Merry Christmas, friends! I'm back! And for the holidays I bring you a new chapter! I'm really sorry it's taken me so long to update, and I promise, I'll try to be more frequent. I hope you enjoy, and please, as always, read and review. I greatly appreciate it!
Disclaimer: All characters owned by Marvel.
Chapter Nine
Carol pushed down on the yoke, adjusted the mixture and trim, then keyed up on the radio. "November two-four-niner delta lima, on approach to runway one-eight," she said.
Static reigned in her ears briefly before the air traffic controller responded. "Delta lima, cleared to approach runway one-eight."
"Cleared to approach runway one-eight, two-for-niner delta lima," she replied, pushing down a bit more.
The thrum of her small Cessna-172's propeller rang in her ears, despite the headset. She could've flown under her own power, of course, but piloting aircraft had always held a measure of catharsis for her. Like how others would think while driving, or taking a shower, Carol would muse in the cockpit.
And there was quite a bit for her mind to peruse on the two-hour flight. As her tires screeched against the asphalt at Logan International, the fear she'd been trying to convince herself was irrational crept back into her mind: that she was overstepping her bounds, almost tattle telling.
But she and Steve had agreed: something had to be done. And she knew this was the best option to generate change.
"Carol, sweetheart. I'm glad to see you got back from your trip safely," said the old woman.
"Hello, Mrs. Parker," Carol said, stretching her hand forward.
May pushed it to the side and wrapped her arms around Carol's torso. "Oh, you call me Aunt May, dear," she said.
Carol gave a light squeeze in return. "Yes, ma'am," she said. "Thank you for coming to meet me at the airport. You didn't have to."
"Nonsense," May replied. She grabbed the younger woman's arm and led her over to a waiting car. Inside, May's husband Jay sat behind the wheel; he turned the radio off as the rear passenger side door opened, Carol and his wife climbing into the back seat.
Jay pulled the car away from the curb as he and Carol exchanged pleasantries. "Now then," May said, "Now that we have a bit more freedom to talk more openly—what's so important that you had to come out here to talk to me?"
Carol shook her head, suddenly apprehensive about the whole trip. "I don't want to trouble you, May," she said.
May reached forward, grabbing Carol's wrist with a ferocity and strength the heroine didn't expect. "Carol," she said, her voice shaking, "You wouldn't have come all this way not to trouble me." A tear formed in the old woman's eye, threatening to drop down into the trenches of her cheeks. "Tell me what's wrong with my boy."
On the drive back to their home, Carol told May and Jay everything that had happened to Peter since she'd returned. All that Octavius had done to him, how it had been manipulation rather actual control.
"He's been sitting in Tony's lab for three days," Carol said, sipping a warm tea. Sitting on a stool at a short bar, she set the ceramic cup on the counter, turning slightly to face May as the older woman shuffled around the kitchen. "Examining the machine Octavius used to rework his mind. He hasn't slept, or eaten. I don't even know if he's gone to the bathroom."
May replaced the tea kettle on the stove after pouring herself a cup. "I had a suspicion something was wrong with him. I was proud he wanted to finish his doctorate, but starting his own company? Peter was never that… focused, for lack of a better word."
Carol took another sip of her tea. "He's certainly focused now," she said.
"What is he looking for?" Jay asked.
"He thinks Octavius is still alive," Carol said.
Jay stroked at his white goatee. "Is something like that even possible?" he asked.
Carol gave him a pointed look. "You'd be surprised at the number of kicked buckets laying around Avengers Tower."
They crossed the room to the table, where Carol sat down on one side, and May next to her husband on the other. "But what do you think I can do?" May asked. "Do you want me to come back to the city with you? Try to talk to him?"
Carol finished her tea in a gulp, then stared into the empty cup, at the brown ring of minute leftover liquid. "I thought so, at first," she said. "It's part of why I brought the plane. But now…" she paused, took a breath. "I don't know. Can you help me understand? Why would he feel so guilty? It's not like he could control Octavius's actions."
May took a sip of her tea, holding the cup in front of her face for a moment, the slight steam lingering around her features, mingling with the silver strands of her hair. "When I first discovered Peter was Spider-Man," she said, replacing the cup in its saucer, "He admitted to me his reason for fighting so hard. That he felt responsible for my husband's death. Ben's message of 'With great power comes great responsibility' ringing in his ears."
Peter's aunt intertwined her fingers and rested her wrists against the table. "And I was angry with him. But do you know why?"
Carol shook her head.
"It was because he never told me. That he was afraid that I would be angry at him for what he'd done, and been doing."
Carol's thoughts shifted to the past, to what she could remember about the first time she'd heard of "Spider-Man." She'd learned later about his debut in professional wrestling, how he'd won some cash by defeating Crusher Hogan, but her first recollection of Spider-Man was through a Daily Bugle headline. It held a photo of Peter (by Peter) fighting Doctor Octopus on a rooftop, Octavius's mechanical arms flailing like mad, almost fighting each other; the headline read: "Spider-Man: Cop Killer!" Underneath the larger photo was an inset, one of a white-haired police captain who'd apparently been crushed by some debris. Carol remembered wanting to suit up and go find Spider-Man herself, and would have had it not been for Cap's intervention. "Something doesn't seem right here," Steve had said. "I've met Spider-Man. He didn't do this."
"I think guilt has always been part of Peter's personality," May said. "He's always blamed a small part of himself for his parents' death in the plane crash. But ever since Ben…"
She took another sip of tea. "Ever since Ben died, I think he's fought so hard, not just to assuage his conscience, but because he's searching for the punishment he thinks he deserves. And as he's lived, pushed himself further, the guilt has grown."
Carol shook her head. "That doesn't seem like Peter," she said.
"Oh, I don't think it's something he's conscious of," May replied. "I think the people he's had in his life have compounded that feeling. Either as Peter or Spider-Man, they've made him feel guilty in one way or another. Gwendolyn, God rest her soul, never knew his secret. But she hated Spider-Man, blamed him for her father's death. Harry Osborn went mad more than once, due to both his unfortunate drug use and Peter having a closer relationship to his father than Harry ever had. Spider-Man inspired Flash Thompson to join the Army, where the poor boy lost both his legs defending his comrades. Felicia Hardy made him ashamed of Peter Parker, made him believe that Spider-Man was the only side of himself that mattered. And Mary Jane, bless her, truly loved Peter—but she couldn't handle the danger, and he felt guilty for her being in it."
Carol dropped her head. His whole life, nothing but a web of fault. She wondered if there would ever be a point where he could let it go.
May reached across the table and took her hand. "Until he met you, dear," she said.
Carol's eyes snapped up, wide. "What?"
"You should've heard how he spoke of you," May said, her smile a knowing one. "He finally felt free with you. He didn't have to worry about you being in danger—you're more capable than he is, frankly. And you didn't begrudge him his heroics, or spending more time in one life over another one. You just cared for him, and wanted to be a part of his life in whatever capacity he would have you."
"Well, I…" Carol said. She smiled. "Yes."
"That's what he needs, dear," May said. "That was why, when he started bringing Anna Maria around, something felt wrong. She's a lovely, intelligent, forward-thinking woman… but his being with her was backsliding."
The women were silent together at the table for a moment, the only sound that of Jay munching on mixed nuts.
"He loves you, you know," May said.
Carol breathed a sharp breath, let it out slow. She'd heard that before, from Jess, and from Steve. "He's never told me," she said.
"Oh, he's very guarded with those words, now," May said. "But the spark is there."
The apartment came back to her. Peter drunk in his anguish, and, at the time, Carol preoccupied with the smell and presence of the whiskey. But as she thought about it more, about how Peter was so dismissive of her, she realized that he hadn't sent her away for his sake, but for her own. Punishing himself further.
"What can I do for him now, though?" Carol asked.
May pursed her lips. "I don't know," she said. "With what he thinks he's done… I'm afraid for him. He'll be setting out the same way he has all his life—to right the wrong—but this time the wrong didn't just come from him, it was done to him."
Jay interjected. "Sounds like that could lead him someplace dangerous."
May nodded. "Go to him, Carol," she said, reaching across the table and covering Carol's hands with her own. "Whatever's coming next, he's going to need you."
Carol rose from the table and started looking around for things to collect before remembering she hadn't brought any. She stopped at the front door and turned around. "Do you want to come with me, May?" she asked. "Try to talk to him?"
The old woman shook her head slowly, her lips drawn into a thin line. "I know my boy," she said. "I'm not the one he'll want to see. Not just yet."
Carol smiled, remembering their talk in Peter's hospital room so long ago. "Thank you, May," she said. "I'll do everything I can."
"You're already doing it," May replied, holding the door open.
Energy rings burned around Carol's body, and her Captain Marvel uniform appeared around her. She bolted into the sky, heading for the airport, not wanting to leave her plane behind in Boston.
As she flew back to New York, Carol considered May's words. The idea of Peter subconsciously punishing himself.
XXXXXX
Peter awoke to drool pooled beneath his cheek, his head resting on the steel table in the back of the workshop. A tablet in his lap was beeping at him madly, the screen covered by masses of tangled patchwork wires shooting into the helmet next to his head. "Whuzzat…?" he said, lifting his head to look at the screen.
According to the clock in the bottom corner, he'd been asleep for fifteen hours. Not bad for someone who'd barely moved their lower body for three days. His thumb and forefinger rubbed at his eyes, bringing them into focus. He lifted the tablet higher, and wiped off the sweat-smeared screen with a paper towel. Uncovered, it read: Compiling… 96%...
Considering he'd fallen asleep when it said two percent, Peter figured he had some time to kill before the computer finished its work.
So he tried to think of all the things he should've been doing the past few days that he hadn't been.
His stomach gave him a calm but firm reminder—in the form of a cramp—that he'd barely eaten, so the kitchen was his first stop. After vacuuming a few sandwiches, a quick sniff made him think Logan might be walking around the corner… except he knew Logan was teaching.
Steaming water poured over Peter's head and shoulders, rolling into the multitude of scars on his back. Despite the water's warmth, the rivulets felt chilled in the cracks in his skin, and he couldn't help focusing on them. It drove his mind to how he'd received them—trying to save Carol's life; which, in turn, drove his thoughts to her.
He remembered how he'd acted the last time he'd seen her; a bit cold, aloof. He hadn't been able to get his mind off what she'd said about Tony. He'd wanted her… well, at least he'd thought he wanted her to move on, considering what he now knew about himself. Everything he'd done under Octavius's influence. And yes, she'd said nothing happened between them, but Peter knew they had history, however brief it might have been.
Maybe it had just been his own insecurities getting to him.
Regardless, she'd mentioned she was leaving, going somewhere for a day or two, and he'd waved her off. The air between them was tenuous, uncertain; he knew she wasn't sure if their relationship was over, and he wasn't sure if she could tell he didn't really want it to be.
As Peter stood in front of the mirror, rinsing the shaving foam off his razor, his actions from a few nights previous haunted him. He rarely drank, and was never drunk. But the night his girlfriend—a recovering alcoholic—came to see him, he'd not only been three sheets to the wind, but thrown her own traumas in her face, as though hers didn't have any merit compared to his own. It was borderline cruel, or at the very least powerfully insensitive.
Uncle Ben would've been ashamed of him.
But as Peter pulled a t-shirt over his head, an idea struck him.
He sat down at the small two-seater table in his quarters, the same one where he and Carol had shared a cup of coffee the morning after their first night together, and began to write.
Carol,
I'm writing this down because I'm not really the best at saying things aloud. Normally my mouth gets ahead of my brain and pop culture comes out instead of what needs to be said. So, rather than dropping some Star Wars knowledge on you (because I know your time in the Expanded Universe has been limited and—side tracked, whoops), here's what needs to be said:
I'm sorry.
For the drinking that night, I'm sorry.
For what I said that night, I'm sorry.
For how I belittled what you've been through, I'm sorry.
And for not being able to be the man you need, I'm sorry.
Peter sealed the letter in a small envelope and left it on her nightstand. He looked at it for a moment, debated taking it with him, telling her in person. Instead he walked back to Tony's workshop.
Lifting the tablet, Peter saw it had finished compiling the data. The only thing that saved it from being dropped and shattered was Peter's adhesive fingertips.
I was right. The son of a bitch is alive.
Looking at the screen, Peter saw that he'd managed to trace the signal from the helmet to a small house in Westchester. A house that Peter knew all too well.
That was Ock's place, where Aunt May worked as his housekeeper. Where he almost married her, in fact, until Hammerhead showed up and trashed the place. Well, that's good then, that means I can…
His train of thought was interrupted by his Avengers I.D. card sounding an alert. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the small screen. "Rhino tearing up and down the Upper West Side, huh? I suppose it's on my way."
Peter started for the door, then headed back and grabbed the tablet. Better bring this with me. It's been a while since I've been out there.
He stepped into his spare costume and leapt out the window, swinging for the Upper West. Webbing together a small sack, he dropped the tablet into it and strapped it to his back.
Upon arrival, Spider-Man saw Rhino tossing a car into the air with his horn, and crowds of people running in either direction down the street. While he saw several throw sideways glances at him, most were relieved to see someone show up to stop the rampage. "Rhino!" he called, standing against the side of one of the buildings.
Rhino responded by hurling a truck at him.
Peter leapt off the building, leaving a web-net behind to catch the vehicle and prevent it from causing any more property damage. While in the air, though, his Spider-Sense blared, and he turned just in time to see waves of super-heated air careening toward him.
The electricity crashed into Spider-Man's chest with the audible boom of searing air, and the force sent him back to the ground in a smoldering heap. The web sack had been thrown from his back, and Peter was having difficulty collecting his thoughts, much less finding the drive to get up and fight. He rose, however, and saw the crackling blue form of Electro floating behind Rhino. Several street lamps popped as they approached, and the ground shook from the weight of Rhino's steps.
"What's going on here, guys? Is there a convention for villains with terrible costumes in town?" Peter regained himself, and flipped onto the side of an adjacent building. "No, wait, lemme guess… you're meeting with a tailor, aren't you? That's it, I'm sure Luigi's shop is a few blocks down…"
"Shut up!" Electro's static voice blared, hurling another bolt at Spider-Man; prepared this time, however, Peter bounced up and away from the electricity with ease.
"Aww, come on, Maxie," Peter said. "I get tired of the same old tricks from you. Every supervillain should have at least one for every ridiculous addition to their mask, which leaves you with about… five?"
Electro snarled at him. "How's this for tricks, bug? Rhino!"
The giant looked up at his comrade.
"See that nice lady over there?" Electro pointed to a blonde, middle-aged woman the next block over. "She looks like she needs a hug."
Rhino's lip twitched upward, and he bolted down the street, his feet cracking the asphalt.
"No!" Peter shouted, leaping from the building and swinging toward the woman.
This is gonna be close…
Just before Rhino gored the woman on his horn, Spider-Man swooped in front and snatched her up, carrying her toward a shorter roof.
"Don't worry, ma'am," he said. "You're safe."
"I am," she said. Her voice sounded just a bit off to Peter, almost mechanically altered, though he didn't see a voice box.
"But you're not."
Peter barely had time to register her words before his Spider-Sense screamed so powerfully that he lost his grip on the web line. As they fell, Rhino caught the woman in his arms, while Peter was fortunate that his legs hit the ground first. He fell to the pavement, gripping at his head, as his Spider-Sense just kept going at full volume.
He had enough time to look up at the woman and notice a small grey device in her hand before she pulled off her face, leaving only the blank white mask of the Chameleon.
"Got someone who wants a word with you, Spider-Man," Chameleon said.
Before Peter had a chance to move, a giant grey fist slammed down against his head, and he was out cold.
XXXXXX
When he awoke, Peter found himself bound by a large machine around his arms and legs, effectively rendering him nothing but a torso and head. He tried to push against his confines, but discovered they were reinforced. The room around him was vast and dark. He could hear the echoes of footsteps approaching him; only one, from what he could make out. But he'd been notoriously wrong about these things before.
The figure stepped into what scant light was unobscured by Peter's prison. Peter saw before him a man in a Spider-Man costume, though not his own. This one had asymmetrical webbing throughout, a massive black spider on the chest, and strange bracers adorning the man's wrists. However, Peter was most shocked to see his own face looking back at him.
"Hello Peter," Octavius said.