Chapter 2

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

The name on the apartment registry read Osborn/Stacy, with Parker sloppily and hastily scrawled off to the side in pencil on a taped on piece of paper. That just about summed up Peter's life ever since getting back home, and was yet another point in favor of taking a swan dive off the edge of the Baxter Building without his webshooters.

Instead he had taken the long way down via a long walk off a short pier; once gravity wouldn't be a problem he had jumped – although with the caveat in mind that it couldn't be so far of a fall that he'd end up with a hospital bill he couldn't afford to pay, rather than merely ending up as a smear on the pavement.

He took his time getting back to Harry's – and Gwen's – apartment. A year's long vacation away from the webhead had made 'distractions' easy, and he had become practiced in doing his thing without webbing, or without much of a mask or costume. 'Thing' in this case was being narrowly defined as, "beating bad people up to vent stress so he didn't have to think about his own problems" of course, and now Peter understood he was picked on in school – it was great therapy.

Peter was being a bully for all of the right and wrong reasons… but at least he didn't have to think about it. And so long as he could keep moving, keep finding pushers and jumpers and worse to bareknuckle it with in dark alleys, more fights to find, he could keep it coming, and keep the thoughts away.

And wouldn't the people who raised him be so proud of him for that – looking for his next fix of suspended reality like he was nothing more than an addict.

But the bodies eventually ran out, and so did his energy. Running on fumes as he was eventually he couldn't run fast enough. He couldn't flip or jump or do gymnastics routines enough to get away from Reed's voice in his head. He wasn't 'well', the man had said. No wonder – he needed to sleep.

That was it, he just needed a good night's rest to put it all behind him. The world would keep turning, and he'd keep trudging along like he had with the suit, and like he had before without it. He'd be fine.

Reed had told him to think it over, but Peter had enough to think about already.

The neighborhood was friendlier than it had been before he'd been whisked away on his fantastic adventure a year before, but not so friendly that walking alone at night would have been a smart idea… if someone hadn't scared all of the midnight cockroaches into different corners of the city by starting a few hours long, one-man brawl across the entire burrough.

Peter had gotten back just around twelve, with Reed's words jogging up behind him as he made a brisk walk through the front doors of his building which had been fortunately unlocked – long enough for him to make to the stairs before he realized one specific thing. He felt around in the pockets of the pants Reed had left him, and even in the dated denim jacket that was a size and a half too small, he already knew what to find in either: nothing.

Because the suit had the amazing ability to store things in a sort of hammerspace, from his camera to his wallet, to his keys. And it wasn't until then, with the honeymoon period over and their marriage all but annulled, did he realize that his amazing alien ex had taken everything –inncluding the clothes on his back.

This is when Peter took notice of the Osborn/Stacy, dot dot dot, Parker on the apartment registry. He then laughed, at himself, walked out of the building, and began to break into his own apartment underneath the cover of night like an uncommon criminal.

And why should I? he thought to himself as he scaled the wall of the building with ease. Already have grand theft auto and assault and battery on my rapsheet – what's a little BE to even the score?

Ben would laugh if he could see him now, but May, if she ever found out… Well, that would be an interesting conversation piece. Along with everything else.

The apartment building was an old, tall building, and Harry had once told him it was presumably bought by the founder of Oscorp, Harry's great-grandfather, when the company had been little more than a cleaning business. It had been sold off as a depreciating asset years back, but Harry had been able to get one of the top apartments with a little help from Peter's scraped together funds.

Fresh out of highschool and into college it had been the only place that the two of them could afford without taking money from their families, which neither of them wanted to do but for different reasons. It was a place where the main security was the suggestion thereof – and it barely had any functioning alarms at all.

Peter began to remember all of this for some inexplicable reason as he started to easily crack the lock to his bedroom window as his head started to buzz…

Time slowed, but he paid no attention to it. He crept in through his window like a spider. The apartment beyond his room was dark, so fortunately he wouldn't have to explain the how's, why's, and where's of his day. For once his lies could be simple, and maybe he could make it through them without feeling like a greasy-smiled slimeball.

He put his back to the door and started to strip down. His shirt hit the floor and then, the door exploded.

Off its hinges, the door exploded, but Peter reacted exactly as he would have if there had been fire and shrapnel and noise. There had been enough of all that on Battleworld to condition him, and he was Pavlov's Spider at less than the split of a single second, on the ceiling at the first hit from behind, making it go wide. A baseball bat crushed into the wall just next to his bed with the force of an anvil, breaking through the lamp there and the wall behind like they were chips. Someone screamed.

Gwen, Peter thought.

The second hit came in the dark, almost as soon as he dropped to the ground, but Peter was faster, more ready for it. He caught the bat with one hand and wrenched it away but whoever was behind it had more grip-strength than he had given them credit for, and as he clocked the guy in the chin with a smooth uppercut courtesy of the time he'd spent with Captain America, he realized he'd pulled his punch too much, too.

The guy, going by the size and sound of his grunt, tackled Peter. That was his mistake.

Close quarters was where spiders made their home, and Peter was nothing if he wasn't a dimestore knockoff of one that had just finished an evening long bender of warmup fights. He was slammed against the wall and weaved by the first punch – the second went for his kidney and glanced off his sharp elbow. Peter gripped the second kidney punch and tore it to the side, using the momentum to slam his attacker into the wall, forcing it through the plaster, and then brought his knee into the man's stomach as smooth as butter.

But the man had expected that and blocked it. Peter's spider-sense blared as the return came, and he ate it with a clenched jaw. The fist crashed into his face but he enjoyed it – this is what he had wanted. Another distraction, another dose of adrenaline, and another hit came, to his side, and then an overhand right, but the man hadn't expected Peter to be fast and flexible enough to hike in the air, grab his head, and clock his forehead down on Peter's other knee, treating him to an indoor star show as he crumpled to the floor.

Peter was out of the door in less than another second, Gwen's name ripping from his throat in a rough timber that reminded him of how little energy he was running on. This is what you get, he scolded himself. You wanted a fight, Parker, and you got it. You got them involved. Congratulations.

But this wasn't his fault – he didn't ask for some puissant to break into the apartment, he just wanted- a distraction…

Should have been here. But then, you're never around when they need you, are you?

Peter gnashed the inside of his cheek as Gwen screamed again. "Gwen!" he called, his voice a deep warcry as he surged through the darkness. "Harry!"

Footsteps. Running. Peter stepped to the side as she came running through the dark. Lights turned on from somewhere. Then she was in his room, and powers be damned, it took him a moment to process what he saw next.

His bedroom door had been kicked in with so much force that the doorknob had been removed from the wood. The frame loosely hung off the now bent and brittle looking hinges. His room was completely trashed in one place; the wall had three fist sized holes in it and his bedside lamp was nothing more than shards of porcelain and glass on the floor and the bat a crunched up aluminum mess that had left the hardwood floor and wall splintered and dented in equal measure.

Peter tasted the tiniest bit of blood in his mouth as his eyes trailed down with a slow, creeping sense of horror as he looked at Gwen… barely dressed in nothing more than a robe and the tiniest set of underwear he'd ever seen… whispering frantically to the guy who'd broken in. To Peter's attacker.

To Harry.

It suddenly fell into place for Peter. He took a weak step forward, all of the energy and joy of the fight leaving him in an instant. "H-Harry-?"

Gwen reeled on him in that instant. Her hands were covered in blood and if he hadn't been so high from the fight, Peter would have let her sock him in the face like she had the first time. But he caught her hand by the wrist, and the other, and as soon as she thought about using her feet and knees, hair whipping and tears flying, Peter had shoved her to the side and rushed to his best friend on either planet he'd ever been to.

Like Peter, Harry had gotten taller and more muscular over the last year, but before that, just when they'd graduated, he'd been as lanky and unimpressive as Peter himself had been. A welcome avenue for stress as well as his powers had let Peter bloom into something he'd never thought he could be before, stronger, more defined and confident, but Harry hadn't had that chance. He and Peter had been two peas in a pod, with Harry a far cry from his own father. But unlike Norman Osborn, Peter never once considered leaving Harry behind.

They had bought the apartment together. Harry foot the gamut of the bill, with Peter pitching in from his freelancing. They'd spent their first night as college boys on a cold hardwood floor with gunshots and alarms sounding off in the distance, and though Peter hadn't left to get to the sirens until Harry was out cold and asleep, he knew it would be one of his favorite memories for the rest of his life.

Harry wasn't moving now. The wall behind him was dented with spider-web cracks, Peter assumed from where he had slammed Harry into it. Droplets of blood dripped from his forehead to the ground. Peter couldn't even see his face and fought against himself to just heft him up like an empty pillowsack and rush him to the hospital.

Parker, what did you do?

He didn't have to fight for long. It took him a second took him to get Harry over his shoulder and stand up, and then he heard the cough.

"Jesus, Pete-" Harry groaned. "Where'd you learn to fight, a sasquatch? God…"

"Harry- Harry- Harry listen to me," Peter said, forcing himself to calm down before he became a skipping record, "You okay? You're gonna be okay, just-"

"M'fine," Harry said, shaking his head with a pained noise. "Just feel like I got hit by a train, is all… I'll walk it off."

"Gotta get you some ice, put your feet up-"

"How's about you get me a beer? Or four- just a suggestion… ouch."

Harry looked up at him through the blood on his face, Peter cracked a smile through the blood in his mouth, despite himself. "Sure thing."

Peter walked him out of the room and into the loft, and to Gwen. She had recovered from being shoved as well as Peter could expect – only in hindsight did he remember hearing the sound of things hitting the floor, broken porcelain and sounds of struggle.

And now, she was staring death at him once Harry was in her arms. Her eyes had never looked so cold, and Peter repressed the urge to say or do anything in response.

After all, hadn't he already done enough?

Fifteen minutes later, the police still hadn't arrived, but someone had.

Peter sat in a recliner that hadn't been a part of the place the year before, wringing his hands together and entertaining the notion of turning himself in mush on the pavement when the knock at the door came.

Harry had his feet up while he sat up straight on the couch, slurping cheap canned beer through a straw. If it wasn't for him holding the can up to Peter with a nonplussed grin, as though they'd just had a wild party, Peter was positive he'd go back to the top of the Baxter Building to see just how high up it really was, at least.

Gwen, in between dabbing the blood away from his forehead with alcohol pads and holding a cold compress to his head, had gotten dressed in a heavy bathroom – either because of the situation at hand, or because the thought of Peter seeing her dressed up like she'd been was an affront to nature. He couldn't tell otherwise with how she refused to look at him, and Peter didn't blame her. The feeling was mutual.

The knock came over the slurping of a straw and Peter was up. He could see a pair of lights out the window now, but with no siren. He wrenched open the door and was prepared to turn himself in when he saw her.

Detective Jean DeWolff was a tall, hard lined, rough and tumble looking woman. She was a dirty blonde just a head shorter than Peter but could pin a fly to a wall with her stare alone. Peter had always thought she was what would happen if one of those hard boiled detectives from Ben's favorite old dimestore novels had reproduced through parthenogenesis and had a daughter, complete with the large trench coat, unlit cigarette in her mouth and a semi-relaxed, some-nonsense frown.

It had been one year since he'd seen her out of the mask and he didn't think she'd even recognize him. He was wrong.

DeWolff blinked in mild interest when she saw him, looked him up and down, and then mostly up. She clicked her teeth. "Huh. You again. Parker, right?" she asked, and Peter nodded. "Never forget a face like yours, kid," she said, and leaned in and up to him. "That's a mean looking shiner you got there... What's a sweet boy like you doing ruining a face like that?"

"You should see the other guy," Harry groaned out, and then muttered an "Ouch," as Gwen pressed the ice to his face.

DeWolff looked between him and Peter, and back to Peter, and blinked. "Well, shoot," she said with raised eyebrows. "Didn't think you had violence of any sort in you, domestic or otherwise, kid."

In his head, Peter was already working out what lies he was going to say. Somehow, all he could think of was how much of a 'misunderstanding' this all was, brought about because he needed a new tailor and set of keys. He smiled tightly and his voice rumbled out of his throat. "Well Detective, I always aim to disappoint."

Off to the side he heard Gwen mutter, "You got that right…" but didn't react to it.

"I'll bet that ain't true," DeWolff said with a friendly tsk, and then whistled, peering past him once more into the loft and beyond. More specifically, at his open bedroom and the mess that had been made of it. "Looks like one hell of a misunderstanding though," she said. "Mind if I come in?"

Peter stepped aside and she stepped in. She took off her coat and offered it to him, and the niceties the Parkers had raised him with played their part as he hung it on a hook by the door without even looking. Coat off, DeWolff revealed a tightly tucked dress shirt and tie, and tight slacks with a bust large enough to make his eyes wander, and legs thick enough to make his mind wander if the circumstances had been different.

She gave him a sidelong nod and slight grin to hold as well that, noticing he hadn't even bothered to look. "Ooh, smart boy. Get an early start on the good behavior," she said. Peter mustered a tired, humorless smile in return. He wasn't feeling that smart at the moment, and DeWolff gave him a sympathetic smile after that.

She took one step into the loft, stopped, and clicked her teeth. "Stacy," she said with a single nod.

Gwen nodded back with a nod of her own. "DeWolff," she said. Her eyes were hard from holding back tears, but her face was red enough to show that. Peter sighed to himself; despite punching like a Police Captain's daughter ought to, she had a good heart like daddy's little angel… except when it was Peter she was punching in the face.

The exchange made him realize something and DeWolff, who'd looked back at him again, in between peering into his bedroom, understood the look on his face. "Me and her old man used to be partners before I switched precincts-"

"-Is now really the time for a walk down memory lane?" Gwen sneered.

"You wanna get down to the meat of it? Fine," DeWolff said. She shrugged and started to walk through the place, looking from the ceiling to the walls to the floors. "From the looks of things we have a domestic dispute with a good amount of property damage, assault with a… deadly… weapon…"

She stopped at Peter's room, and lightly kicked the bat. It rolled oddly in the silence, even sounding deformed, and she looked at Peter again. He just stared at his hands.

"And two very worked over looking young men which-" DeWolff sucked her teeth- "A girl like me just hates to see. But, depending on the story from Stacy here I can write this off as a simple fight between friends from too much testosterone and not enough girls-" she said.

Gwen looked disgusted enough at the suggestion that Peter felt the expression in his gut.

"Or… or one of you can spend the night in the drunk tank with an addendum to your record." DeWolff said, casting a glance at Harry's can, to which he raised in her honor. She put her hands on her hips and held the three of them with her stare as she stood in the middle of the room. "Well? Don't keep me waiting kids, it's past my bedtime."

Gwen looked from Harry to Peter, and to her credit and his surprise, Peter could see the hesitation in her eyes. Warmed his heart, really, to know he hadn't messed up bad enough to make either of them hate him so much just yet… "I did it," he said, stepping forward to DeWolff in the middle of the loft. She raised an eyebrow at him. "I got a little drunk, broke in through the window in my room through the fire escape, and-"

"You what?" Gwen snapped, Peter heard whatever consideration she might have had left for him go out that same window, headfirst. "You did what?"

Peter narrowed his eyes, but kept his face straight and his voice level as he looked at the Detective. "I was drinking, lost my keys and didn't feel like doing the walk of shame up the stairs and waking them up," he said, gesturing to Harry and Gwen, the former of which sat up and was shaking his head sympathetically. "And from there, I guess-"

"We set up the apartment with a security system a few months back. Before you got back," Harry said to Peter, trying to push himself up off the couch. He had to fend of Gwen to do it and stood on unsteady feet. He took his phone out and showed it to DeWolff. "We were… just going to sleep-"

That part played over in Peter's mind more than anything else, and he nodded slowly to himself, feeling a bitter cold in his stomach. Just going to sleep. Right.

"-When I got the alarm on my phone. Security was tripped, so I figured someone was breaking in. I ran in with a bat- probably should have brought something smaller," he said, trying to share a grin with Peter, who couldn't return it.

"Didn't realize what was going on until the lights turned on," Peter said, his face hard. "By then it was too late."

"If it was too late one of us would be worse off than a broken lamp," Harry said. "If it's anybody's fault, it's mine- I should have told you about the alarm sooner, should have asked if it was you, knowing the stuff that happens when you're around-"

For some reason he couldn't explain, Peter did not like the way that sounded. He bit his cheek to stop the heated words from steaming out of his mouth, "When I'm around?" because he knew what Harry meant. "I should have been able to own up to my own mistake and knock on that door, Harry," he said slowly. "You could have ended up in the hospital- or worse-"

"Of course you'd be worried about the hospital," Gwen spat at him from the side. "Since when have you ever been worried about a hospital?"

Peter turned to her slowly, clenching his jaw, and felt steam where his breath should be. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Gwen didn't even bother to look at him as she binned the dirty alcohol wipes and otherwise. She looked completely disinterested now. He wasn't even worth her time. "You know exactly what it means," she said. "If you had to foot another hospital bill what would you do? Buy another motorcycle? Are you going to skip town again, Peter? Leave everyone behind?"

Peter stayed silent and just looked at her. She sneered at him. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Harry stepped in between them, angling more to protect Gwen than to mediate between them. "Easy, Pete. Look, I can handle myself. Don't think just because you got some good hits in that I can't."

Nostrils flared. "You shouldn't have needed to," Peter said. "This is my responsi-"

"Pete, just shut up for a second," Harry said, hotly. "You know Gwen is right-"

"Of course you'd think she's right-" Peter snapped back, gritting his teeth.

"Is she wrong?" Harry asked, taking another step to him. Peter stared him down. "Is she? Do you have money for bail? For repairs? For the hospital? For rent?"

DeWolff was right when she'd brought up the testosterone. Peter dimly noted that another fight was about to break out, verbal or otherwise, and a part of him wanted nothing more than that. The slight tingle of his spider-sense going off in the back of his head, the anticipation building up in his muscles, his knuckles just waiting to be cracked… It was just like on Battleworld, and for whatever reason, part of him liked that.

That same part was coiled up in offense at every word that left Harry's mouth. Because he wasn't wrong at all. Oh, Peter could have money. He could be picking clean every perp, criminal, and gang member he came across and no one would stop him. He could do a lot of things without anyone there to stop him. Last he checked, Harry couldn't lift an SUV over his head with one hand, and that part of him really wanted to show him just how far a guy could push that kind of power…

But Peter didn't. He flexed his fingers, but didn't make a fist. Not Harry, and not Gwen. Never them – they had every reason to be angry.

Harry's expression softened. "Pete- I'm just trying to help you here- buddy, let me help you. You know you haven't been right since May-"

Parker men are some of the stubbornest, most prideful asses on the eastern seaboard, Peter finished in his head, drowning out Harry's words. He took two large steps away from his friend, followed by a deep breath to cool the fire in his belly. "I know," he said, and then what May had said rung true, and the fire in his stomach froze over. "But I really don't need your help, Harry. You've been doing that enough."

He wanted Harry to punch him again, so he'd have a reason, an excuse to hit back. But when Harry just looked down… Peter knew the frustration and annoyance that bubbled up in his core was what he deserved. He had to leave before he did something else he regretted.

He turned to DeWolff, who was watching the exchange with one foot forward, ready to rip the two of them apart. "This is all my fault. The bat was mine too, so you take anybody in, it should be me."

Gwen looked at the bloody ice pack in her lap, and DeWolff pursed her lips as she studied the look on Peter's face. Then she nodded. "Fine," she said.

Harry opened his mouth to say something but in the next second, DeWolff had Peter slammed against the wall and his arms behind his back, his wrists cuffed almost as fast as Houdini himself could get out of them. He just looked ahead, unbothered. Then DeWolff whispered something tone deaf in his ears about her and handcuffs on the first date, "Don't usually do these till after I bought the drinks," she said.

And for the first time that day, for the first time in a while… when Peter laughed out loud, he meant it.

DeWolff's cruiser was a dusty and dark brown Oldsmobile the likes of which Peter hadn't seen or been in since Ben had died. It was a solid throwback from the 70s and smelled like gun oil and cigarette smoke. She walked Peter down and out through the halls of the building in silence, her rough hands and hard grip on his arms not bothering him at all.

They went through a mostly small peanut gallery of people that had poked their noses out to watch as she marched the shirtless teenager down the stairs of the building. She shoved him into the back seat of her car to the silent tune of the red, white, and blue lightshow on top of her car, and then drove off without any fanfare. No one came to stop her, and Peter wasn't surprised. Only a few people recognized him, less knew anything at all about him, and he'd just pushed away the two of the only people left in the world who gave a damn about him.

Not bad, Parker, he thought to himself. Real smooth...

Dispatch came in and was cut short as DeWolff turned it off. She drove in silence, made a few turns, and then came to a stop beneath a bridge. "Alright, let's get you outta those," she said, looking at him through the rearview. She opened her own door at that, and Peter realized the doors had never been locked.

"You're letting me go?" he asked.

"Not what I said," she said, stepping out. Peter opened the door easily enough and followed suit as she walked around to free him from the cuffs. He heard her steps behind him, the jingling of keys, and listened for his spider-sense while wondering if he was about to get whacked.

DeWolff just took her time by wrangling his arms to her, her own hands comparatively small and weak in comparison, but undeniably strong for a woman her size. "Y'know, I heard you left town for a bit. Then came back," she said, 'looking' for the right key. "Caused a little bit of an upset, what with how upset some people were when you left without so much as a goodbye."

"So I hear," Peter grunted. "Almost every day."

She looked over his shoulder, her face close to his. "So, why'd you do it? Didn't think you'd be missed?"

Peter stared at her, and she grinned. "Something like that. Like I said Detective – I aim to disappoint."

She hummed and went back to looking for the right key. "Uh-huh. So, how 'bout you tell me how a kid like you manages to get a body like this, all out on his lonesome then?"

Peter tensed, just slightly, and it wasn't because of the cool night air. He could feel felt the heat of her breath on his bare back, and only then remembered he didn't have his shirt on. His body, half of it, anyway, was laid bare for her to see… and her question laid down heavily on him. "Especially with scars like these… Which one is this from? A tooth?"

She traced a long jagged one down his shoulder blade. Peter had gotten it from Curt Connor's not-so better half. "Had a bad run in with a metal hanger a while back," Peter said, with a light hiss and a mutter of "Tickles." The cuffs came off and he stepped away, rubbing his wrists. "Everything else is Fight club," he lied easily. "And you know the first rule about Fight club, Detective – we don't talk about Fight club."

She chewed the inside of her cheek and made a show of swallowing as she walked up to him. Peter realized just how sweet she smelled. "Right," she said. "How about we talk about something else then?"

"Last I checked, I'm the prisoner here."

"Yes, you are," she smirked. "You ever think about how odd it is that, the week the webhead gets back into town with the rest of the freaks and geeks, his A1 shutterbug comes back from the dead and waltzes back into town, too?"

Peter stared down at her. "You got something against freaks and geeks, Detective…?"

"Pssh, me? No, the webhead's my favorite kind of freak. Just wondering what kind of geek he is…" she said. She looked at him for a long second before walking back to the driver's seat, and getting back in. She told him to follow, and so he did. She pulled off and they rode the dark streets of Manhattan at night, together. "I knew your Uncle," she said, simply.

Peter blinked. "Didn't know that."

The Detective shrugged. "Not surprised. Last time I really saw you, you were about yay-big and hiding behind his legs. I'd just gotten into the academy and he was the loud sonofabitch who'd tore ass into the department to rip me a new one for 'burning rubber so close to my dead brother's child." She laughed. "That was bad enough, but your aunt? That woman seemed just about ready to stab me. Now you're getting into fights and having a killer grip on metal bats."

She looked at him, and when Peter didn't budge, she sucked her teeth. "Listen... I heard what happened with- I'm sorry, kid."

"Yeah... I am too," Peter said emptily. He was feeling more tired than ever. The haze from the fight was gone, and as his mind started to wake up, he just wanted to go to sleep. He took a short breath and let it out. "What do you want, Detective?"

She glanced at him and smirked. "Just wanted you to know that… shoot, I don't know," she shrugged. "Your Uncle used to go on about you- how much you reminded him of your old man. A head like Einstein on your shoulders that was as stubborn as stone. Made you out to be a real geek. Was so proud of you." She stared at the road and traffic ahead of them. "And like I said, I like geeks. Had a brother who was one. I like freaks too, because those kind of boys are better than the sort of crap I usually deal with. So, if ever need anything, an ear, a beer- you're legal, right?"

Peter snorted a laugh. "Barely."

Jean grinned. "Well, you know where to find me."

"I'm not sure I do. Detective."

She pulled a cigarette and lighter from her coat pocket and lit it with one hand, the other on the wheel. Peter almost pulled down the window until he smelled how clean the smoke was. "Well, maybe you know someone that does."

She turned off the lights, pulled down the window herself. She took off her coat and told him to put it on, and Peter figured he wasn't in any state to refuse. He watched the city and traffic go by from the passenger's seat, a vantage he hadn't seen in a long time due to being away, and then just wanting to be away from it. Street-level was different when he wasn't looking down on it from a different world and pretending like he was in yet another one, still…

"You got any place you wanna go?" the Detective asked. "If not, you could bunk with me. Wouldn't recommend it, but-"

"Are you propositioning me, Detective?"

She snorted. "You? Hell have my ass, no. I look at you and still see that little boy hiding behind his Uncle's leg, that body of yours be damned. Maybe if you were in some sort of getup- I do like me a man in uniform with country colors," she said, and Peter conspicuously looked out the window as she came to a stop at a red light. "But you call me when you're older and I'm younger. Then we'll talk. Till then I'm letting you off with a warning. You need cash for a place"

"No," Peter said quickly. "I don't."

She nodded. "Okay. Then, do got a place to go for the night?" she asked, in that same tone Harry and Gwen had when they already knew what his answer was going to be. And as Peter thought about it, he was surprised at how little he cared about what it was that he was about to do.

"Yeah, actually. I do," he said, and gave her the address.

DeWolff whistled as she pulled her old beatup to the corner of 42nd street and Madison Ave. and leaned out the window. Peter exited the car and clapped the top of it twice. DeWolff ducked back in and looked at him through the passenger side. "Talk about making friends in high places. You know the folks in this joint, kid?"

Peter shook his head so honestly he could have believed his own lie. "I don't." he said, and a day ago that would have been true. A day ago, Peter Parker had no personal connection with anyone inside of the Baxter Building. "I got a… tailor around here though. He'll help me out."

The Detective nodded slightly. "Alright then," she said. "You want me to stick around, just in case they give you the boot?"

"Don't think I could handle that kind of humiliation, if I'm honest."

"It won't be as bad as getting slammed against a wall and cuffed by a sweet girl like me, would it," she said. "Some people pay for that sort of thing."

"Well I'm broke," Peter said with a laugh. "But… thank you. For the free ride."

"Any time, kid."

He stepped onto the curb and started to walk away, but she stopped him. "Hey, before you go," she called, waving him back to the car. Peter knelt through the passenger seat and she leant over, and the next thing he knew, she was tightening the coat around him and buttoning it for him too like he was a child. The smoke from her mouth blew in his face. "Gonna catch Death through a cold, kid-" she grumbled. "Your Aunt really would stab me."

Peter forced a smile. "Thanks, Detective. …Mint cigarettes?"

DeWolff grinned at him and slid back into her seat. "Been trying to kick the habit. Job's dangerous enough already, so why try to get myself killed even sooner?" she said, shifted her car into gear, and winked at him. "Keep the coat. Give it back to me when you're older. Geek."

And then she was gone. She drove off into the night, leaving Peter at the corner with the taste of mint in his mouth, and a good point to think over. Why try to get himself killed even sooner? Apparently, he was doing a good enough job of that by himself already. Maybe he just needed a little help, one way or the other.

Peter looked up at the Baxter Building… and started to search for a dark alley to start climbing from.

They were in darkness again. Alone, again. Torn away, discarded, unwanted, hurt, abandoned. By him. By Parker. And all they could think of was why, and every reason made every feeling so much worse…

But then the darkness gave way to light, and they saw freedom in the form of a silhouette. His silhouette- he had come back to them- no, back for them! They should have known he would have never abandoned them! It was just a misunderstanding, right? Only a misunderstanding, but they could move past it, work it out, and understand each other!

Disbelief and then sadness, apologies and then happiness, relief above it all. Misunderstandings, never again. Alone, never again. In his arms, they were whole again.

And together, wherever they went, would be home.

A/N: Any story where Peter keeps the symbiote in a happy end is my favorite kind of story.