AN: First off, if anyone has any ideas for something I could write about in one of these, feel free to suggest it. I can't promise I'll get to it anytime soon, with my WIPs and my own ideas, but they're always nice to have.
So this one was supposed to feature Dave and Pete in a hot tub (reminder: look at the rating of this, and remember I can't write smut to save my life), but the set up was being a little difficult, and I already had this one (among a couple of others) all planned out, so you're getting this one first, because it was coming a lot more easily. Sorry. :)
Instead, I looked at my fusion with DC Comics, "Dark Knight Moves," and wondered how I'd cast Dave in a fusion based on Marvel. This was my answer. (Apologies in advance for those of you not fans of Marvel or comics; hopefully you'll get an idea of what's going on anyway.)
Once, when he was young, Dave Karofsky read about the myth of Sisyphus, the ancient king doomed to forever roll a rock up a hill, only to have his labors reset before he could ever complete them.
It was scary how much he thought of that old memory as he himself got older.
Of course, he was a stupid dipshit when he was young. But why not? He was the popular, gregarious football star. Why shouldn't he think he was hot stuff? Why shouldn't be push around Kurt Hummel? The dude was effeminate (not that he used words that big in public; that would betray some modicum of intelligence, and that wouldn't do for his image, not at all), fashionable, and a science nerd. Any one of those three would've earned some dumpster tossing and frozen drinks in the face, but all three at once? The guy was asking for it, right? And it's not like anyone else — peers, teachers, whoever — stopped him. That was just the way it was: strong eating up the weak, just like his mom had taught him. Where she did it with words, piety, and money, he did it with fists and football. Dave "The Fury" Karofsky, one man gridiron wrecking crew. Like the Juggernaut, unstoppable. Man's man.
The kind no one would ever suspect, or even think of suspecting.
Looking back on everything, it all started to change when Spider-Man appeared. Dave was his biggest fan from the get-go. Guy like that, with that kind of strength and agility, beating up superpowered criminals single handedly like they were nothing... He was everything Dave aspired to be, to become. He pored over every newspaper article (except the Daily Bugle, those idiots), every shaky phone video from YouTube, every follower forum where posters would tell of their own encounters.
He began to learn.
For example, Spider-Man wasn't just some mindless bruiser (like him). His running commentaries and wit made Dave laugh out loud more than once — sometimes in the middle of doing something else, triggered by vague memory, which would earn him odd looks from those around him. But he was also something else, something that only someone as obsessive as Dave could've discovered from the bare, flash-quick bits of public information out there: deeply compassionate.
He cared. He wasn't in it for the glory or the cameras. He was out there because it was the right thing to do, because other people mattered to him. It wouldn't be obvious to the casual reader (or major metropolitan newspaper editor) just from the big headlines and major blow-ups, but to a fan like Dave, it was clear from the little incidents, the ones that never made the papers: that apartment fire rescue, the drugstore robbery intervention, the sudden arrest of a pimp known for violence and a hair-trigger temper. Individual lives, lives of little meaning or value to most, lives worth a few lines on a police blotter website, at best. Yet the more Dave delved into Spider-Man's career, the more of these he saw, until they drowned out the spectacular attacks by the Green Goblin or Dr. Octopus. They, to Dave, became the entire picture.
Or perhaps more a mirror — and Dave hated what he saw.
Here was Spider-Man: a hero, his hero — a real hero. Someone who believed the best in people. Someone who made an actual fucking difference in the world, who relieved suffering instead of causing it, enriched lives instead of destroying them.
And him? Small fish who thought he was big just because he ruled his little corner of the huge lake. Someone who tore down instead of built up. Someone whose worthless, pathetic life was probably saved by Spider-Man a dozen times over, and he didn't even have the gratitude to try to follow in the footsteps of a man who was supposed to be his hero.
And why? Why was he such an ungrateful fucktard? Because he wasn't raised right? No; his dad was great, and his mom, while not exactly ideal to say the least, never raised a hand against him. Because he was incapable? No; his entire life, his popularity, revolved around his athletic prowess. Besides, Spider-Man was, like, half his size, and could still accomplish amazing things.
No, it was because he was a coward. Plain and simple. No getting around that basic fact. That was his shame. All this time, he was pushing around nerds like Kurt Hummel, when they were a hundred times the man he was. Because they, despite the efforts of people like him, were still themselves. Dave? For all his bluster, not even close.
What a waste. What a fucking waste.
So with his senior year looming, he decided to finally man up. He had absolutely no hope that he could ever become anything, accomplish anything, like his hero Spider-Man, but he couldn't let that keep him from trying. That would be the coward's way out.
First step: take care of things close to home.
From the moment the bell rang on the first class of senior year until the day they walked out onto that stage with their caps and gowns, Kurt Hummel was officially off-limits. It took a few judicious applications of the fist that gave him his nickname to get the point across, but the message got through loud and clear. Even if they thought he'd suddenly become some kind of fag, Dave didn't care. His size and football skill still kept his head above water in terms of popularity — at least enough to survive.
Kurt, for his part, was so frankly astonished that it was hard not to laugh. After Dave laid Scott Cooper flat in an alley for trying to waylay Kurt, he invited Dave for a cup of coffee at the nearby Starbucks, "so we can talk." His heart jumping in a way he couldn't explain, Dave accepted.
What followed was almost an hour of odd, confused looks. Kurt tried a dozen different ways to broach the subject, to ask the question, but couldn't quite do it. Dave, with superhuman effort, managed to keep the grin off his face. It didn't matter whether Kurt ever understood him. Spider-Man didn't need the Daily Bugle to love him to do what he did, after all.
Finally, Kurt rose, shaking his head. "Same time next week?"
Dave shrugged, trying to keep it casual. "Sure, whatever."
So every Tuesday afternoon, the two would meet in the same Starbucks, Dave with his plain old coffee, Kurt with his mochiatto-cream-sugar-whatever concoction. Every week, Kurt would struggle to find some way to ask him why without the risk of him dropping his newly found crusade (not that Dave ever would, but he sort of enjoyed Kurt's discomfort too much to even mention that). Every week, Kurt would give up, instead asking about his day, about his home life, about himself. And Dave would answer (even if many of those answers were somewhat edited for public consumption), and ask his own questions. Kurt too would answer, although Dave had the impression that he was also editing his responses. Not that that mattered. Kurt didn't owe Dave a goddamn thing; quite the opposite, in fact.
Which brought to mind the second step.
"So what colleges are you looking at?" Kurt asked one afternoon, sipping at his cup.
"Actually... None." He saw the raised eyebrow, so hastened his next words. "I'm gonna join the Marines."
Kurt carefully put his cup down, blinking at him in what looked an awful lot like concern (but it couldn't be, right? Not with their history). "The... Marines?"
"Yeah. I got the build, I got the grades. I don't think I'll have much problem getting in." Plus, Don't Ask, Don't Tell had just been repealed, so that wouldn't be an issue either.
"You... do know there's a war going on, don't you?"
Dave laughed. "Kind of hard to miss. Don't worry about me, Humm— Kurt." I'm not worth worrying about.
Yet somehow he did, or seemed like he did. "You're sure about this? I mean, it just seems so—"
"It's something I want to do." Something I have to do. "Don't worry about me, seriously. Always wanted to put all that Call of Duty to good use anyway." He laughed, but he had the feeling Kurt wasn't fooled.
Graduation came before he knew it. Through it all, Kurt never brought up the Marines again. But his mother did, constantly. Her reasons were much like Kurt's: too dangerous, too far away. Why not a nice safe office job with her department at SueCorp? Or hell, even the police academy? Sure, New York City could be just as dangerous as Afghanistan — sometimes even more so — but at least he'd be in America, with the support of the Avengers and Spider-Man and the mayor.
But Dave stood firm. The morning he left for basic training, he hugged his dad, told his mom he was gay, pecked her on her suddenly shock-stiffened cheek, and went out the door without another word.
Dave poured every ounce of himself into his training. To do any less would be a shame to himself, to Spider-Man, the man who'd turned his life around despite them never even meeting. His slight obsession (or, dare he say it, crush?) towards the superhero had lessened to something more reasonable, but the lessons imparted by him hadn't. So it was no surprise to him when he was tops in every physical test, aced every knowledge exam, could field-strip a dizzying array of arms practically blindfolded. After all, every moment he sweated under blistering heat, every moment he read until his eyes blurred, every moment he practiced the same fluid motions at his bunk again and again and again... It was all to lead up to those very goals.
He was sent overseas the moment Basic ended, to his relief. He landed where he was needed, the sun glaring off the tarmac and the sand getting in his hair.
Hoo rah.
Over the next months and years, Dave's deployments were blurs of activity. Always the first one in and the last one out. First to volunteer, last to ask for leave. He knew some of his superiors thought he was some kind of glory hound, but he didn't care. Hell, they might've been more concerned if they'd known his true reasons.
After all, he didn't give much of a shit whether he made it back alive. Not that he had a death wish, or that he was careless, but if he was forced to choose between him living or any civilian, or even the worst member of his patrol or squad, it would be the other guy, without hesitation. He always knew he was treading water with his life. He always knew that even his best, his hard-earned best born of more sweat and tears than he thought he was capable of, might not be enough to expiate the sins of his misspent youth. If he had to weigh his own potential against that of the squad goof-off, a village child, the elderly farmer trying to eke out a living in the Afghani desert... He wasn't at all sure he would win. So he did what he had to, and fortunately, he'd always come out of it in one piece.
But if one day he didn't... Well, maybe then he'd have come close to a fraction of the good Spider-Man had already done.
On his visits home between deployments, his father was ebullient, his mom silent (though whether from concern or condemnation of his sexuality — the elephant in the room — he was never sure). As for Kurt, it was Tuesdays at the Starbucks, just like in high school. He was flourishing, as Dave knew he would without his poisonous influence. Between his college studies and work at the Daily Bugle (Dave would often ask when they'd lay off Spider-Man; Kurt would always laugh bitterly and say that was up to his boss), Kurt was becoming the man he was meant to be.
Dave hoped — prayed — he was doing the same.
Dave had been in the Marines for years, accepting any and every chance to extend his tours, when it all came crashing down. He didn't even have a chance to save anyone — it was an IED they didn't see coming. Watching two of his squad mates twitch on the desert road, bleeding to death in front of him... It was worse than his own agony, because it brought the weight of disappointment, of failure. You failed. You failed them. You failed yourself. When he heard the voices approach, he almost hoped they were insurgents. But no, they were speaking English. When he drifted off into blackness, he wondered if he wanted to wake up or not.
He did, minus half his legs. It was a miracle, they said, that he'd survived. If he'd gotten first aid just a few minutes later, he probably would've bled out.
Then came the big cliche, the one he'd been dreading: they said he was lucky.
No, Dave was definitely not lucky.
His superiors were shaken; he was one of the best, they said, and they'd miss him. Not that Dave gave a shit; they weren't the ones who might bleed and die because he wasn't there to help. He knew it was arrogant of him, assuming that the Marines couldn't survive without him; they probably would, and very well, in fact. But he couldn't do anything about it either way, not anymore. That's what tortured his soul.
He was quiet as he left the hospital. He was quiet as he was shipped home. He was quiet as his parents' tears dripped onto the top of his head like rain. And the first Tuesday after he arrived home, he was quiet as Kurt Hummel chatted from the other side of the Starbucks table. But Kurt wouldn't let him be, not for long.
"David." The voice was firm, yet gentle. "David." He looked up from his coffee. "I'm so glad you're alive."
"Yeah," Dave rasped, not entirely sure how much of a lie it was. "Me too."
Kurt paused, staring at Dave for a long moment. He was used to staring by now; the wheelchair alone tended to attract attention. But this... this was a different gaze. It wasn't so much looking at him physically — at the disability — as much as it was somehow looking inside him. "It's okay, Dave," he finally said in a whisper. "You did all you could." Dave froze; it almost sounded like Kurt knew. But that was ridiculous; how could he? "You've been forgiven for years, by all the people that matter." He reached over, resting a hand over one of Dave's; it was so soft, so warm, that Dave wasn't sure if he wanted to stay like that forever, or to get up on his non-existent legs and run. "You can rest. You can stop now."
No, he decided, Kurt really didn't understand. How could he possibly know about the guilt, chasing after you day in and day out, about the constant need to make things right even though you knew it was impossible in the short lifetime humans had?
He didn't understand. There was no "stop." That was not an option. If he stopped, he was admitting defeat. He was wasting his second chance. He was spitting on everything Spider-Man believed in, everything he'd taught him.
But... What was there? What could he do without his legs?
In the ensuing weeks, Dave spiraled into depression. He put up a good face with Kurt, but wasn't always sure how much the other man was fooled. When his parents insisted he go out more, he went out — and got his own apartment, so he wouldn't have to listen to them again or feel their concern. There was a liquor store barely a block away; every night, alone with the stars and his thoughts, he considered it — considered wheeling himself there, buying as much as he could fit on his lap, and drinking the guilt away, or at least dulling it for a while. But visceral disgust (lingering from the days when he felt like he had to stay in control, lest he let slip the unusual lusts in his heart) and inertia always won out. So he stayed in, and stared out his window, and brooded. He wondered if he'd ever catch a glimpse of Spider-Man, swinging to some crime scene or major supervillain attack.
Dave hoped not. He didn't think he could take Spider-Man's inevitable disappointment.
It was a Tuesday the knock on the door came. He knew this because he'd just realized that he was going to be late for his weekly coffee with Kurt. He was trying to figure out if he had time to shave the ten o'clock shadow before he left when he heard the knock.
"Sergeant Karofsky?" the man in the grey suit and sunglasses asked.
His name was Dr. Carl Howell, and he was a government researcher, complete with impressive credentials from an agency he'd never heard of. Afterward, Dave could only remember bits and pieces of the ensuing conversation — but they were the important bits.
"I've read your service record. You're a fine Marine."
"Was a fine Marine. As you can see, I'm not going back into service anytime soon."
"I wouldn't be so sure."
Dave's head snapped up. He knew, of course, of the kind of technology that the Fantastic Four and Arthur Abrams could whip up, but such devices were years away from public consumption. Their components were too delicate, their fuel supplies too rare, their workings too poorly understood (except by their makers) to be even playthings of the rich and powerful. No one got their hands on that kind of stuff. Except maybe highly placed government scientists like Dr. Carl Howell.
"You... you can give me back my legs?"
"Your legs... and your purpose in life. Interested?"
If the prospect of walking again hadn't sold Dave, the idea that he could continue his work again would have. Three days later, he was in a lab somewhere in Washington D.C., staring at a huge plexiglass tube. Seeing the writhing black shape within, he felt something he hadn't felt for a long time: fear. Cold, hard fear.
"Is that what I think it is?" he whispered.
"The Venom symbiote?" Howell said casually as he watched the undulating mass of shadow and teeth. "It is."
"This is how you're going to give me back my legs?" Dave said hoarsely. "Are you fucking insane?"
Even those who knew little about Spider-Man knew about Venom: the shapeshifting creature that hitched a ride to Earth with Spider-Man as a costume. From there, it bonded with a former reporter named Sebastian Smythe, becoming a rampaging Spider-Man hating menace, then a dark vigilante. It passed through other hands after that, giving its hosts strength, agility, shapeshifting powers, and eventually, amoral insanity, until it vanished... apparently into the hands of the government.
And there it was. Despite its lack of eyes, Dave almost thought it was... looking at him.
"You know what that... thing does!" Dave continued, almost unable to accept what he was seeing. "How the fuck could you think this is anything close to a good idea?"
"There's been more... experimentation with this species than you might think," Howell replied calmly. "We know quite a bit about it: its capabilities, its behavior, its... limitations. For example, did you know that it takes a minimum of 48 hours for the symbiote to affect its host's mental capacity?"
Oh, God, they actually fucking mean this. Dave knew he should be demanding to be taken home right now, to not have any part of this insanity. But something kept him there. No, not "something"... He knew exactly what. It went by many names, but one of the most basic, and most deceiving, was "hope." "Yeah?" he said through parched dry lips.
Howell nodded. "It can be controlled, but only by someone of remarkable will," he said, still staring at the trapped alien thing, as if he were speaking directly to it. "It can be turned to useful purpose, but only by someone of remarkable strength and training. With the help of some control nodes I've invented, of course." He turned to Dave. "David — do you mind if I call you David? — we were thinking of recruiting you even before you lost your legs. But we didn't think the Marine brass would let you go. But now..." He shrugged. "They may not have anything but a desk job for you, but your, ah, handicap doesn't matter to us. Thanks to that." He gestured towards the symbiote. "I wouldn't have brought you here, shown you this, if I didn't think you were the man for the job. There are a lot of bad guys out there, the kind we can't take down with the CIA or NSA, and we can't afford to wait for the Avengers or Spider-Man to get around to them. We have to be... proactive." He regarded Dave for a long moment before continuing. "The good you could do is almost limitless."
It was as though he knew what those words would do to him. Dave stared at the roiling black thing, shuddering. He remembered what it had done to Spider-Man, what it was capable of doing. He'd be running a risk, no question. But would it be more selfish to take it on, or to refuse it, and let someone else take that risk for him?
"Oh, and you'll get a promotion, of course," Howell continued with a tight grin. "If the money means anything to you." Dave felt like he was a clinical trial patient or experimental subject, the way Howell watched his every eye twitch, his every finger tap. "What will it be, Sergeant? Go back home to New York, drink yourself to death waiting for the end to come? Or are you going to pick back up where you left off?"
It was unfair, of course, the way he phrased it; Dave knew it was meant to prod him. But somehow... he couldn't bring himself to care. This was his second chance — his second chance to make things right. He couldn't let it slip through his fingers, not again.
So it was, months later, that Dave found himself standing (though not on his own legs, but on pretend appendages formed by an alien symbiote) on a rooftop on the outskirts of Brasilia. All the windows in the warehouse before him were dark, but the intelligence had been very clear: at that very moment, a major weapons shipment meant for high-bidding terrorists overseas was being prepared for departure.
"I'm going in," he muttered into his earpiece as he loaded his Multi-Gun. The clip snapped home with a sharp click.
"Roger. Good luck, Agent Venom."
He cut off the connection; he felt "his" leg muscles bunch, ready to make the leap. The symbiote formed a mask over his face, a somewhat slimy feeling that Dave still wasn't quite used to.
He jumped, knowing that the symbiote's strength and agility would give him a perfect, harmless landing without a thought. He thought of Spider-Man, and wondered if he'd be horrified or proud. But in the moments before, before the running and the gunfire and the yelling, he drank in the moment.
Dave allowed himself to revel in the brief freedom of flight.