Wire To Wire
| Nobody said it was easy, y'know, being a teenaged superhero and all. |
Note(s): Am I really going to attempt a multi-chap? Hah.. hah, hah. Yup. Apparently. So, I'm quite fascinated by the team/friendship dynamics in Ultimate Spiderman. They're quite fleshed out for a comedy/action cartoon. This is me delving into the relationships between the team at one hand and with others at the other hand: MJ, Harry, Deadpool, Luke's parents and aunt May. Also, changing focalization and focus, but general third person view. This can be read as a follow-up for Magna Carta, Holy Grail. But it's not required to have read that fic.
Warning(s): Established!PeterAva, budding!SamMJ, Deadpool, attempting to construct plausible interactions and relationships between the characters, trying to maintain character, ties in with canon up until now. /Meaning this story is going to be a filler-arc between episode 19 and episode 20(?)/
Summary: Meet Peter Parker. He's trying to balance being a best friend, a relationship, high school and super-heroics. When Norman Osborn wakes up from his coma, everything starts to fall. Kind of difficult to say whether it's falling apart or in place. PeterAva; SamMJ, lots of friendship and bromance.
I hereby disclaim any rights.
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You'll either gonna rock the boat, or have what they're handing out. – Santigold; god from the machine.
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He is shaken awake by the incessant, rattling ring of the school bell, resounding mercilessly in the hallways and the classrooms. There's a dull thump when his elbows slide off the surface of his desk and he collides head-first with the varnished wood. Somebody snickers, maybe MJ seated diagonally behind him or Pete, a bit further down the first row, and the action draws an involuntary groan from between his gritted teeth. Straightening his posture meanwhile rubbing his painful chin, Harry Osborne angles his head a quarter to right to observe his English teacher staring him down in disappointment to which he responds with an embarrassed, almost awkward grin. He feels fatigue washing over him, a slow shower of this uncanny tiredness from sitting up the entire night, next to his unconscious father's hospital bed. This morning, a nurse had to rouse him from his sleep and helpfully informed him he had huge bags under his eyes and should get some more rest.
Harry stuffs away his expensive pencil case, with his father's Stipula fountain pen, into his backpack and turns to look at his best friend. Thoughts of hanging out like they used to do and pizzas Hawaii and catching a Coppola movie and his father finally waking up rush through his exhausted mind, crowd through another until his gaze happens to fall onto Peter's hand linked with Ava's and he nearly drops his bag. When did that happen?-He asks himself and more importantly, why didn't he know this?
Making his way over to Peter, past Luke and Flash discussing football and Sam cleaning up his desk, Harry is determined to get to the bottom of this; he's aware they've both been out of the loop, but he was under the impression that after the entire Carnage-incident they managed to restore a part of their friendship in its original state. They had been hanging around the Chem-lab with MJ on Fridays more often until of course, that overgrown sewer nightmare decided to snoop around on school property. Peter smiles at him, still holding hands with the tanned girl casually.
"Harry! Woah, dude, you look awful." Ava promptly shoves him aside at the statement and rolls her eyes, annoyed. They let go as the girl intends to clean up as well.
Peter clutches his side, pretending to be hurt, "Harsh, honestly. I thought I was special." There's this fondness in his voice, matching the warmth in his blue eyes when he looks at her. She flips him off but presses a quick kiss against his cheek when she leaves the classroom.
His friend looks back at him again, his hand curved over the spot where she pecked him and Harry wonders how he could've missed any of this.
"Sorry.. uhm, how's your dad?" Harry grabs the strap of his bag tightly, slung over his right shoulder in a manner he hopes comes off as casual.
Danny apologizes when he bumps against his shoulder as he walks by and Harry shrugs, both at the intrusion and the question. "Comatose, but he responds to certain sounds. Has this automatic reflex where he kicks when he hears Bruce Springsteen on the radio."
This makes Peter gasp, "How can he hate the Boss? It's like my aunt's favorite singer, well... The Boss and some weird sixties Thai garage band.."
Despite himself, he starts to laugh, a genuine sound he thought he had forgotten to make, "Pete, do I even want to know how she knows Thai garage rock?"
"I don't even know, Harry." His friend shakes his head and claps him on the shoulder. "So what else is up?"
His fingers curl around the backpack's black strap, "I wanted to ask you that actually.. You and Ayala, huh?"
There's a short pause, with Peter rubbing the back of his head thoughtfully, "It sort of happened, I guess." Peter thinks to himself that he can hardly give Harry any details, on how he started thinking about her romantically after a showdown with a hunter who specializes in tribal magic or how he kissed her during a training session on the Tri-Carrier, so he settles for a vague answer.
"You could've told me, y'know, Pete." His friend murmurs, not exactly angry, but a tad disappointed and sad, almost.
Softly, nearly inaudibly, a sigh escapes his parted chapped lips, "Sorry, listen, I just figured you had a lot on your mind right now.." Peter knows he has to be careful with how much he says about Norman's condition without revealing he has insider information, "Especially now you're allowed to visit him and it didn't seem so important, that I'm, ahem, dating someone." He fumbles with the fabric of his hooded vest, plays with the zipper.
His friend's lips stretch into a thin line, a gesture showing his chagrin, "You're my best friend, of course it's important.. Listen, you wanna play videogames this afternoon? Got the new GTA and then you can tell me everything 'bout your amorous escapades." His fingertips drum along the backpack strap.
Peter opens his mouth to offer a reply but is cut off by principal Coulson walking into the now nearly empty classroom. Their gazes cross, Coulson gives a slight nod before tugging on his tie in an act of professionalism.
"Parker, Alexander, my office, please." Sam looks up from his conversation with MJ, having scrunched brows and a confused expression.
Looking back at his best friend, Peter shrugs apologetically and offers a nervous smile, "See you at the gates?"
Harry let's go of his backpack strap, his hand falling listlessly by his side, "Sure, whatever." He turns to MJ and they start talking about the events of that Friday, or so the teen deduces from the redhead's teasing grin and how his best friend takes on a defensive stance.
Sam nudges Peter, whispers softly, "Hurry up, Bug-breath, we pro'lly have a mission or something."
In response comes a long-stretched groan, "I hope not, hate to cancel on Harry like that."
Leading the way, Coulson stalks through the hall with even, purposeful steps, giving a nod to several students and the teacher Spanish. He pushes the door to his office open with his palm, revealing the rest of the team crowded around his large desk; Luke stands near the window with his cell phone in hand, Ava leans against the sturdy piece of furniture, her browsing through her AP Geometry brings a smile to Peter's lips and Danny, sitting in one of the plastic chairs, shoots a kind glance in his friend's direction, happy for his teammates developing relationship.
Coulson scrapes his throat, flicks the lowest light switch on and strides over to his computer; a holographic screen gets projected into the middle of the room, revealing direct security footage from inside Norman Osborn's hospital room.
Sam is, typically, the first to speak up, "Dude.. Is he awake?"
His hands ball into fists, clenching tightly until his knuckles turn as white as the bone underneath, and Peter doesn't even notice how his short-clipped nails dig crimson crescents into his palm, "Since when?" He turns his head to regard Coulson.
Sitting down at his desk, elbows on the smooth surface of the desk and hands folded together, the SHIELD agent replies quickly, "Half an hour ago, approximately." He leans forwards, his shoulders sag.
On the projection, the team can observe how Osborn checks out his surroundings in a somewhat dazed manner, blinking every once in a while to adjust his vision and marveling at the texture of his arms,doubtlessly no longer used to his human body. There's a doctor moving around him to take note of his patients' progress, constantly examining the machines to which he is attached. Sometimes the image glitches, causing light blue waves to cascade over the projection.
"So has he said anything? Or tried to make a break for it when the nurses weren't looking?" Peter asks, eyes trained on one of his most dangerous adversaries and his best friend's father-Harry, the teen suddenly wants to yell, "Why haven't you guys contacted Harry yet?!"
Ava frowns at his outburst, wants to go over to him but refrains, her discipline keeping her in check. Also the others wear similar expressions and Sam casually bumps their elbows together, hissing lowly 'webhead' to calm him down.
Coulson remains levelheaded, as to be expected, and states, "We're gauging his motives in order to prevent him from trying to escape or worse. His relatives will be contacted as soon as we know he means no harm." He sends a sharp, warning look in Peter's direction.
"Excuse me, agent Coulson," Ava says, crossing her arms over her chest, "But where do we come in?"
He nods as if to state he's coming to that point soon, "Fury wants the team to patrol the area around the hospital more thoroughly, we've set a security perimeter of three blocks and expect the team to inspect every inch for possible irregularities."
"Has SHIELD received word of a possible attack or somethin'?" Luke inquires, stretching his arms behind his neck.
Pursing his lips, Coulson carefully wages his words, "With Doctor Octavius on the loose, we're not taking any chances."
Danny nods in accordance, "Prudence is the key to all victories." His hands are in his lap and head respectfully bowed.
"Still, won't it draw some unnecessary attention to have Spiderman pulling threads around the hospital-Pun so intended by the way." Peter remarks sourly, arms rigidly glued to his sides.
Sam rolls his eyes, "Don't jinx it, idiot. Was that all, agent C?" His fingers are already curled around the door handle.
His response is a dismissive wave; the team slinks out of the office as soon as the holographic screen folds into itself and disappears into thin air. Luke walks next to the disgruntled brunet and offers a wide, easy grin.
"Don't worry so much, man. Your friend will know all the details soon enough, they're just making' sure y'know." His warm tone slips confidence into Peter's frame.
Ava soon catches up to them and allows her fingertips to brush against the sensitive skin of her boyfriend's wrist, "Don't let any information slip when you talk to Osborn, okay? Playing dumb usually works well for you." She adds with a teasing smirk.
Sam snickers at the girl's remark, "Burn."
Huffing, the teen says his goodbyes to the team; a chaste kiss to Ava's plush mouth, a bro-shake with the boys and a request to Luke to say hello to the parents he's finally reunited with again. His footsteps echo throughout the halls; he waves at Stan, the janitor in disguise, passes by his locker and transfers the books needed for homework and tests to his blue/red backpack, slams the metallic door shut and rotates the numeral lock. Side-stepping a puddle of spilled soda, at least Peter hopes it's soda, he opens one of the large glass with wooden frame doors. Outside, near the gates, Harry is standing, idly scrolling down his applications on the latest iPhone, with his backpack drooping down his lower back; his brows are scrunched together and the fatigue is clearly stretched over his usually handsome face.
Peter tries to conjure a semblance of happiness; tries to act natural and relaxed, -tries to pretend it's just going to be Harry Osborn and Peter Parker on one of their geek galore game sessions. He swallows down any uneasiness and smiles.
"Hey-a, man. Your driver stuck in traffic?" He asks, shaking his head to get a few unruly chestnut strands out of his line of vision.
Harry looks up, "He'll be here shortly, Pete. I, uh, do you mind if we stop by the hospital first?" His tone is almost fragile.
In all honesty, he should probably deny his best friend this request, but it would kill him metaphorically to see the disappointment claim Harry's features and he'd rather not come up with a lousy excuse to say why per se. Even though he has plenty of reasons or at least one solid point: your father kind of tried to transform me into a symbiote, pal, I'd rather not hang around his unconscious body at the moment. However, Peter would rather be around when his friend discovers his father is no longer comatose and somewhat alive and kicking, in order to possibly protect him.
So he grins widely and acquiesces, "Not at all, Harry. Not at all." He crosses his arms behind his head and stands besides his friend dutifully, tapping his foot to an imaginary beat in impatience for the limo to arrive.
His friend smiles weakly, "Thanks. So, time to spill the beans, how did you and Ayala hook up?" One of his hazelnut-brown eyebrows is raised in genuine curiosity.
Peter hesitates, stumbles over his words for a while until he manages to get out this decent sentence: "During a midnight study session we kind of fought about Tesla versus Einstein and kisses happened?"
Harry's face was totally worth the white lie though. "Oh God, you're joking. How-Why.. I'm ten times more handsome than you and I still don't get a girlfriend, you talk about science and you end up with Ava Ayala. Life's unfair, man. Totally unfair."
"Nobody can resist the Parker charm, dude. I would call it magical if I believed in magic." Peter rebukes easily, slipping his arm around his friend's shoulder.
Swatting the gesture away, the teen rolls his eyes and retorts, "You have a poster of princess Leila hanging in your closet! For Christ's sake, tell me she doesn't know about that."
His grin falls away guiltily, "Maybe she does?"
"And she still wants to kiss you?! That's it, I'm getting a degree in neurobiology, apparently that's a failsafe way to get a date." Harry throws both of his hands in the air in played aggravation and lets a snicker fall between his lips.
Peter holds his hands up in surrender, "Pretty sure that's just Ava though. And she teases me about basically everything, but yeah, she still kisses my face once in a while." His features twist into a blissful expression, "She's awesome."
Their conversation gets interrupted by the sleek black limousine pulling up to the curb, followed swiftly by the soft purr of the engine before it stops entirely, then the chauffeur steps out of the vehicle and politely greets his employer and plus one, before opening the door in his crisp suit and with his freshly-washed white gloves. They get inside and make themselves comfortable with their bags between their feet. Music from the front floats through the sizable backseat, the computer-fabricated tunes flit underneath the high-pitched voice of the pop singer and causes Peter to tap his right foot along.
"So, did you guys go on a date yet?" Harry asks conversationally, slumped in the plush cushions.
He doesn't suppose going to Domino's after taking down Trapster actually counts, especially since the rest of the team decided to tag along. They did play footsie though, -well, Ava rubbed her heel along his shin causing him to choke on a sliver of tomato.- but he has this sneaking suspicion this would draw a laughing fit from his best friend.
Peter chuckles, embarrassed, "Uh, not really." His spread fingers haul through his unruly mop of chestnut hair, "I'm kind of new to this."
"Bet she'd love to hear that when you take her to an obscure, indie Sci-Fi movie and forget to buy her popcorn." Harry snarks back, crossing his legs.
He grumbles, "Oh, ha ha, Harry. Ha ha. Just because you, MJ and I spent one Saturday evening in a movie theater out of midtown..."
His friend interjects, "In Brooklyn, Pete. Brooklyn."
"It was a good movie, okay?" His comment falls between them and they're both smiling at the fond memories, welling up pleasantly as a result from their conversation.
Outside, the looming stereotypical skyscrapers flash by steadily, supplied by the occasional yellow blur, taxis, or the slow-moving crowd of pedestrians on the sidewalk. There's this silence around them, the kind not needed to be broken by small talk, and only interrupted by the buzz of traffic outside and the soft-playing music from the radio.
"Sir," The driver states from the speakers, "We will arrive at the Mount Sinai medical center shortly. Would you like for me to drop you off or wait?" His voice is well-trained and a tad monotone.
Peter and Harry share a look before the latter leans slightly forwards to reply, "You can wait, we'll stay for a minute or ten. To accept the get-well gifts from associates or employees."
He can't resist the jab, "Mind if I take a bouquet for my aunt? Might earn me a day off from taking out the trash."
Getting a sharp elbow in his ribs, Peter sticks out his tongue childishly and puts his palm over the sore spot, "What? You don't even like daffodils."
"So? They take up some space." His tone has this fragile lightness to it, the statement saying more than the words themselves.
Harry avoids looking directly at Peter and occupies himself with checking his text messages, sometimes frowning, sometimes close to a smile.
Feeling unsettled, the teen speaks up, "Hey, listen, don't be a stranger. Come sleep over once or eat dinner with my aunt and me. You're always welcome."
"Yeah, yeah, I might do that. Thanks, Pete.. And y'know, sorry for stuff.." He responds, putting his smart phone away.
Shrugging, Peter ignores the apology, "Yeah, well, let's not talk 'bout that anymore, com'on, dude, you need to smile more."
Harry scoffs, "That sounded way wrong, this isn't a romcom."
"Afraid I'd be Hugh Grant?" Comes the quick quip, alongside a slanted grin.
Screeching as the limo comes to a halt, the tires stand still slightly tuned to the left in front of the main entrance. Paparazzi, a couple of sleezeballs with their Nikon's, jolt upwards, sniffing proverbial blood and probably the trademarked hospital smell of anesthetics. Harry sighs lowly when the driver exits the vehicle , the soles of his dress shoes click-clacking on the concrete outside, and comes to open the door, giving way to a barrage of flashlights. Peter pats his friend's shoulder in encouragement before they step outside and make their way to the reception. One of the photographers comes closer, waving obscenely at the two teenagers.
"Hey, Harry, kid! Any comment on your dad's grand awakening?" His breath is reminiscent of cigarette smoke and spaghetti.
Peter frowns at the odor and tries to wave the smell away.
However, his friend on the other hand, stands with a slack jaw and stammers out unintelligibly, "Wha-what? My father is.."
In return the photographer holds up his camera, "Well, why else are all those security guards here all o' a sudden? Geez, boy, we do have some decency ya know."
The sheer look of disbelief alarms the receptionist behind the desk, who immediately starts to calm Harry down by explaining that they need to run some preliminary tests concerning his internal organs and check his reflexes before he can receive any visitors, even relatives. He's shaking, his nails digging into the surface of the receptionist's desk and his breathing strained with cheeks as pale as a sheet of paper. Peter doesn't dare move, contemplating how to proceed. Should he try to steer his friend away?- he wonders silently, tugging on the collar of his shirt.
He tries a friendly firm approach, "Harry, your dad's okay. That's great!" Keeping a tone of enthusiasm in his non-verbal movements, he proceeds,
"While they're doing check-ups, we could get something to eat. Boy, I'd sure like a sandwich now."
Harry shakes off the steady hand on his shoulder, "No!" He growls in a manner akin to Venom. The sound forces a gasp from Peter's lungs.
"I mean.." He starts, apologetically, "Ahem, I'd like to wait here until I can see him." Scratching the back of his head nervously, Harry manages a smile to assure his best friend, but comes off as jittery and rattled.
Frowning, Peter reaches for him again, "He'll probably be as high as a kite, man. Come on, you need some sugars in you. And then you can visit Norman, 'kay?" His tone is soft, gentle like he's coercing a wild animal.
"Pete, listen dude, I just need to be with my dad, right, now. He.. he might ask for me, need me to help him.. Thanks for the offer though."
Rubbing his elbow, the chestnut-haired teen nods, "Sure.. I understand, Harry. Just, uh, let me know when you two talk.. I'll be going then.." He takes a step in the direction of the entrance, pulling the straps of his backpack and letting them snap back against his chest. "G'bye."
Harry meekly follows the familiar path to the elevators, where he'll doubtlessly spend the rest of his afternoon and evening on a vomit-green plastic chair in the hallway, playing mindless games on his iPhone or working on the Literature homework they have for tomorrow. One paparazzo, a woman with vibrant red hair, gives a slight tilt of the head in Peter's direction as he walks away and he immediately gets the hint: undercover SHIELD agent. Fury is leaving nothing to chance apparently and with good reason, his mind supplies helpfully, one of the most influential men in the United States and a former supervillain is now reduced to a bedridden state, it'd be ridiculously easy to take advantage of the situation.
After telling Harry's chauffeur that he shouldn't wait up, the teen looks for a spot where he can change into his alter-ego so he can web-sling out of the hospital's parking lot and back home. Behind a parked Mercedes, secluded by a few beeches and an indigenous oak, Spiderman emerges with his backpack webbed into a white sticky shoulder-bag. He shoots a string of web-fluid to a window on the sixth floor of the hospital and uses it as leverage to lift himself several feet up in the air, until his feet stick to the wall and he can aim for another building to dart another string towards and swing back to his neighborhood.
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I'll try to finish this story. It'll go slow, most likely. Especially when September starts, but I figured I might give it a shot. Penny for your thoughts?