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Gwen Stacy was in love with her girlfriend. Even if the rest of the world didn’t know that she was her girlfriend.
“C’mon, Pete! The store is closing in an hour, and you are not wriggling your way out of clothes shopping for the third time this month,” she said, dragging her girlfriend down the civilian-speckled street as she lagged behind sluggishly. What Gwen Stacy didn’t love, was having to deadname her girlfriend in public. Of course, it wasn’t really ‘deadnaming’, considering that she didn’t even have a new name picked out, but it still felt wrong! She wanted Peter to feel as comfortable as possible in her skin, and she knew that name wasn’t helping. They had floated the idea of Gwen just calling her ‘Parker’ for now, but it sounded too much like Jameson. Pet names were off-limits, too. Too sappy, too silly.
“Give me a break Gwen, I was up all night at the…” Peter said, glancing at the full New York streets before continuing, “Bu… gle…” Real smooth, Pete. Gwen chuckled at the half-hearted lie, a habit Peter had trouble shaking off since revealing herself to Gwen as Spider-Man.
“Sorry Gwen, old habits. But please, let up! You’re gonna pull my arm out of its socket!”
“Oh yeah? I’m going to pull your arm out? Sure thing, you dork,” Gwen teased, knowing Peter was probably strong enough to rip through a car. Tugging her along at an ever-growing pace, the happy couple wound through the streets of Manhattan to their destination.
The thrift store they arrived at was probably one of the cheapest in the whole city, perfect for the joint salaries of a freelance photographer and interning lab assistant. Walking in, they were greeted with the timeless smell of donated shoes and old people and floor wax and weird. Gwen marched for the racks that hung the more feminine clothes, Peter pretending to not look excited as she trots behind.
“Here, pick out some stuff you like and we’ll head to the changing rooms,” Gwen said, sliding Pete across the ground to face the dresses. The options weren’t staggering, but they were definitely cute. Cuter than what Gwen wore most of the time, and definitely cuter than the clothes Pete had been wearing since she was in high school.
“Gwen, I’m… I’m still not sure about this…” Peter said, shifting uncomfortably next to her girlfriend, staring down the green frilly sundress that seemed to float before her. Gwen slid behind her, and nudged her forward a bit, trying her best to be encouraging. If only MJ were here, she was the one that was good with fashion! But, Peter insisted they keep it between the two of them for now. Just until she was comfortable, which was the main goal of this trip.
“C’mon dork, you’ve got this,” Gwen said, guiding her girlfriend’s hands to pluck the dress off the rack. “If you really want, I can come in the changing room with you, maybe…” she added, looking down to avoid any possible eye contact. Of course there couldn’t be any eye contact, as Peter was facing fully away from her.
“That, uh, won’t be necessary. Besides, I don’t think the employees here would appreciate a bad porno going down in here,” Peter said, holding the dress to her chest like it was going to fly away. “Maybe later, though, okay Stefani?” she added, looking at Gwen with a stupid smirk that she wanted to slap off her cute dumb face right there in the store. But she didn’t, because that would probably get them kicked out before they could even shoot their porno.
“Sure, Ms. Parker,” Gwen said, under her breath so nobody else could hear. “Now, go grab some more stuff and head to the changing rooms, I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll come find you when I’m done, alright?” she said, spinning her girlfriend around to face her again. She was a little shorter than Peter, but it didn’t stop her from having a commanding presence over the loser, who decided to demonstrate with a mock salute. Gwen rolled her eyes, kissed her on the cheek, and headed for the bathroom.
God, she hoped Peter would be okay by herself.
Peter Parker was not, in fact, okay by herself.
The dress only served to accentuate her least favorite features. Where it should have hugged her curves, it just hung limply over her muscles. Where it should have twirled when she walked, it clung to her crotch and broadened her shoulders. She hated it. Her body had ruined this beautiful dress.
She’d saved it for last, after trying on a whole slew of outfits and combinations. The only one that felt semi-okay was a normal sweater vest and slacks, but it was almost identical to what she’d walked in wearing. The skirts and crop tops made her feel gross, and the unisex clothes didn’t do anything to make her feel like a girl. She either felt like a freak, or like herself.
Something that was almost worse than being a freak.
“Great job, Parker. Somehow you managed to pick the only dress in the whole store that was probably labeled ‘For Men Who Want to Feel Bad’, or something,” she said to herself. Wow, Peter, that’s the best you could do? Really bringing your A-material to the self-deprecation station today.
The dress tightened around his chest as he looked in the mirror, cracking his ribs and squeezing into his lungs, choking air out of his mouth in rapid breaths. Peter looked into the mirror again, tears streaming down his face.
'Really, Peter? You’ve taken punches from men three times your size, been suffocated, electrocuted, poisoned, and this is what makes you sob? Looking at your muscular, hulking body in the mirror, wearing women’s clothes?'
'You’re hopeless, Parker. Face it: Nobody’s going to want you like this. Gwen’s only putting up with you because she doesn’t realize what this means. If you somehow do start to look like a woman, she’s going to drop you like the sack of wet meat you are. The only people who are going to want you like this are freaks worse than you. Gwen was already too good for you, and you just had to go push your luck like this.'
'Good ol’ Parker Luck, right? You might as well do her a favor and break up with her now, spare her the effort. Spare her the time. Spare her from y—'
“Pete? You okay in there? It… it sounds like crying…” a familiar voice slices through Peter’s intrusive thoughts.
“It’s nothing, Gwen,” Peter responds, lying to her.
“Are you sure? It doesn’t sound like nothing…” Gwen says. “I’m… I’m coming in, okay?”
No.
“No!”
“What?”
“Sorry. Just, not right now, Gwen,” Peter can’t let her see him like this.
“Pete, I really think I should come in. I can hear you sniffling through your sentences—”
“Y’know Gwen, maybe you should take a walk and stop bothering me, okay? I’m really not in the mood for you to pry on me right now,” Peter snaps.
“I— what?” she responds, stunned.
“You heard me. I can’t deal with this right now, okay? Just… just go away, alright? This whole trip was a mistake,” smooth, Peter. Really smooth. Gonna nominate yourself to Boyfriend of the Year, or just wait for everybody to write you in?
“I… I’m sorry, Pete. I’ll… I’ll be back in a bit, okay?” Gwen says, clearly trying to stifle sobs. “I— I love you, sweetheart. I’m sorry I upset you,” she says, using a pet name. Peter can hear her still standing on the other side of the door, waiting for a response. She doesn’t get one, walking away after a moment.
'Congratulations, Peter, you really took your own advice to heart, didn’t you? If she doesn’t want anything to do with you now, just give her a few minutes to think over what you said. You know, maybe there isn’t any ‘Parker Luck.’ Maybe it’s just you.'
Peter sits by himself, huddled in the corner of the changing room, trying not to cry. He doesn’t want to disturb anybody. After what could’ve been four minutes, or maybe four hours, he stands up, facing away from the mirror, and takes off the dress. He stops, staring down at his body for a while. Six pack abs, toned biceps, slim hips and waist, muscular calves, the works.
'You’re everything a man would want to be, Peter. Why can’t you just be happy with that?'
He puts his shirt on, then his pants, shoes, socks. Gathering up all the clothes he’d spent a while trying on, he opens the door to the changing room. He hangs his head as low as possible while carrying the clothes back to where he got them, not wanting to draw any attention. Nobody needs to know what he did.
Gwen isn’t in the store.
That’s fair. She probably left after his outburst. Hopefully she’s back at her dorm, but he figures he should give her some space for a while. Maybe forever. It would probably be better for Gwen if she didn’t have to see Peter after today. He hasn’t snapped like that at her before. Sure, she’s done it at Jameson, Harry, and some of his friends, but never Gwen. She didn’t deserve that.
Peter makes the lonely walk back to his dorm at ESU, silently praying that no big super-crime happens today. He just wants to lay in bed and feel awful.
But of course, Peter Parker doesn’t deserve such a luxury. Something he remembers from the note on his dorm’s fridge, requesting a private meeting at the Brooklyn Bridge, to catch up with an old friend.
Gwen Stacy has been dead for three months.
Peter Parker stared at the slowly-rotating cup of ramen noodles in the microwave, repeating that phrase in his head. It was the three month anniversary of Gwen Stacy’s death, and the four month anniversary of Peter coming out to her. It was also the three month anniversary of Peter promising that he would never let anybody see that side of him again.
Peter Parker hated himself a lot, but he hated Spider-Man more. It was Spider-Man who prevented him from having a social life. It was Spider-Man who got him broken bones and punctured lungs.
And it was Spider-Man who couldn’t save her.
So that was it. Gwen died, Goblin disappeared, and New York hasn’t had a Spider-Man. It didn’t matter, it still had the Fantastic Four, when they weren’t in some other dimension or something. Matt and the Defenders probably hated him after having to increase city upkeep recently. It was only getting worse out there every day, Peter thought. Fisk was increasing his hold on the city with him gone, and super criminals were running rampant.
It’s not like he could even help out if he wanted. He’d trashed the suit in an alley, and shattered the web shooters the same day. Nothing was going to bring him back. Nothing short of Gwen walking through his front door, and telling him that he could.
The microwave beeps, startling him out of his thoughts. His ramen is done.
He opens the door, steam blasting in his face. He doesn’t move out of the way, spider-sense be damned. He pulls the container out, sitting down on one of the two chairs he has in his apartment with a fork and a rotten nothingness across from him. The smell of soy sauce hits him as he pops the top off, slurping the noodles down.
'How long has it been since you last ate, Peter?'
Peter looked at the empty cup, a sludge of tiny noodle bits, vegetables, and sauce having coagulated at the bottom. He felt sick. He picks up the cup, and trudges through the pile of rotting clothes that covered his apartment floor. He opens the lid to his trash can, and is yet again greeted with the sight of it filled to the brim. He could maybe try and squeeze it down, but he could also just leave it on the counter. So he heads to the counter, and puts the cup next to the growing pile of dishes that has already expanded out of the sink.
He’ll wash the dishes soon.
He’ll clean the floor soon.
He’ll start taking pictures again soon.
He’ll start going to college again soon.
He’ll…
When’s the last time you did anything, Peter?
A knock on his door. His ears perk up, ready for the incoming rent request, but hears no voice. Instead, another knock. He doesn’t move. Whoever it is will probably go away on their own, and he won’t need to interact with anybody else.
Another knock.
“Yo, Pete? It’s, uh, me,” it’s Harry.
“You gonna open up the door, or am I gonna have to crawl through the window again?” he says. Peter hasn’t heard his voice in weeks. For a while after Gwen’s death, he would come by every day. After Peter stopped talking though, he started coming by less and less. Probably because you’re a downer, Parker.
“Pete? C’mon, man, open the door!” he says, desperation spilling out of his voice. “I brought food, if you need it,” for a moment, Peter considers opening the door. He’s been living off two cups of ramen every week just to make rent. Still, he doesn’t need Harry all up in his business—
“It’s just a couple pizzas, some garlic knots, fries, and some soda. I know it’s not groceries or anything, but—”
Peter swung open the door, greeted with the sight of his best friend for the first time in what felt like years. His curls had grown a little longer, and he had bags under his eyes for probably the first time in his life. More importantly, he was holding a stack of three greasy pizza boxes, topped with two even greasier takeout boxes filled with what might as well be gold.
“Hey, Pete,” Harry said, setting the boxes down and pulling him in for a quick bro hug. “So, how’s it been the past few weeee….” his voice deflated as looked past Peter, seeing the mess of clothes and dishes that piled on top of each other. His jaw hung open as he leaned down to bring the pizzas in, “Wow, Pete,” he began, stunned, “You, uh, want some help with any of this?”
“... Just bring the pizza in, man.”
Harry Osborn watched his best friend tear into his fifth slice of pizza like a starving animal, sauce dripping out of his mouth like blood. But when he looked up and smiled at him, it was just Pete, making a dopey food-stuffed smile. It felt nice to do this for him, but the way he was eating, the way he was living, he could tell Gwen’s death had hit Pete harder than he thought.
“Heh, um… Damn, Pete, you, uh, training for a contest?” Harry said, forcing a fake chuckle. Peter stopped chewing, and looked down at the mostly empty box, shame crawling over his face. Harry didn’t mean to embarrass him, but it was getting a little uncomfortable watching his friend shred through his food without a single word over the past few minutes.
“Sorry, Harr,” Peter said, swallowing down a mouthful of crust and turning his eyes away from his friend.
“Hey, don’t sweat it man. I mean, I brought them expecting you to eat, but wow,” Harry responded, holding his hands up in mock awe, “You sure you’re not secretly the Hulk or something?”
Pete flinches at the comment, but chuckles like Harry didn’t notice. What the hell was that?
“Yeah, he’s a real role model for me,” Peter says with a smirk.
“Oh, I’m sure. You’re basically halfway there already with those muscles!” he says, poking at Pete’s bicep before continuing, “Just add a couple more feet, dunk yourself in green paint, and voilá. New York’s very own Hulk,” Harry finishes. Peter responds with a half-hearted chuckle, clearly uncomfortable with… something. Harry can’t tell what it is, though. So, he does what he always does when Pete isn’t talking, and he pushes the subject.
“Y’know Pete, you really are built like a statue. I know you’ve just kinda been like this for a while so, what’s your secret, man?” Harry says. Peter squirms in his seat uncomfortably, silently, and Harry starts to feel annoyed.
“C’mon man, what’s up? You’re not juicing or anything, are you?” Harry says, half-joking. Peter is looking away from him, one hand fiddling with the wrist of his sweater.
“Harry, can you just… drop it?” Peter says, finally. At least he’s being honest for once.
“Sure. Whatever you say, man,” Harry says, flashing his winning smile. He can feel his blood pressure start to spike, but he won’t let Pete see that. If he shows emotion, then the opponent can prey on it, and then they might win. Never let them get an edge in.
Leastways, that’s what Mr. Osborn taught him.
“So, how’d it get like this, Pete?” Harry gestures to the sorry excuse for an apartment that Peter was staying in. He chuckles a little to himself, “I leave you alone for, what, a month? And suddenly you’re living like you should be on Hoarders.”
Peter isn’t impressed with Harry’s joke, he can tell. Harry doesn’t let his smile drop, though. Don’t let them win.
Harry is about to keep pushing, but something stops him. Let the silence sit, he thinks. Then he’ll come to you.
So, he does. He lets the silence sit for a while. Five minutes in, he’s a fifth of the way through the fries he brought. He looks up at Peter, still picking at the wrist of his shirt. Still crossing his legs like a girl, still avoiding eye contact by staring out the window, still avoiding him. Then, Harry gets an idea on how to get his attention.
“Oh, my dad? Well, thanks for asking, Pete! He’s doing great, missing or dead or whatever happened to him,” Harry says, responding to nobody. Peter whips his head to look at him, confused. This is what it takes to get his attention? Well, if it works…
“Yeah, well, I miss him, but I’m sure he’ll come back! He used to do this to me when I was a kid, you know. He’d go off on business trips without telling me, then tell me it was to ‘toughen me up’ when he got back,” Harry said, looking out the window himself, now.
“‘Course, when mom died, he stopped. Don’t know why he’d pick it up again now, or how he’d keep it a secret to everyone, including Menken. Or maybe Menken’s a better liar than I’d given him credit for,” Harry says, trying to stop the oncoming tears.
“Harry, I—” Peter starts.
“Well, what do you think, Pete?” Harry interrupts. “Think he’s trying to test me again, or somebody kidnapped him? Planning to hold him ransom, maybe?”
“Harr—”
“Or maybe!” Harry says, giggling a bit to himself, “Maybe this time, he’s really dead. Maybe my dad’s dead, Pete. Maybe my dad’s dead, and nobody thought to ask his son how he felt about it.”
The room falls silent.
Then Harry opens his mouth again.
“I mean, it’s kinda getting weird, not having him, y’know… Compare me to you, saying that I’ll never be half as smart as you are, half as diligent as you are, half as capable as you are,” Harry said, a wry tilt to his voice.
“Half the man you are.”
“GOD DAMN IT HARRY, WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Peter suddenly explodes with anger, taking Harry aback for a moment. But he quickly shifts back into position. Now they were getting somewhere.
“I want you to say something, Pete! It’s been months, and you haven’t once asked about my dad, or how I’m feeling. You think you’re miserable? I lost my dad and both of my best friends in the same week!” Harry had stood up from his chair. He was yelling now. He rarely got upset at anybody other than his father, but when he did, he got going. Talking back wasn’t something dear old dad let him do, so when he felt like he could do it to somebody else, he jumped at the chance, “I get it, man. You’re depressed, so am I! I don’t have anybody now, and it seems like my best friend’s holed himself up in a shitty apartment where he can feel miserable about himself.”
“Oh, spare me, Harry. At least you have your daddy’s money and a penthouse to fall back on,” Peter said, bile spitting from his mouth.
“And at least you still have May,” Harry couldn’t stop. All Harry could think about was the pain he felt, and making Peter feel how he did right now, “And, heh, y’know, maybe when she dies, I’ll get myself a nice, sad, apartment to lock myself away in, and then you’ll know what it’s been like for me.”
Peter looked like he was about to open his mouth, to say anything. But he just stopped. His arms fell slack, he lowered his head, and walked past Harry towards the front door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back to Harry, and said,
“Y’know, Harr, maybe the reason nobody cares that your dad is gone… is because he doesn’t deserve it.”
Peter walks out of his apartment, leaving the door open behind him.
Harry Osborn stands in Peter’s apartment, feeling the lowest he’s felt in a long, long time. He slumps back into the chair, and puts his head in his hands. This is what victory tastes like.
Who are you, Harry?
“Is that right, boy? You’re wondering who you are?” his dad’s voice echoes from the reflection in the window next to him, and Harry feels cold sweat form on the back of his neck. “I asked you a question, son.”
Harry tries to ignore him. It’s better to ignore him. He only gets worse if he gives him attention.
“Harry. I asked you a question. I expect you to answer it,” his voice boomed in Harry’s mind, causing a trickle of blood to leak out of his nose.
“Y… yes,” Harry manages to sputter out.
“Yes, what?” the reflection responds.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hm,” his father responds, letting him sit for a while.
“Well, you should consider what I’m about to say to be good news, son. You don’t have to wonder any longer,” he feels his father lean over his right shoulder from behind him, a firm grip on his left arm.
“You’re the new Norman Osborn, son.”
Peter Parker needed to go for a walk.
'The fresh snow cushioned his boots as he desperately tried to cover his freezing face with the collar of his jacket. Great job, Parker. Kicked out of your own apartment, and you’re not even smart enough to grab a jacket with a hood on it.'
Well, ‘kicked out’ was a bit of a misnomer, but it still felt weird to be in there with Harry right now.
What was his problem, anyways? He came over with food, only to hound Peter with questions about his body, and then brought up Norman out of nowhere. Peter didn’t feel like he could blame him, though. Harry didn’t know who his father was. Harry didn’t know what was going on with Peter, either. At least, not entirely.
Sure, Harry was being a jerk, but maybe he had a point. All Peter’s done since Gwen died was mope in his apartment, avoiding rent, avoiding school, and avoiding his friends. He couldn’t keep living like that. He couldn’t just let himself rot forever. He had to move on.
So why did his legs take him to the Brooklyn Bridge?
Before he even realized it, Peter was leaning over the edge of the bridge, hands burning red with cold as they gripped the rusting guard rail. This was where she died. Whether Osborn killed her beforehand, or the shock of the fall, or his webbing snapping her neck, he didn’t know for certain. And he decided it didn’t matter. His last words to her couldn’t change.
Peter’s stomach gurgled, tingling his throat with acid, but nothing came up. Why was he standing on the edge now?
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and his brain felt like it was frying itself. His spider-sense was telling him there was danger, but all he could see was the East River, forty meters down. He had to move on.
Peter smiled a little, the grip of his hands crushing dents into the railing. It was going to be okay. He might even see Gwen again.
He felt a weak hand on his shoulder, and turned to see an old man wearing a winter coat and hat, his other hand on a shopping cart. His skin was ashy and wrinkled, and a pigeon was sitting on his shoulder. It was Howard. Friend to Spider-Man, but not so much to Peter Parker.
“Hey, kid,” Howard said, his voice bassy and tired. “Whatever you think you’re gonna do, don’t.”
Peter hadn’t even realized he was already leaning halfway off the bridge. He hadn’t realized he was already lifting himself off the sidewalk.
He hadn’t realized he was going to…
Peter turned around and wrapped his arms around the old man, tears pricking at his eyes. He felt sure Howard was going to feel weird about some random kid hugging him, but Howard just put his free arm around the kid, and patted his back.
“It’s alright, kid,” Howard said, still hugging him for some reason. “You got anywhere to go?”
Peter hesitated, but nodded into his shoulder.
“That’s good. It’s always good to have a place you can go back to,” Howard said, and Peter knew where he was coming from. “But more important, you gotta have people to go back to.”
Peter starts sobbing, tears freezing to his face almost as soon as they came out. Howard took his hand off the shopping cart, and put it around Peter, holding him as tight as his old man arms could. Peter clutched the front of his jacket, stifling screams into Howard’s shoulder.
“You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on? I might not be able to help, but it’s always good to have someone to talk to,” Howard says. Peter just looks out at the river, and mutters under his breath.
“Gwen…”
Howard nods with understanding.
“I’ve lost people before, kid. It’s not easy,” he begins, rubbing circles into Peter’s back. “It’s probably one of the hardest things that can happen. Lost my kid early on. Outlived my wife, too. It’s not easy, but it does get easier. The grief doesn’t get any smaller, but you grow around it. But I’m sure that whoever Gwen is, she wouldn’t want this for you.”
Howard pushes Peter a half-foot away, hands still on his shoulders, “You got that, kid?”
Peter nods, rubbing tears out of his eyes with one hand, the other clutching the base of his jacket.
“Alright. Now, you want some sandwiches? I got the stuff to make them from F.E.A.S.T., and they’re always better with a friend,” Howard says, a warm smile welcoming Peter out of the snow.
Peter sniffles a little, “That sounds great, Howard. But, uh, I really should be heading home,” he says, about to justify himself before Howard holds up a hand.
“No worries, friend,” Howard says, putting his hands back on the shopping cart full of supplies, and walking down the sidewalk. Then, he stops, turns back, and says, “You know, I think I recognize you from F.E.A.S.T.. You’re May’s nephew, right?”
“Yep! That’s, uh, me,” Peter says, suddenly a little weary that he might mention this interaction to May.
“Come say ‘hi’ when you’re down there next. It’s always good to see a familiar face,” Howard says. “Oh, and don’t worry. I won’t tell anybody about this. Unless, you’d rather I did…?”
“No!” Peter shouts, and then clears his throat. “Mm, I mean, no, please. Thank you, though, Howard. Seriously.”
Howard smiles, then pushes his cart away.
As he walks away from the bridge, Peter’s smile starts to fade. Howard helped him today, but how long until… whatever that was happens again, and nobody’s there for him that time? How long until he’s too weak to fight back?
…Maybe the fall won’t even kill him. Maybe he’ll live, and it’ll just be another miserable day in a long line of miserable days.
Splack!
…Did he seriously just step in something?
He looks down, preparing to have to walk to the laundromat in his socks, but just sees a broken tube, and…
What the hell is that?
Peter’s right foot is standing in a thick, black liquid, with a shattered glass tube that has the word OSCORP printed at the top. Great, just his luck to find what’s probably the only vial of some new deranged super-poison in the whole city.
And then… a tendril reaches out, latching onto his ankle. Before Peter can jump back, another reaches out, then another, until there are hundreds of them. Whatever it is, it starts to clamber up his leg, coating him in a thick, moving, ink. By the time he thinks to scream, it’s already covered his mouth, wrapping around his head, and sealed off his eyes.
Peter blacks out.