had to understand –
A police cruiser collided, flipped and screeched to a stop.
Spider-Man stepped on the Scorpion’s back. He wasn’t fighting back. He was barely breathing.
It didn’t matter. So long as he had that tail, he would use to hurt others, again and again and again. Spider-Man dug his fingers into the base, the fibers of the suit straining as he forced his hand inside, prying it apart. The metal sheared apart, wires sparking.
Spider-Man threw it aside, blood cooling to shame at the flashing red and blue lights.
“So, justifiable collateral.” DeWolff agreed, nodding. She paused and her eyebrow rose. “Was it inadvertent?”
Spider-Man was breathing hard.
That’s another bad one, even if the fucker deserved it. Jean strained. Okay, that’s not helping. Peter, he’s gone. He’s not here. Good people are here. You don’t want to hurt good people.
Spider-Man jumped, perching on the ceiling. He crossed his legs, sitting casually except for the fact that he was upside down. It was right in a way that settled the agitation within him, if only momentarily. The officers twitched at the moment, but otherwise didn’t react.
“Come on, Jean,” Spider-Man slipped, and realized that both the detective and the mutant in his head had the same name. “Do you really think I’d do that on purpose?”
You, Peter, no. The spider… Jean responded, thinking he was talking to her. He was, in a way.
She didn’t need to finish the thought. They both knew the answer.
“Of course not,” DeWolff assuaged, letting out a sigh. “That’s it. That’s all I needed for the record.” Spider-Man hadn’t noticed her tension until it was gone. She gave him a small smile that tugged at the corners of her eyes.
Outside, the panel beeped again. The same five-digit tone. The door opened and a man walked inside.
“Gary?” DeWolff’s heart rate stuttered from its constant rhythm. Her nervousness rippled through Spider-Man’s own muscles as he tensed.
The balding man put up his hands. “Hey Spidey. Sorry about this, but we’re going to have a few more questions. Orders from up on high,” he jerked his thumb upwards. “We need some info on what happened at Damage Control.”
Spider-Man narrowed his lenses.
There were no distinguishing marks on the officers in the room, so he’d assumed they just been outfitted with a little extra. But at the way their pulses hitched at the name – the way they tightened their grips…
“You called Damage Control.”
Gary rubbed at his temple and leaned against a wall. “They deal with the threats. And there’s a whole lot of unknowns that went on this afternoon. That you happen to be in the center of, no less. Countless injured, including Metzger. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
Spider-Man placed a hand on the ceiling, holding himself by his fingertips as he spun to rest on his feet. Silence reigned.
“Are you calling me a threat?” His voice was quiet. Measured.
Peter. Peter, you need to calm down. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to hurt them.
DeWolff stood, breaking the tension. “Let it go, Gary. He’s fine. A little out of it – but that’s Spidey.”
Spider-Man tilted his head.
Gary crossed his arms. “I want to trust your judgement–”
“You think I’m an imposter. Wait, you think that I’m under her control,” Spider-Man whispered, connecting the dots.
Shit, Jean said from within his head. I didn’t see that one coming.
“Her?” DeWolff asked. “You know who our psychic is?”
“There’s an easy way to settle this,” Gary intervened, reaching for his pocket. He pulled out what looked like a bulky Bluetooth earpiece from a couple decades ago. “Damage Control modified this here. Don’t ask me how it works, but it should block any psychic connections. Short battery life, but enough to prove a point.”
Spider-Man’s eyes widened.
Oh no, Jean mumbled. You can’t afford to let them kick me out.
“Officer Gary, was it?”
“Sergeant.”
“Sergeant, right. Sergeant Gary, you don’t want me to put that on.”
“And why is that?” Lines on his forehead bunched. “See I told you, detective. Something’s not right.”
Spider-Man waved his hands. “Not the way you think.”
“Spider-Man?” DeWolff asked, frown carving lines into her face. She looked so much older.
As he stared into her shocked eyes, he made a decision.
“My powers are mutating. My inhibitor’s not working. The psychic – she’s helping me keep it under control. You really don’t want me to put that on.”
DeWolff stepped towards him. “That’s what’s going on with you? She’s in your head?”
“Right on the money,” Gary smirked, pushing himself off the wall and holding out his hand. He switched the little device on, green light blinking. “Prove you’re in control. Put it on.”
Spider-Man stepped back. “Please. Please. You don’t understand. She’s helping me.”
DeWolff groaned and rubbed a hand across her face. “I can’t take your word. You understand that? I thought – forget it. Put it on. Then we can talk.”
Peter? I’m coming to the station. If I’m close enough, I can jump back in after you take it off. Just hold on. You’ll be okay.
His hands were shaking. He reached out, tentatively grabbing the device from Gary. The sergeant stepped back.
Spider-Man could destroy it. As easy as making a fist. But that wouldn’t solve anything.
DeWolff gave him a nod.
“Whatever happens, I’m sorry, Jean.”
Spider-Man clipped the device to his ear through his mask. It released a high-pitched hum that made him flinch, but that no one else seemed to hear.
I’m on my way. Good lu–
Jean’s voice snapped out of his head, like a shutter closing.
It was like a fog had settled over his thoughts, and now, it was gone. He breathed in, straightening as though he had just shed a migraine.
One of the guards was mumbling something into his earpiece as he shifted his rifle.
“Spider-Man? Talk to me.” DeWolff was reaching for him.
Spider-Man made out the word “neutralize” from the speaker on the other end. It sounded awfully like Metzger. The guard’s “affirmative” was like a switch being flipped.
Spider-Man let out a sharp laugh. “You shouldn’t have called Damage Control.”
One of the guards sent a spray of bullets. The nearly empty coffee cup exploded.
Spider-Man vaulted over the table, taking a bullet to the arm as he shoved DeWolff and Gary aside. He hissed, landing directly in front of the guards. Spider-Man grabbed the rifle and broke the barrel off. The other guard shot instead, nearly point-blank range at Spider-Man’s head. It clipped his ear as he snapped to the side, the bullet spray hitting his partner. Spider-Man kicked the guard in the chest, sending him back hard enough to indent the reinforced wall. He sagged.
“Look at what you did. You killed your own partner.” Spider-Man tsked, feeling strangely numb to that fact.
Five beeps sounded. Spider-Man shot an imprecise web at the door, holding it in place just as the officers inside tried to open it. He wasn’t trusting that there weren’t more Damage Control outside.
He brushed his hands together and stepped past the guards. Blood was pooling from the dead guard’s bullet wounds. The pain in his own arm was a reminder.
“Fuck,” DeWolff huffed. “They would have killed all of us. To get to you.”
“Stand down!” Gary yelled, reaching for his own handgun.
“Are you serious Gary?” DeWolff grabbed at his hand. “Spider-Man saved us. With your device on, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Someone is dead,” the sergeant countered, pulling past her grip.
“Spider-Man wasn’t the one holding the gun.”
Sergeant Gary aimed at Spider-Man. “Hands above your head.”
A fire alighted in his blood. They wanted to trap him. They wanted to kill him.
Spider-Man tensed.
DeWolff stepped in front of the barrel. “Put that thing away.”
Her stare did not let up until the sergeant did, grimacing at the guards on the ground. He clicked the safety back onto his gun before holstering it.
“Why do they want to kill you?” Gary barked, directing the question to Spider-Man.
Spider-Man didn’t move. There were virtually silent footsteps. Light, slow, breaths. He could barely pick out their heartbeats. Not from outside the door.
Behind the glass.
“Get down!” He yelled, yanking the table up just as the one-way mirror shattered to the pulse of a shockwave. They ducked and Spider-Man dove in front of the duo, bracing as he used the table to shield them all.
“Holy shit,” Gary muttered.
Members of the Hand, clad in red, bounded through the gap and into the interrogation room. Five of them, armed with katanas and who knows what else.
“Stay back,” Spider-Man called, setting the mangled table off to the side. DeWolff and Gary backed up to the far wall.
“This is what I get for listening to you,” DeWolff spat.
“Oh please. I was right. Kind of.” Gary countered.
“Damage Control is trying to kill us!”
“No, they’re trying to kill Spider-Man. Which is just as bad, don’t get me wrong, but get your facts right.”
“For fuck’s sake Gary – they’re trying to kill us too!” DeWolff’s point was proven when a member of the Hand sent a series of throwing knives towards the pair huddled at the back of the room.
Spider-Man caught them with his organic webs, diverting the projectiles into the wall mere inches from their targets.
Gary gulped. “Okay, you’re right.”
The Hand were assassins responsible for countless murders. It didn’t matter that they had turned over a new leaf by working for Damage Control. Damage Control was still using them to hurt people. They were still trying to killing people. Spider-Man wouldn’t let them.
He roared as he surged forward, colliding with the first ninja. He snatched the sword in his fist, the blade slicing into his palm as he ripped it aside. Fingers snapped at the hilt as Spider-Man tore the weapon away.
Two of the other ninjas swung at him from either side. Spider-Man ducked and slid underneath, kicking the first ninja into the ceiling. The ceiling rattled at the impact, the reinforced metal plating denting. The ninja’s collapsing body caught the second ninja unawares as he tried to sidestep, only for Spider-Man to send a vicious roundhouse kick to his head. His neck cracked as he spun aside. The swordless ninja cradled one hand to his chest as stepped over the two bodies. He used his good hand to pull another blade from his back, slashing and twirling with abandon.
Spider-Man weaved between his strikes. He caught a cleave aimed at his head with his forearm and punched the ninja in the chest. The sternum shattered underneath the ninja’s padded suit, Spider-Man’s hand burying itself into the flesh. The ninja went down, struggling to breath as his heartbeat stopped.
Spider-Man ripped his hand free. Blood squelched in his fist.
The two remaining ninjas jumped at him. A katana sliced for his neck while the prongs of a pair of sais aimed for his chest.
Spider-Man snarled as two sleek protrusions tore from his back, carving towards the ninjas. He spun and the sharp appendages sliced the arms off the sais wielding ninja. Spider-Man’s bloody hand wrapped around the remaining ninja’s neck as his katana slid into Spider-Man’s gut.
He screamed as he flung the ninja away, the protrusions piercing forward through the man’s chest, pinning him to the wall.
Spider-Man stepped back, the appendages releasing the ninja who crumpled to the floor. The katana was still buried in his lower abdomen. He reached and slid it out, groaning all the while. It clattered among the bodies.
The bullet was still buried in his left bicep. Without a second thought, he pried his own fingers into the wound, hissing. His nails scrapped against something hard as he ripped the bullet free. He crushed it in his hand.
Gary and DeWolff were huddled against the floor at the opposite end of the interrogation room.
The fight had barely lasted a minute. It had felt like an eternity.
“Jesus,” DeWolff cursed. “Spider-Man, are you okay?”
“Is he okay?” Gary sputtered. “They’re dead.”
Spider-Man was coated in blood. His own, the Hand’s. It dripped from slash in his left palm, the bullet wound in his bicep, the gash in his forearm and the puncture in his hip. His suit was equally torn up, skin poking through in half a dozen places. Cool air tickled the shredded skin of his back.
He flexed his shoulders and the protrusions responded. He could glimpse them as they arced forward, over his shoulders. They weren’t made from soft, fleshy material. They were hard and sharp, reminiscent of his Iron Spider suit, although there were only two.
“Huh,” was all he said, the eyes of his suit narrowing as he appraised the new limbs.
A strange beeping rang through the room. It wasn’t coming from the lock on the interrogation room door.
That’s when he remembered the earpiece, the one that was supposed to block Jean out.
He reached for it, pulling it off just as the blinking red light turned off.
Spider-Man lurched as a presence slammed into his head.
Peter! Oh my God. Jean stuttered. He could smell her panic. Taste her fear. It’s worse. It’s so much worse.
“Spider-Man,” DeWolff called out to him again. He staggered forward, dropping to his knees.
Reality sank in slowly, like a stone dropping into the ocean. He had known something like this would happen. He had known and he thought he might have been able to avoid it. Prevent it.
He retched, barely pulling up the mask over his mouth in time to empty the bile in his stomach. The appendages responded instinctively, bracing against the floor as he heaved. The sharp tips sheared through the metal like paper.
You’re okay. It’s okay. I’m here.
Jean’s voice echoed in his head. He could barely hear it. All he could hear was the sound of a neck snapping, a body slamming into the ceiling, his fist squelching through muscle and bone.
He sat back, protrusions folding up behind him. They pressed against the cool skin of his back. Not gone.
He hadn’t noticed when DeWolff had gotten to her feet. She leaned over him, hand tentatively reaching out. She set it on his shoulder as she crouched next to him.
“Breathe through it. Your adrenaline is dropping. You’re injured and you’re going into shock. Breathe.”
Spider-Man huffed as she said. He was cold. He was so, so cold.
“You’re not scared?” He whispered, mouth dry.
There were tears in her eyes as she met his through his mask.
“I’m scared. For you. Not of you. Never. You just saved our lives.”
Gary was prying at the webbing holding the door shut.
“She might not be scared, but I sure as hell am. You need to let us out of here.”
Spider-Man took another deep breath and pulled the mask down over the lower half of his face.
“What if there’s more?” He swallowed. “I can’t–” He tried to stand, but one of his legs gave out. DeWolff caught him. Her hands were covered in blood.
“Then they can come in the gaping hole in the window. Open the goddamn door.”
Spider-Man nodded, stepping out of DeWolff’s grasp. He stumbled again, dropping to a knee.
He was so tired.
DeWolff reached for him.
“Stand back,” he muttered to them both.
They both warily backed away from both him and the door.
Spider-Man reached for the foreign feeling settling on his shoulder blades. The appendages responded, unfurling slowly.
He snapped one towards the door and cut through the webbing.
He pulled them back, tucking them once more against his bloody, sweat soaked skin.
Gary punched the code and yanked the door open, but not before giving Spider-Man a second look. He nodded at DeWolff. Officers began to rush into the room.
“Hold!” Gary commanded. They stopped, eagerly peering behind him. Gasps sounded. “Make space. Call EMS and lock down the precinct. Damage Control is responsible for this. Understand? Spider-Man saved our lives. It’s all on tape.”
A chorus of muttered affirmations followed as they cleared the hall.
Spider-Man’s vision was blackening.
Peter, stay with me. Jean was back, a little louder than she had been. She sounded winded. You can’t pass out here. Damage control will get you. You need to stay awake. Or I will make sure you do.
Spider-Man laughed, the sound cracked and bitter. He bit his lip and dragged himself to his feet. He clutched at his hip as he limped forward. DeWolff hovered, ready to support him.
Each footprint left a bloody remnant across the floor.
“Is he okay?” Ellison was still there.
“Hey, Spidey, do you need an ambulance?” Johnson eyed the way Spider-Man clutched at his side, blood leaking through his fingers.
“There’s so much blood.” A woman with the nametag Leroy.
“Oh my god, they’re dead.” Ellison had peaked into the room.
DeWolff wrapped an arm over Spider-Man’s shoulder, pulling him into her side. He couldn’t believe her compassion. He was repulsed by himself and what he’d done. Even if he hadn’t started it.
He’d ended it.
“Detective, what happened in there?” An officer with Ahmed on his nametag.
“It was self-defense.” DeWolff did not elaborate.
“Spider-Man killed them?” The hysteria in Leroy’s voice was justified.
“One of them is missing arms.” Johnson staggered away from the door.
“Hey, Sergeant. Should we really be letting him walk out of here?” Ahmed reached for the walkie in his belt.
“I stand by what I said.” Gary sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Spider-Man, get out of here.”
Outside the precinct, DeWolff faltered.
“Are you going to be okay. After all of this?”
Spider-Man hunched, eyes fixed onto the blood staining her clothes from where she’d held onto him. “I tried to warn you. I tried–”
“I know. But that wasn’t your fault. They were going to kill all of us. Maybe–” She swallowed. “It could have gone better. But you were protecting us. You hear me?”
Spider-Man straightened, yelping as he stretched his stab wound.
“It was. I told you. My powers are mutating. Look at me,” he gestured to his back. “I can’t control it like I used it. It controls me.”
DeWolff pursed her lips. “You said the psychic is helping you? Is she – is she back in your head now?”
Spider-Man nodded. “Yeah. She’s helping me manage it. She’s not gonna hurt anyone anymore. It was all because of Damage Control. You have to believe me – you just saw what they did.”
DeWolff looked skeptical. “Alright. If you say so. But she can’t control you, right?”
“Only if I let her. She can’t overpower me. That hasn’t changed.”
A woman wearing a dark green hoodie approached them from around the corner.
“I got him,” she addressed DeWolff. Underneath her hood, she was pale, dark circles underneath her eyes.
“Who are you–” DeWolff started, before her eyes widened. “It’s you?”
Jean nodded. “Believe me. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Damage Control took my sister. I’m just trying to get her back…”
DeWolff clenched her jaw. “You’re just a kid. And they took your sister?” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make what you did okay. But this is on them.”
“She’ll make it right,” Spider-Man affirmed. A command, as much as a promise. “I was supposed to make it up to you. I’m sorry it turned out like this.”
DeWolff grimaced. “This is so much more complicated than I could have imagined. Get out of here. I might not be able to contact you for awhile until things cool off.”
Sirens rang out, closing in.
Jean moved to his side and he gratefully leaned onto her. She pitched underneath his weight.
“Holy you’re heavy,” she groaned.
“Don’t hold your breath,” he told DeWolff. “It might be time for me to hang up the suit. If I can’t get ahold of this, I won’t have a repeat of today.”
“Then I hope for all our sakes, whatever you’re doing works out. It will be a sorry day when New York doesn’t have Spider-Man looking out for her anymore.”
When they turned the corner, Jean stopped. She was breathing hard.
“We can’t make it like this. Can you get us back? We shouldn’t stay here.”
Spider-Man took a deep breath and flinched as it aggravated his side. His eyelids were heavy as he blinked.
“If you don’t, I can control a taxi to take us back. They won’t remember–”
“No. You said you were going to be better. You can’t just control people without their consent. Not like you did MJ–” His blood was thrumming. The cold was fading, replaced instead with fiery anger. His grip tightened around Jean’s shoulder.
“Okay! Okay I won’t!” Her eyes were wide and pleading. She didn’t say anything to him, out loud or in his head, even as she probably sensed his turmoil. She must have known his anger was for her, but she didn’t talk him down. She didn’t make excuses. She was learning to be better.
The pain faded as his blood boiled. That same restlessness was coursing through him – this time directed at Jean.
He closed his eyes. The appendages unfurled from his back, gleaming against the sunlight. He braced them on the ground.
“Grab on,” he rumbled.
To Jean’s credit, she didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, the position infinitely more intimate than it had been earlier in the day when she fumbled onto his back. It was no longer an option with the protrusions.
Spider-Man winced as his side flared. Wet blood soaked his suit.
With a deep breath, he used the power of his new limbs to send them soaring into the sky.
He’d been able to jump high before – but right away he could tell this was more. He almost tripled the low-rise he’d been planning to land on without trying. Instead, he aimed his organic webs, inelegantly latching onto a skyscraper and sling-shotting them forward.
Jean tensed as she clung to him, heart rattling.
It wasn’t his best swinging. But he didn’t crash into anything, so he considered it an improvement.
When they finally landed on his rooftop the last of his strength gave out. His knees buckled and they were only saved from a rough landing by the appendages burying themselves into the roof and catching the momentum.
They hung there for a moment before Jean uncurled herself and helped him up.
He couldn’t even control the protrusions enough to retract. They scrapped along the floor as she hauled into his apartment. Spider-Man ripped his mask off and collapsed onto the couch, out cold.
🕷
Jean sat on the dusty floor of Peter’s lonely attic.
She was covered in blood. Most likely his.
She heaved, retching what little she had in her stomach. It didn’t make her feel better.
She dragged herself to her feet and grabbed some damp paper towel to clean up her mess. She almost threw up again.
Jean hadn’t been in his mind when he’d done it. Maybe that’s how he’d done it, when she’d been trying her damndest to bury the predator that kept rearing its ugly head. But when she’d gone back in – she’d seen the aftermath. The feedback from his processing was overwhelming. The tang of iron, the drumming thump of heartbeats and the agony tearing along his back, his arm, his stomach – the pain that had echoed back to her had nearly shoved her right back out.
Only when she had cut herself off from everything but sight could she process what had happened alongside him. The room hadn’t been large, but it was decimated. The two-way glass shattered, two guards – Damage Control – buried underneath the bodies of the five Hand that had infiltrated the NYPD. Bullet wounds. A broken neck and a broken spine. Two arms, sliced clean off. A ragged hole in the chest of another and two deep perforations through the chest of the last. Blood slicked the metal floor, which was dented in more than a few places. The two policemen remaining in the room cowered against the far wall, a little banged up but alright.
Jean didn’t blame Peter for getting sick. It proved that he was holding on, despite it all. She hoped there was guilt buried in there somewhere, but she didn’t want to look for it. She was scared to find it missing, torn apart by the spider.
It was remarkable that the police had let him go. That lady cop – DeWolff – was someone who really cared about Spider-Man. She genuinely worried about the person inside the suit. Almost like a mother.
Jean’s gut twisted.
What he’d done to the Hand – it could have been her.
And she would have deserved it.
She took a deep breath to settle her rapid thoughts and turbulent stomach.
Jean crawled a little closer.
She knew he was asleep. She could feel it, the way she had tucked herself away in the corner of his mind. The spider was less active now too, no longer weaving alongside the strands of memory in the cocoon. Still, she trembled slightly.
She wasn’t scared of him. Not Peter. The little bit she’d seen in his head of his past and his memories had told her how good he was. It was almost naïve, how much he believed in people. The world kept knocking him down and he didn’t let it get to him. He saw the best in people even when they tore him apart.
Peter believed in her. After everything she had done. To innocents. To him. He dared to give her a chance. She hadn’t wanted to believe it.
Jean knew what it was like to have no one in these months of Sara’s absence. She coped by reaching for the light at the end of the tunnel. The eventual reunion.
No one knew Peter outside the mask, beneath the suit. The knowing of a thing was different than feeling it. His isolation was like ice within him, a cold so sharp it burned. She could feel it eating away at him and so he kept hiding from it with the mask. He could pretend he had a life when he wore it, both revered and hated in equal measure. It wasn’t about what others felt about Spider-Man. It was the sheer acknowledgement that he craved so deeply, tied to his being. He wanted nothing more than to be known, cursed as he had been to be forgotten.
His memories of times with those connections kept paling, but he’d never sought to rebuild them. That fear ran deep, as deep as the spider rearing its head.
It was no wonder that it was trying to take control when Peter had abandoned everything about his humanity.
It had been harrowing. Jean had never felt so mentally exhausted as she had, constantly fighting against the primal urges battering against Peter’s psyche. It had wanted to attack constantly, like a feral, rabid thing. Physicality seemed to abate it slightly, while sitting still stirred it into frenzy. It had been almost lazy when she’d barreled back into the place she’d carved for herself in that claustrophobic cocoon. Satiated with the bloodshed it had caused and the transformation it wrought.
The filtered daylight illuminated the pair of appendages arcing from Spider-Man’s back. The skin had fissured itself open, blood seeping along the groves of his skin. They were long with occasional ridges, allowing them to fold up neatly along his shoulder blades. They drooped past that first ridge, lifeless and limp where the ends draped across the floor.
The glossy black was marred with crimson at the tips, which looked as sharp as knives. Even inert as they were, the end of one had torn through the weave of the carpet. Another spilled stuffing from the pillow where it rested on the floor.
EV had been wrong – or right. She warned about physical mutations, but she’d said he had days. She had also warned against stress and exertion, both of which he’d undergone in strides.
Jean pushed herself to her feet and decided to try to get their shit together.
She didn’t feel bad about rifling through his things. It was no more invasive than what she had already been doing, rifling through his memories and playing god in his head. She found an old band T-shirt and some sweatpants. She snagged a second T-shirt for herself.
She righted the coffee table and placed the fresh clothes on it. She took the other T-shirt and stepped into the tiny washroom. The water was barely lukewarm as she stepped into the stream, clothes and all. Streaks of red stained the porcelain tub.
She scrubbed her clothes the best she could, using the cheap brandless soap. Eventually she grabbed some shampoo for her hair. There was no conditioner. Not that it mattered. She’d just wanted to feel clean, covered as she had been in blood that wasn’t hers. Her hands were pink and raw by the time she stepped out. There was still blood under her nails.
She blinked back tears. Steeled herself even as she shivered.
She draped her clothes on the towels rack and used a clean towel to dry herself off. She wrung out her hair, rat’s nest that it was, and shrugged on the T-shirt, which draped down like a dress. She knew what this looked like, but she didn’t care. It was just until her jeans and hoodie weren’t sopping wet.
Her arm was mottled with purple where he’d grabbed her. Her neck was the same. The T-shirt did little to hide either.
Outside the bathroom, Peter hadn’t moved. She couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. But she knew he was. She was in head, after all.
She approached the desk.
“EV,” she started, still wary of the AI that wanted her neutralized. “Peter has developed… you know what. You figure it out.”
“Suit scanning function disabled due to physical damage. Stationary scanners remain functional.”
“These ones?”
Jean pointed at the small camera-like pieces mounted at the corner of the desk.
“Wireless functionality activated. Scan will activate momentarily.”
Jean unplugged the scanning device and when EV didn’t start immediately yelling at her she figured it was a win. She walked to the couch and pointed the scanner at Peter, ensuring to give the spider legs or whatever they were a wide-berth.
“EV?”
“Scanning. Hold steady.”
A blue beam of light shone from the little scanner, travelling over the length of Peter’s prone form.
“Complete. Please return scanner for analysis.”
Jean plugged the contraption back into its spot with only a little bit of fumbling.
“Analyzing data.”
She sat back into the chair, swiveling to the side to stare at Peter. If he needed serious medical attention, EV would say something, right? He hadn’t seemed to think he needed it. But then again, she knew better than anyone he wasn’t exactly in his right mind.
“Analysis complete. Subdermal exoskeleton formation detected. Organic material comprises of primarily chiton and hardened proteins, with trace amounts of metals. Chelicerae dermal breaches detected in the interscapular region. Development of exoskeleton has drained the body of excess glucose, lipids and proteins.”
Right. Jean didn’t know why she thought that might be useful. If Peter was awake, he would be able to explain it.
“Wait, drained? Is he going to be okay? Especially with how hurt he is?”
“Condition is stable. Replenishing required resources will expedite recovery. Recommendation: sugar-filled and protein-rich foods. Intravenous would rapidly restore fluids.”
“Well, no hospitals obviously. Let’s see what he has in his kitchen.”
Peter had nothing.
Half an onion sat sadly in the fridge. She thought she might have lucked out with the remnants of a bag of chips but when she opened it, it was empty.
Her own stomach rumbled as she thought about the last time she ate. Yesterday?
There was a half-filled tub of whey protein powder on the counter. EV had said protein. Jean filled a glass of lukewarm water from the tap and poured a couple tablespoons into it. As she stirred it, watching it dissolve, she added two more tablespoons because why not.
“You said he needed sugar too, right?”
EV didn’t reply as Jean hunted in the cupboards, finding a couple refined sugar packets tucked into the corner of the pantry. She poured those into the protein water as well. It wouldn’t hurt.
As she brought her glass of sugary protein water back to the couch, she set it down next to change of clothes.
Now, to get him to drink it.
“Peter,” she called. He twitched but didn’t wake. She didn’t dare get closer. Not when he could jolt awake and slice her to ribbons.
She called his name inside his mind. Jean fumbled back as the exoskeletal limbs stiffened and curled, points dragging grooves into the floor. After a moment they retracted and folded into his back, but he didn’t open his eyes.
What the hell. She was doing this to help him.
She closed her eyes and focused. All she had to do was get him to sit up and drink. Then she would let him be.
She directed her intent, wearing him like a coat. Eyes still closed, Peter propped himself up. Except, Jean propped too hard. She hadn’t thought – she’d just wanted him upright.
His eyes snapped open as she was forced out, head aching.
She stared up to where Spider-Man clung to the ceiling. He blinked, dazed, before dropping down. His eyes were still that liquid black as he peered through his fatigue.
“What–”
“Drink this,” Jean offered him the glass of sugary protein water. “EV said you need it.”
“My recommendation included sugary and protein-rich foods. Not sugar and protein powder in water.”
Spider-Man sniffed it and cringed. “Really?”
“EV, tell him what you told me.”
“Subdermal exoskeleton formation detected. Organic material comprises of primarily chiton and hardened proteins, with trace amounts of metals. Chelicerae dermal breaches detected in the interscapular region. Development of exoskeleton has drained the body of excess glucose, lipids and proteins.”
The fatigue flickered away as he straightened, interest peaked. As she reentered the corner of his mind, she could feel his curiosity worming its way through the cocoon. That seemed like a safe emotion.
“Oh. No wonder I’m so tired. Wait.” Instead of reaching for her concoction, he raised his injured forearm. He grit his teeth before he stuck his fingers inside, cleaving the skin further apart.
“Oh my God. What are you doing,” Jean exclaimed, nearly spilling the sugary protein water. She flinched, the echo of his pain flaring through their mental link. As she had earlier, she cut off her perception of his senses, save for that hollow spot within his mind where she collected important pieces. Curiosity was still dangerous. The pain stirred the spider.
“Peter, stop that.”
Spider-Man shuddered, before prying his fingers free.
“That’s gonna need stitches. But EV’s right. There’s a dense layer beneath the skin. An exoskeleton. That’s crazy–”
The spider liked curiosity. She felt it grab hold of the memory. Should she stop it? She couldn’t tell. This felt like Peter, even if it was unsettling.
She shook off the unease. “Okay, now drink up.”
He swiped the water and chugged it, handing her back the glass. Bloody smears from his fingers and all. “That wasn’t too bad.”
“Estimated 2% replenishment.”
Spider-Man blinked. Jean blinked and stared at the tub of protein powder. Wordlessly, she stood up and brought it to the sink, filling it with water.
“Is that my shirt?”
She half-turned as she tugged down at the ends.
“My clothes are drying.”
His gaze caught on the pile of clean clothes she’d put on the table. He looked down at himself. The blue of his suit was more brown, saturated as it was. It tugged at the scab on his abdomen and he groaned.
He squinted as Jean brought the tub of watery protein to the couch.
“You need to drink this. Like all of it.”
He frowned.
“EV, what foods would stabilize the imbalances the fastest?”
“Based on your previous eating habits and monetary expenditures: yogurt. About twelve pounds or twenty-four tubs of yogurt.”
Spider-Man curled a lip and grabbed the tub from Jean.
“And this?”
“Estimated half-tub of whey protein will put you at about 10% total replenishment.”
“Bottoms up,” she encouraged.
He only coughed three times as he downed the protein beverage.
“Impressive,” she remarked he handed it back. “Now go shower.”
He sighed, hunching over.
“Do you really want to fall back asleep in your bloody, bedraggled spider-suit?”
He gave her a stink eye as he stood, snatching the clothes and wobbling to the washroom.
She laughed.
When the door shut, she wondered when she’d become so comfortable around him. Spider-Man had just killed a handful of people and yet – she hadn’t felt this at ease in years. He felt like a friend. A deranged, messed up, spider-infused friend.
He’d threatened her hours earlier. Her arm and neck were sore and bruised – a physical reminder.
Jean was beginning to know his mind as intimately as her own. There were horrors lurking in there. But there was good… so much good. Even when faced with the terror of what he was becoming, it couldn’t overshadow the warmth he exuded. Depraved as she was, she lapped it up in that secluded corner where she ached to remake him into who she should have been.
Second on her to do list: Jean would save him. Along with Sara.
She had to.
🕷