Chapter Text
Spring.
Peter could feel it in his bones. Spring was when all sorts of things came back to life, or so people said, and in New York that primarily meant a fresh wave of crime, awakened from its winter hibernation. As if Kingpin, Silvermane, and Owl got together every March and agreed that the time had come to dust off the brass knuckles, wake up their sleeping goons, and shove them out onto the streets, which had been almost deserted until now, just to remind the citizens and superheroes alike that they were still around.
This week alone, he'd already had to stop two bank robberies, a break-in at that round museum on Fifth Avenue, and had gotten himself mixed up in a brawl between Hammerhead and Tombstone. And just when he thought he had them both, Rhino came charging out of nowhere and knocked Peter clean out of the fight. Twenty seconds of being dazed was all it took for everyone to disappear.
That had been two days ago, and Peter's head still hurt.
Or maybe it hurt because he had hay fever. Which, come to think of it, was probably the best indication that spring had arrived.
“Dude. Are you even listening to me?”
“Wha-yeah, yeah, Ned. Sorry. I zoned out.”
The two of them were sitting on the floor, Peter leaning against the wall and Ned against the dark-green couch. It was secondhand, but clean now, after MJ had spent two days washing it, though she still kept it covered with a throw.
“You were seriously gone there, man.” Ned's pudgy hand gave his shoulder a pat. “So, did you hear what I was saying? Okay, so first there was the anime, I mean the manga, but the manga was actually drawn by the anime's character designer, sort of according to his own ideas, but that doesn't really matter, because the important thing is the anime, which has twenty-six episodes. Not that many, just one season. But that's still enough material to, you know, completely blow you away, but anyway, the important thing is that they later released extended versions of episodes twenty through twenty-four, and if you watch it on my account, those should already be the default versions anyway, I think, actually I'll check Crunchyroll in a second… But then you still have to watch the movie, and the movie's called The End of Evangelion, and you'd think that would be the end, but actually it's not, because then they made these extra movies, like Death (True), with 'true' in parentheses, or maybe even squared, but that's basically just a retelling of the anime, and honestly I don't really know why they made those, but if you come across them, now you know you can just ignore them. Anyway, then there are the movies starting in 2007, and-”
Peter was trying to follow. Really trying this time. But he couldn't decide whether his inability to understand any of it was down to his allergies, Rhino, or simply the fact that New Genesis Evangelion sounded completely insane.
He and Ned had once watched Mobile Suit Gundam Wing together-and that was back before Ned had forgotten who Peter was-and, frankly, that had been enough for him as far as super-cool robots punching each other in the face were concerned. He remembered Ned telling him once that they absolutely had to catch up on NGE, and apparently four years without Peter had been enough for Ned to finally get himself up to speed on the legendary series.
Now, apparently, Peter had to catch up too, although he was already listening to the fifth paragraph of Ned's explanation and hadn't heard a single sentence actually summarizing the plot.
The sound of a mug hitting the coffee table cut Ned off in mid-sentence, just as he was explaining why the feature films were numbered one, two, three, and three plus one.
“Sorry.” MJ raised a hand, but didn't even look at them. Instead, she leaned back against the couch and turned a page of the book she was reading.
MURAKAMI, the cover said along the spine, but the title itself was too small for Peter to make out. He knew MJ had read every book by the Japanese author back when they were dating, twice, in fact, and apparently she'd decided to revisit one of her favorites.
Maybe the one about a guy whose girlfriend was in love with a woman, and that woman haunted the protagonist in visions where they looked at each other through the windows of buildings. Or the one with the frog that warned about nuclear destruction in Tokyo.
Of all the twisted stories out there, even his run-ins with White Rabbit made more sense.
And White Rabbit didn't make him want to suffocate.
Although she had once told him to choke her harder. They'd been grappling on the ground, and he was trying very hard to pin her down without letting his face stray anywhere near the upper half of her body, which her costume left rather generously exposed. He'd recoiled as if he'd been burned and finished the job with a web grenade instead.
MJ, on the other hand, hadn't been talking to him much lately.
Not because some White Rabbit incident would have upset her. Hell, there had been a time when MJ would have been the first to laugh her ass off at him, because of course he would have told her about it.
Quite the opposite.
Ever since she'd found out he was Spider-Man-in a sense, for the second time-and learned that he'd been in love with her for four years while she didn't really know him at all, well, she'd been keeping the kind of distance the situation called for.
He understood that.
Hell, it would have been easier if he hadn't run into Ned that day. If they hadn't gotten back in touch. If Ned didn't treat him almost like he used to.
Almost.
Because Ned still had no idea they'd ever known each other before, and looking at MJ, Peter was afraid he'd ruin that too. And ruining things was something he was really good at, and he wasn't particularly eager to wreck something he'd only just managed to start putting back together.
MJ glanced at her phone.
That familiar little expression crossed her face, and he knew immediately it was her boyfriend.
The movement of her fingers had always fascinated him. MJ's fingers seemed to glide across the screen. If it was possible to type with elegance, that was exactly what she did.
Ned patted his shoulder.
“I'm boring you.”
“No, sorry. My head hurts.” He instinctively reached for a tissue from the cardboard box on the table, strategically positioned well away from MJ, as though he wasn't even supposed to reach in her direction. “You know, allergies.”
“Ohhh, right, yeah, sure. Want a pill? We've got pills, right, MJ? MJ gets allergies sometimes too. She's allergic to birch and nettles and-”
And poplars and grasses, including orchard grass and timothy. I know, Ned, he wanted to say.
But he couldn't.
Ned wasn't supposed to know that he knew, and MJ certainly wouldn't want him saying anything.
“I'm okay. You were saying something about… what was his name, Shinji?”
Ned's whole face lit up.
He launched right back into his explanation.
MJ shifted on the couch, pressing herself more firmly against the backrest, on the side opposite Peter.
And he honestly couldn't tell whether being alone hadn't sometimes hurt just a little less.
===
“Myers! Watch where you're throwing that thing! You're gonna hurt somebody!”
Boomerang shouted something back-probably trying to explain that hurting somebody was precisely the point-but Peter's heightened spider-senses had completely taken over, swallowing up everything he felt, saw, and heard. Instead of the villain's snarling, he could make out his heartbeat, the way the rubber soles of his boots compressed as he shifted his feet and twisted his hips, the way his spandex-everyone wore spandex, even though the stuff barely breathed, so why did he keep putting up with it?-wrinkled and stretched as he wound up for another throw.
Ever since Rhino had tried to turn Peter into a doormat, he'd decided he was getting too easily distracted. Too many jokes, too much talking. He spent so much time throwing his opponents off balance that he ended up losing his own focus like some rookie.
This time, he was trying harder.
And maybe that was why he sensed movement above him before his Spider-Sense even began prickling down his spine.
The oversized bird of prey hurtled through the space Spider-Man had just vacated. Near street level, it banked into an impossible turn, the engines in its wings roaring.
There had been a time when the sight of Toomes would have made Peter's blood run cold. After all, Toomes had been the first opponent he'd had to face seriously, without Iron Man watching over him like a babysitter. The first he'd fought with nothing but his own abilities, instead of fancy Stark Industries gadgets. The first to point a weapon at him from inches away, who knew his face, and who'd promised to blow his brains out-not Spider-Man's, but seventeen-year-old Peter Parker's.
But that was then.
A lot had changed since. Including everyone forgetting who Peter Parker was.
And, for once, that actually came in handy.
That wasn't why Peter was calm, though.
“Whoa, Vulture? What are you doing here, buddy? You working with Myers now? Is this, like, a team-up where if his boomerang doesn't come back, you fetch it for him? Wait, but wouldn't that basically make you an adorable little-”
Peter yanked himself backward on a strand of webbing.
“-puppy. I was going to say puppy,” he explained, dangling upside down. “There's more of you?” he asked in theatrical surprise, although he wasn't surprised in the slightest.
Between the cars stood a redhead, a glowing telescopic baton clenched in her fist. The other one-the one Peter had just dodged-came whistling back into her outstretched hand.
“Showing off, Joystick. You're running with these bozos now? Yelena's gonna be disappointed. She thought so highly of you! And you-”
Peter abruptly swung sideways and shot through a doorway leading into the stairwell of the twenty-story building on his left.
“Max Dillon! Long time no see! Wait, wait, I had a joke. What rhymes with 'battery'?”
He'd been counting on Vulture attacking him directly, but what he heard-the release of locking mechanisms, warheads cycling into position, the metallic clatter of hatches inside the wing-mounted launchers-meant missiles.
Small ones, but missiles all the same.
Here, in the middle of New York, fired at an office building with a preschool on the ground floor.
Jesus, Adrian, what would Liz think?
Huh. Haven't thought about Liz in a while, he realized, firing a web-sack, something he'd recently worked out how to make with special cartridges. He'd put some serious work into his web-shooters lately and could now fit two different types of cartridges on a single wrist.
He caught four missiles. The fifth slipped away in a zigzag.
Boomerang and Joystick were already winding up for their next attacks, Electro hadn't gotten back to his feet yet, and Vulture still had another turn to make before he figured out which way was up after firing.
A little tight on time.
But he could handle it. Of course he could.
His left hand closed around the web-sack as his right arm shot out after the stray missile, firing a strand of webbing from his wrist-the natural kind, because it was stickier and faster. He'd tested it.
For a moment, he was completely defenseless, stretched out in midair between four villains who could have fried him with electricity, riddled him with projectiles, and punched his face in right then and there. But that window of vulnerability was brief, and more often than not, they didn't even notice it.
The webbing caught the missile. Peter felt the vibration travel along the strand like a plucked string, twisted his wrist, and yanked downward. A third of the way through the motion, he'd already gauged the force and weight-just as he'd thought, XR-300s. Lightweight missiles.
Vulture should be able to take three before they tore through his own armor.
Good.
Let him eat one. One wouldn't hurt him.
The sack containing the other four missiles was still in his hand.
Perfect.
He dropped sharply, dodging the boomerang and the homing batons. Joystick and Boomerang didn't look particularly pleased about that, especially when he swung around and hurled the webbing full of explosive surprises straight at them.
They shouted something, but he wasn't listening.
To his left, about forty-five feet above him, Vulture took a direct hit from his own missile. Max was muttering something-it didn't matter what, only that he was barely managing it-as he tried to get back up after Peter had smashed a door into him. Joystick was probably regretting betraying the Thunderbolts right about now, and Boomerang was probably regretting coming up with this whole stupid idea.
Another strand of webbing shot out and caught the sack just before it collided with the criminals. Peter spun, using his entire body like an enormous lever, and slung it high into the air, far above the twenty-story buildings.
Boomerang's mouth was still hanging open when Peter landed gracefully beside him and punched him square in the teeth.
Joystick recovered her wits faster, rushing him for a close-quarters fight. A storm of red hair-with black roots and a few strands of gray showing through, despite her being barely thirty-flashed before Peter like a crimson demon.
She was good.
Yelena had told him recently that she'd given Joystick a crash course in hand-to-hand combat, and although Peter himself barely knew how to fight beyond ordinary street brawling, his muscle density and heightened senses were more than enough.
Electro was scrambling down the fire escape, swearing under his breath.
Vulture was screaming that he'd gut him.
That one, Peter believed.
Boomerang was sobbing about his missing upper front tooth.
Peter, however, wasn't particularly concerned. Because although he was getting a little winded by now, this was just another laid-back Tuesday.
===
Nighttime drizzle swept across New York, shrouded in darkness, and unfortunately it looked nothing like it did in the movies. Instead, it was cold and windy, with dogs barking somewhere in the distance and the occasional car horn sounding. Someone knocked over a trash can. Again.
Raindrops pattered against the roof of an old sugar refinery that had been converted into a multi-story office building twenty years ago. Those offices had closed down too, six months earlier. Which meant that, all things considered, it was a very quiet place.
“Not every crook's an empty head! Better bonk his skull instead!”
Apart from the rain and the dogs, nothing else could be heard.
“You don't have to announce yourself. I know it's you.”
“But I don't know that you're you!” Spider-Man landed on the roof with a somersault, then rose smoothly from his crouch and raised one finger in a lecturing gesture. As he walked, he wagged it in time with his words. “How many times have I told you? I don't have some kind of biometric scanner. You do your Daredevil mumbo-jumbo, and all I see is a guy in red leather with horns. Could be you, could be Chameleon, could be, I dunno, Iron Fist going through a phase.”
Peter made air quotes around the last word.
Daredevil didn't answer, and Peter hadn't really expected him to. He was usually the more talkative of the two anyway.
A police siren wailed.
Usually, they only reacted after three wails. Peter sometimes went after two, if he was feeling particularly restless.
This time, there was only one.
Maybe someone had crossed the street against the light.
“Any progress with Kingpin?” he finally asked, crouching on the parapet.
Daredevil twirled his billy club with his usual effortless skill, and Peter thought back to today's fight with Joystick. Despite using the same weapon-well, probably the same, he didn't know much about that stuff, and somebody would surely point out some subtle difference in length or balance or God knew what-their fighting styles were completely different.
He knew that because he'd fought alongside Daredevil a few times.
Once, they'd even fought each other.
“There's a transfer scheduled for tomorrow. Cargo from Europe.”
“Germany?”
“Lithuania.”
“Through Kaliningrad Oblast? So, Russian stuff?”
“I didn't say it was coming by ship.”
“So, an airport? One of Fisk's private airfields? Which one? The first? The second?”
“I have it under control.”
“But-”
“Spider-Man. Seriously. If I need your help, I'll call you.”
“But if it's airfield number two, that's too far-”
“It's not number two.”
“So, number one?”
“Not that either.”
“Jesus, you just don't want my help.”
Daredevil almost smiled, tapping his billy club against his thigh to the rhythm of a tune only he could hear.
Peter slipped a hand beneath his mask and rubbed his eyes.
It was almost midnight. He should be heading home. He hadn't slept much today, hadn't eaten much either, hadn't finished his physics project, and Electro had zapped him three times, leaving him smelling of burnt hair.
“How's Frank?” he asked instead.
“I don't know.”
“Word is he raided one of Silvermane's lockups and didn't kill everyone. Even though he could've. DeWolff told me-”
“We know you talk to the police,” Daredevil muttered, “but you don't have to advertise it quite so casually.”
Peter hunched his shoulders, tucking his head down between them, and immediately grew angry with himself for letting one little remark crush his confidence so easily.
“What, is somebody listening? You were talking about Fisk pretty freely.”
Daredevil looked at Peter-or at least Peter thought he did, since his mask didn't show his eyes at all-and muttered something unintelligible.
The rain was coming down harder now. Peter decided it really was time to head home.
Matt spoke just as Peter straightened up on the edge of the roof.
“You took down Vulture and the rest of that gang today.”
“Oh. I think it's Boomerang's gang, actually. Though I'm not sure. Maybe Vulture just wants him to think that. You know, one of those frontman-conman things, or whatever.”
“You have burns.” Daredevil chose his words carefully, sparingly. “Take them seriously.”
Peter had gotten used to Daredevil being able to see things-if seeing was even the right word. The guy just knew things. Lots of things. Too many things. As if he had X-ray vision, the hearing of a bat, and the nose of a lynx.
Maybe instead of Daredevil, he should've called himself Doghound?
Though that probably doesn't sound cool enough, he considered.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Peter stretched. Something cracked in his neck.
Or was that his collarbone?
He fired a web-the natural kind-and attached it to an old public housing building across the street.
“And Spider-Man…”
“Yeah?”
“Good work.”
Peter pretended his heart hadn't just beaten a little faster.
Daredevil pretended he hadn't noticed.
“Th-thanks. Call me if you need anything. And get some sleep.”
“You too,” Daredevil muttered, turning toward Seventh Avenue.
Peter grunted as he leaped out into the rain. A gust of wind caught him, pushing him a good couple of feet off course between swings.
Somewhere, a police siren wailed once.
Twice.
Peter almost changed direction to follow the sound, but as he turned, he realized Daredevil had disappeared.
He smiled.
And set a course for home.
After all, he'd been on his feet for nineteen hours.
===
Three dollars slapped onto the counter of the coffee cart, held in place by a blob of sticky goo.
Mike barely jumped anymore when that happened, although one could argue that six months should have been enough time to get used to it. He remembered the order, though. Large, black, no sugar. Fifty-cent tip.
One hundred and forty feet above, Peter jumped another half a floor up, making sure he couldn't be seen from the street. With several people waiting in line at Mike's cart, he estimated the coffee would be ready in two, maybe three minutes.
He pulled out his phone and grumbled in displeasure at the sight of that damned spiderweb of cracks across the screen. He ran a finger over it, the thin fabric of his glove letting him feel the damaged surface beneath. The foldable design was supposed to be the ultimate protection, supposed to survive every throw, every fall. He didn't know why he'd convinced himself of that. Maybe, just maybe, when he'd finally managed to save a little something after paying the rent, he'd wanted to buy something for Peter Parker for once, instead of yet another piece of equipment for Spider-Man.
Now both Peter and Spider-Man had an overpriced, battered flip phone.
And an email from Dr. Connors that neither of them particularly wanted to read.
"BIOL 3022" RBTR – Midterm Paper Submission Deadline
RBTR. Regenerative Biology and Tissue Repair.
He'd chosen the course for several reasons, not just because of its curriculum covering tissue regeneration and self-healing mechanisms, but also because, ever since he'd read one of Connors' articles on a website that pirated papers from Nature, he'd taken a keen interest in his research. He'd quickly developed enormous respect for the man-for his subsequent discoveries, his innovative approach to cellular regeneration, and also because there was something profoundly human about his pursuit of a way to restore his lost arm.
After all, a little selfishness didn't have to stand in the way of great science. It could even help.
Although sometimes it didn't end particularly well.
For now, things weren't going particularly well for Peter, either. He still hadn't submitted anything beyond a preliminary outline and thesis statement, when he should already have been running preliminary modelling.
Dr. Connors, who wrote long, beautifully worded emails as though he genuinely had time for such things, had undoubtedly laid out every strength and weakness of Peter's initial proposal. He would have made it clear that Peter seemed to be a student with a very interesting perspective and some promising ideas, and that the paper he'd proposed, on inducing different cell types into a regenerative state without compromising their phenotypic stability, could, if taken seriously, be worthy of university funding. And later, who knew, perhaps something that could later grow into a thesis/research project.
The problem was that Dr. Connors, over the course of three paragraphs, politely and delicately made it clear that Peter wasn't taking either the course or his research seriously enough.
And politely asked him to explain the reasons for the delay.
The third delay.
His thumb hovered over the message for a long time. All he could see was the beginning.
Dear Mr. Parker…
A notification appeared on his phone, announcing that Ned had started a live stream on Instagram. Probably something about how things were going at his new job, another breakthrough in the space business. He probably wanted someone-wanted Peter-to watch it.
Eventually, Peter snapped the phone shut with a click that had sounded so satisfying in the advertisements and now invariably irritated him.
Connors had too much patience with him.
Everyone did.
Leaning over the edge of the roof, past a gutter full of bird droppings, he glanced down at the coffee cart.
His order was waiting.
He fired a web with perfect accuracy and pulled it up. After several unsuccessful attempts, Mike now knew exactly how to secure the cup so it wouldn't spill on himself or anyone else during its several-story vertical journey.
Good thing that woman hadn't demanded compensation.
Suing Spider-Man for splashing someone with a hot beverage? In this country, a judgment like that could bankrupt three future generations of Parkers.
Peter rolled his mask up to his nose, brought the drinking hole in the lid to his lips, and sniffed the aroma of the coffee, more out of habit than anything else. He didn't even particularly like coffee. It was just better than those disgusting energy drinks. And he didn't have the patience to brew himself yerba mate or anything similar, although he kept promising himself he'd start.
He couldn't quite picture himself with a water bottle strapped to his belt, but maybe he had to move with the times.
He'd tell people he was going through his Snoop Lion phase or something.
He took a sip of coffee and burned his tongue.
Of course.
He swung his legs idly in the air, watching the peaceful flow of pedestrians below. A kid was riding a bicycle, weaving left and right between people. Someone shouted after him that Spider-Man would sort him out in a minute.
Just to be safe, Peter retreated farther onto the roof.
Resting his head against the rooftop fire wall-he'd checked beforehand that it wasn't covered in bird shit-he sighed.
He wondered whether the warnings on his allergy medication about not operating heavy machinery also applied to fighting lunatics, evil geniuses, and common criminal scum at considerable heights. It wouldn't be good if he lost his bearings between swings, or worse, in the middle of dodging bullets, and ended up stupidly breaking his neck.
At least he could breathe through his nose.
He took another sip of coffee-still hot-at the exact moment his phone burst into a cheerful melody.
Painfully chewing back a curse, he pulled it out of his suit pocket.
“DeWolff,” he said, his speech a little slurred by his burned tongue.
“Spider-Man.” The detective's sharp voice came through the speaker.
Peter got to his feet, bouncing lightly on his toes, that damned coffee still in his other hand.
“To what do I owe the honor? Another robbery? Highway chase? Because I don't think my app's pinged me about anything. Oh no, is this about the Brooklyn Bridge again? Because I already told you, I really-”
“No! Wait, no. I mean… That's not what this is about.”
Peter stopped bouncing.
Which was just as well, because he'd already splashed hot coffee onto his hand through the opening in the lid.
“Detective? Is something wrong? Wait, are you being held hostage? Just tell me.”
The silence on the other end of the line stretched on forever, and Peter was certain he was about to hear the hoarse voice of some bastard giving him a set of sick instructions to follow if he wanted DeWolff to survive another fifteen minutes.
It honestly wouldn't have been the first time.
“No!” he finally heard, but the sudden desperation in her voice-or perhaps it had been there all along-did nothing to reassure him. “It's just… Ugh. It's me, Peter.”
Peter would have very much liked to play dumb at that moment.
Instead, his brain ran through a multitude of scenarios and settled on the most probable one.
“Wha… How? Wait, no… Is that you, Jean?”
“Hi.”
There was a shy note to the voice coming through the phone, something that should have been impossible with DeWolff's naturally raspy voice.
“But… why did you take control of the detective? Are you in danger? What happened?”
“No! It's… I just… I had no way to contact you, and Frank mentioned you're on good terms with the police, so maybe…”
Peter glanced around the rooftop, then leaped toward the stairwell structure and the abandoned pigeon coop beside it. He tore off his mask in one motion and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Jean, could you tell me what's going on? Slowly, so I can understand.”
“I… didn't want to intrude.”
“I don't follow.”
“I was wondering if… could I visit you?”
Peter looked at his phone.
Call duration: 1:07. Detective DeWolff. Four security layers active.
“What do you mean, visit me?”
“At your place.”
“And you needed to hijack a detective for that?! You already know where I live!”
“Yeah… but it would've been… impolite… without… asking.”
Peter stared at the building's antenna for a long time.
Long enough for the voice on the phone to speak again.
“Are you there?”
“Yeah… Yeah. I'm here. Jean, do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”
“I'm trying to respect boundaries, Peter. You told me to do that.”
“NOT BY VIOLATING OTHER PEOPLE'S BOUNDARIES. AGAIN.”
“Okay, okay, I'm sorry. It's not my fault Frank doesn't have your phone number.”
“Wait, are you in touch with Frank?”
“Can I come over or not?”
Peter rubbed his entire face, trying to collect his thoughts.
He failed.
“Okay. Sure. I… I'll be there in half an hour. I'm on my southern patrol right now.”
“Okay. Take your time. I'm already there anyway. I mean, outside the building. Not crossing any boundaries, as promised.”
“What? You or Detective DeWolff is there? Because she doesn't know-you can't-!”
She disconnected at that very moment.
Peter shook his head, gritting his teeth.
He looked at the hot coffee that had cost him two dollars and fifty cents, plus a fifty-cent tip.
Then he rushed home, trying not to swear too much.