A/N: Hey there, Spidey fans! Things start to hot up for our new hero - and how!

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Chapter 19: Smoke and Fire

The increased traffic noise told Peter it was morning and time to get up. But as early as he was, Erica had been up earlier.

"At last," she said, as Peter finally came out of his room, "Now I can have a shower! Coffee's brewed for you!"

She pushed past him and disappeared into the bathroom, a blur in her hurry to get there. Peter shook his head in bemusement and poured himself his coffee. He planned the start of his day's work while he took quick slurps from his almost-too-hot-to-drink cup. Moving to the table, he discovered that Erica had also already been out - the morning's edition of the Bugle was spread out over it. He scanned the photos on the front page, wondering if Erica had got just as big a kick out of them this morning, seeing them in a newspaper, as she had when he'd developed them yesterday. He hoped so.

The accompanying story revealed nothing new - this, and the news item he'd seen on the TV last night told him that Jameson had recovered rapidly from his shock, and was back to his normal jolly self. He perused the rest of the paper while he waited for Erica to finish her shower. The article about the café Europa gunman was further inside, with a small photo of Spidey in action. Another report of a city official in a coma as a result of the mysterious virus. The Department of Public Health were asking people to see their doctor at the slightest symptoms of flu. This was getting more and more serious, thought Peter. There was also a hint of a financial scandal attached to the new tunnel being built; some dubious accounting practises uncovered. What else was new?

A freshly scrubbed Erica, damp hair sticking up all over the place, entered the room singing. Peter winced - she certainly was cheerful in the mornings.

"…woogie bugle boy from Company B!" she warbled. She stopped, grinned at Peter. "I'm going off to work this morning," she said.

"I'd never have guessed."

She grabbed her backpack from the couch and slung it over her shoulders as she prepared to head for the door to leave. "I'll see you later. Do you have a spare key just in case you're out when I get back?"

"No," admitted Peter. He had given his spare to Mary-Jane. "Shall I leave a window open for you?"

"Yeah, O.K. Cheerio!" Erica left with a banged door behind her. Peter waited, listening, but didn't hear the elevator, so guessed that Erica had jumped down the stairs again. She was taking a few risks using her spider-powers so openly like that, but it probably didn't matter that much - who would believe it if they saw a woman jumping like that? And even if they did, they were extremely unlikely to connect it to Spider-Man…

It was raining.

This time, Peter had a use for that umbrella he'd used as an excuse yesterday. He smiled at the thought as he walked into the entrance-way of the chemical supply place, shaking the rain from his umbrella before folding it. He was careful not to visit the store too often - most of his supplies he got through mail order, and from different companies. The assistants in this place knew what they were selling, and made sure that their customers knew what they were buying. Once a customer had proved their legitimacy and competency, the purchase of chemicals could proceed without any further checks.

Peter liked wandering through and perusing the shelves. Sometimes as he wandered, spying a particular compound would set ideas running through his head. Today though, he was here for specific chemicals. He found them quickly, and took them to the counter. He joked with Dean, the manager who always gave the impression of an old-fashioned grocer, hiding his scientific savviness behind his half-specs.

"Still no dilithium crystals in stock, I see." This was a long running banter between them, after Pete had once overheard a customer seriously asking for them.

"No, and you're out of luck with the corbomite as well - they're gone as soon as we get them in."

"Just as well this is all I need then," said Peter, as Dean wrote up the purchases in the computer, printed out a record of them and got Pete to sign the store copy, as a standard security measure.

"Any strange requests lately?" Peter asked. He knew Dean enjoyed recounting the foibles of the public.

Dean laughed, "Some doozies. I had a character the other day who said he needed some sodium chloride and got riled when I told him he'd be better off buying it somewhere else, that it was cheaper at he grocer's down the street. He thought I was having him on, until I told him exactly what NaCl was."

"He honestly didn't know?"

"Honest!" Dean shook his head, "But the strangest, and I mean strange, was a man who did his entire transaction using his PDA. He bought some interesting stuff too - a real strange mix of chemicals. He checked out all right though, so he was legit."

"What did he look like?" Peter perked up his ears; could the guy be someone who couldn't speak? Midge?

"Oh, large nose, older, about my age. Now there's a confession for you…" Dean chuckled and wrapped the chemicals up.

Peter handed over his money deep in thought. It can't have been Midge; Dean would have mentioned his size. Likewise the other attacker Hudson had talked about - wrong age. Oh, well, just because some crank has a thing about PDA's - this customer was probably unconnected to all that other business anyway…

Immediately he got back to his apartment, Peter started working on his new formula again. Eventually, he leant back in his chair and stretched. His back had a crick in it from spending a few hours hunched over at his desk, engrossed.

"Ooooh, ow!" He needed a new hobby. He couldn't go for a swing to work the kinks out.. or could he? Peter grinned to himself, stood up and went and opened the window. It was still raining out. Good.

A while later, and Pete was swinging through the air, having the time of his life. He hadn't done this for so long, that it had taken him a short time to adjust, but it was remarkable how quickly it all came back to you… "Wheeee!" Peter leaned back and let the rain fall on his face.

A couple walking past smiled at him - a grown man on a child's swing. The playground was deserted, the rain keeping the children, or more correctly, their guardians, away. Peter swung higher, remembering how Uncle Ben would take him to the park to encourage him to play ball, and how it always ended with Ben pushing him on the swings after the flop that was ball practise. Peter reached the apex of a forward swing and decided to try something he'd seen other kids do when he was small. He was sure he could do it now. He back-flipped off the seat, and landed on the ground in a half crouch. 'Well, what do you know?' he thought with a huge grin, 'maybe I'm not that hopeless after all.'

Just then, the edge of the returning swing clipped him on the back of the head. He lost his balance and ended up sprawled face-down on the wet matting. Peter cursed - his luck hadn't changed that much. He picked himself up, ruefully rubbing the back of his head; at any rate, his back felt better.

Thoroughly wet now, he returned to the apartment, grabbing a hero on the way for his lunch. Erica wasn't back yet. Peter hung his jacket in the bathroom to dry, changed his clothes, made himself a cup of coffee. This he took back to his desk, and went over his notes once more as he drank. It should work…

He was absorbed in his study again that at first he didn't hear the knock, but as it became more insistent, he jumped up and answered the front door. Erica was just turning away, about to climb the stairs to the roof when he opened the door. "Oh, I thought you were out…"

"I'm in. I was…"

"I know, engrossed in your work. It's a wonder you heard my knock at all." Erica broke into a smile. In the dimmed lighting of the landing, only her eyes and teeth showed in her tanned face. Her hair was wet, but her clothes were remarkably dry for someone who didn't have an umbrella or coat. Peter didn't have to guess why. And as soon as the door was closed behind them, Erica all but admitted it.

"Ick, it's like putting your clothes on over wet togs. How'd you go with the foam?"

"Done," replied Peter, watching Erica bustle about the lounge, taking various items out of her backpack. She seemed particularly zestful today. She stopped still and tilted her head to look at him where he was standing, leaning by the door.

"We can't test it in daylight, can we?" she asked rhetorically. "What are we going to do this afternoon?"

"Laundry," he said flatly. He almost laughed at the expression of disgust at this mundane domestic duty. "Hey," he continued, "We get to see Aunt May - by using her washer and dryer we kill two birds with one stone."

"That's all right then."

Peter smiled, decided to needle her a bit. "And you can carry the dirty washing…"

"What? You mean you carry it all the way across town? No way!"

"What, you don't want to see Aunt May again? You'll hurt her feelings."

"Oh, O.K. then. But we get any comments on the way there, I'm going to stuff you in the empty sack for the return journey."

Pete laughed. Cultural differences again - Manhattanites were used to seeing each other carrying laundry to the local laundromats, or further afield. Not every apartment building had a laundry room in the basement. Speaking of airing dirty laundry…

"How was Jolly Jonah this morning?" he called out. Erica had taken herself off to the bathroom to collect the hamper.

"Fine," she called back, "He's still a little shaken, I think. He was growling more than usual this morning. He said to me 'You're as bad as Parker - turning up only when it doesn't interrupt your busy little social schedule'." Erica managed a reasonable facsimile of Jameson's gruff tone and manner. "I told him 'You ought to know, Sweetie'."

She came out into the lounge again with her arms full of clothing and dumped the pile onto the lino. Peter eyed the heap; it was larger than his normal load.

"Oh crap," he sighed, "Aunt May thinks you're still at a hotel. What'll she think when we turn up with this huge load of laundry?"

"That you're a dirty boy?" Erica caught the book that was aimed at her head easily with her hand. She tossed it gently back onto the table. "Nice one! C'mon, what are we waiting for?"

…………………………….

You could never tell what surprises fate had in store for you, thought Peter as they walked down the path away from the front steps of Aunt May's house.

Aunt May had been going through some old papers since they last saw her, trying to find some information about Ben's family. She had found some notes that his mother had made to include in the now long lost family bible, and discovered that Ben's grandfather had had a brother who had gone missing; at least, his whereabouts had never been explained. Even though Peter knew that Jeremiah Parker was no actual common ancestor of his and Erica's, the possibility was there that he did have a cousin living. Still, in the unlikely event that it was the case, Peter decided he didn't want to pursue it. Too dangerous, besides Aunt May would be happy to accept Grand-uncle Jeremiah as Erica's and leave it at that. He would do the same.

It had stopped raining although the skies were still overcast, and the flat light made everything dull and drab. The two made their way back to the apartment, timing it so that they avoided the worse of the commuter rush on the subway. Peter glanced at Erica as she sat in the train, the large bundle of laundry balanced on the floor between her legs. She was staring off in the distance, wrapped in her own thoughts, but they didn't look as if they were particularly happy ones. Pete felt her mood had finally matched the weather.

"Anything the matter?" he asked, as they climbed up the steps out into the street. The streets were filling up rapidly, and Erica with the laundry was kept busy dodging people rushing to catch their train.

Erica sighed, "Poor Aunt May. Though I suppose she's happy enough. Sounds like we've given her a new interest to keep her occupied for a while. Did you know that genealogy is the world's fastest growing hobby? I hope old Jeremiah proves a dead-end though - even if it's frustrating for her, it's better for us." She sighed again, at the same time gripping Peter's sleeve and pulling him out of the path of a certain collision with a pedestrian. Peter regarded her preoccupied profile in surprise; she had done that without thinking - how had she known? Had her spider sense somehow extended itself to include him? He shrugged it off.

Rounding the corner, Erica gripped his sleeve once again, but this time it was to stop him. "Hold on. There's something…"

She took off, dropping the large bag and leaving him to pick it up before anyone went barrelling into it. When he looked up again, he could see no sign of her. He peered up and around at the high buildings, not having to squint at all due to the dull light, and he caught a flash of brilliant red and blue, just before he heard a loud strident alarm and saw the colorful figure disappear from view through a window. Still staring at the place, ignoring the people who bumped into him, he saw a burst of flame shoot out, followed a second later by the booming sound of an explosion above the traffic noise.

Sudden panic struck the street; screams of terror, traffic stopping where it stood, drivers leaving their vehicles to run off, people running away from the scene. Even the pigeons flapped away in panic.

Peter himself swallowed a couple of times before moving towards the building. He had to push against the tide of people coming the other way, as well as trying to hang on to the bundle under one arm, and with his other hand reach for his camera in his jacket pocket. He wished he had a cell phone to ring for the FDNY, but supposed somebody else would do this. He ran between the stalled cars on the street to the side opposite the damaged building, and, leaning against a store window with his laundry at his feet, started clicking away at the spectacle of flames and smoke billowing out into the sky. Faint sirens sounded; good, the fire dept and the police would soon have things to right. In the meantime, where was Spidey?

Another window imploded with the heat, sending a further gush of flame. What had started the fire? Peter knew what most people were frightened of; that it was a new terrorist attack of some sort. The sirens were closer now. The first fire appliance rounded the corner in the fortunately unblocked emergency vehicle lane. There were only a few bystanders like himself still about. One had a video camera and was taking footage - no doubt planning to sell it to a television network to his advantage.

The fire crew were busy setting up their hoses and uncovering fire hydrants as a couple of squad cars roared into the street to add to the chaos. Jumping out and taking the situation in at a glance, one of the officers began directing the onlookers away from the scene. He came across to where Peter was positioned.

"I mightta known you'd be here!" he said, as he came closer. It was Sergeant Hudson.

"You get around yourself," remarked Peter, smiling, but keeping one eye on the building. Hudson followed his gaze.

"Quite a blast; you oughtta get a few good pics for that rag of yours, but that's all - I'll have to ask you to move on now."

Peter held up a hand for silence, still intent on the blown out windows. The flames had died down, but the smoke was as thick as it had been before. The fire-fighters had got their equipment ready and were starting to pump water. Other sections of the emergency crew had already entered the building at the ground level, to search the inside and evacuate any stranded people. In that second, as Peter and Hudson watched, a bright figure burst out of the dark smoky gap, a limp form tucked under one arm. The flash of red and blue toppled down the side of the building for a few stories before a slender strand of web-line adhered to the underside of a window ledge and slowed the descent of the two figures. Peter found himself holding his breath even as he captured the whole exit on film.

As soon as they reached the ground, Peter, with Sergeant Hudson close behind, ran across the street to reach them. They converged on to the spot with a couple of the fire crew. Peter rushed to help Spidey; she was crouching down on the pavement, coughing violently. Amazingly, she didn't look singed at all, although her costume was soot-stained in a few places.

He put his arm across her back, looked up at the concerned faces surrounding them. A fire-fighter was working on the rescued person beside them. One of the crew held out an oxygen mask to Peter. "Here, you put this on him," he indicated Spidey, "It'll help alleviate the smoke inhalation."

Spidey turned her head toward Peter, he could guess she was panicking a bit, but she was coughing too hard to be able to speak.

"It's all right," he soothed, and moved around to face her, so that his body was obscuring the view between Spidey and the ER personnel. He deftly lifted Spidey's mask so that it uncovered the lower half of her face, and fitted the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. She took in deep breaths of the oxygen, coughing in short spasms, until gradually the coughing subsided altogether. Quickly, using her spider speed so that her movements were blurred, she pulled down her own mask while removing the oxygen mask.

"Thanks," she said, handing the oxygen back to the fire-fighter. She stood up, with Peter hovering by her side, and watched the rescued victim of the fire getting loaded onto a stretcher. "Will he…?" she started to ask.

"He'll be fine in a few days. What about you?" The ER worker was obviously amazed at how quickly Spidey had recovered from smoke inhalation.

"Ah, you know me - a fresh air freak. A little smoke's nothing to get worried about!" she gasped, sounding a little hoarse from the coughing. She looked at Peter. "You here again, Parker?" The onlookers could hear a note of amusement in Spider-Man's voice. Peter smiled and waved a self-deprecating hand at her. Spidey chuckled, and was readying to leave when Sergeant Hudson stepped up and interrupted.

"Spider-Man. If I may have a word?"

"Have as many as you like! Which ones do you want? I've got sesquicentenary, holus bolus, and metathesis going begging…"

Hudson snorted. Peter grinned; he knew Spidey's flippancy was partly hiding her nervousness, partly a sign that she had recovered from her injury. He was also pleased to see how she gave the Spider-Man persona some joie de vivre, something that had been missing from Spider-Man for a while…

"A coupla things: what can you tell me about this fire? And your… intervention on behalf of Jonah Jameson yesterday. Do you know anything about his assailant?"

Spidey became serious. "I arrived here just after the fire started - that guy was the only person on that floor. It looks to me as if it was natural causes, but I'll let the experts decide that." Spidey's opaque eyes scanned the hoses snaking along the sidewalk and street, and the fire crews still at work around them, as if to acknowledge the job the hard-working men and women did. Peter saw that the smoke had lessened and guessed that the fire was under control.

Spidey continued, "Your second question… that's tougher. First time I'd come across that character. I can tell you he is very strong, but you undoubtedly know that already if you have him in custody. Likewise the cut out tongue. How about the small black knife? It's not a sgian dubh, I know that much. You've come across him before though…" she stated, watching the Sergeant. Peter gave Spidey silent encouragement; she was doing well not giving away the fact she had met Hudson before. Peter was suddenly glad she had a mask on - she could very well be blushing under it right now.

Hudson nodded in agreement. "You're correct on that. Not him, but another very like. We had a witness to a successful attack, the victim wasn't so lucky. A single stab wound to the heart, and… her tongue cut out and placed on her chest."

"A ritualised killing… I'll have to be on the lookout for them then. Who was the victim?" Spidey asked. Peter made a slight movement as he listened. Hudson turned and noticed he was there.

"You. I don't want any of this getting past these six ears. I especially don't want that flat-headed boss of yours to know. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir!" Peter said. Hudson turned back to Spider-Man.

"Just to prove that the media can be discreet, the victim was an analyst working for CNN on the crisis in the Middle-East."

This is one for the books, thought Peter, when Spidey can get more information and respect from a cop than plain ol' Peter Parker!

Spidey shook her head. "Well, I'll let you know if I find out any more, Captain…?"

"Sergeant Bill Hudson, Midtown South Precinct. Here's my card." Hudson smiled.

"Pleased to meet ya. Now excuse me, I gotta shake my shirt!" Spidey leapt up onto the portico above the building entrance, watched by the emergency crews below. "Keep up the good work!" she cried. Then firing a line up across the street, she was off swinging up and around the corner.

Peter stood with Hudson watching her disappear out of view. Hudson smiled at Peter. "So, you're a friend of his, are you? He must be a cool guy to know."

Smiling back at Hudson, Peter agreed. "He's cool all right. But I'm not exactly his friend; more like a stalker, his personal paparazzi… that's how he tells it anyway!"

Hudson laughed. "I'm bound to bump into you again soon, way things are goin'. Well, I gotta do some work now, so excuse me too. Oh, and say hi to your cute cousin for me." Peter watched the Sergeant walk over to his colleagues. Then he remembered the laundry.

"Oh shit." He ran back across the street. He was in luck for once; the evacuation of bystanders from the area meant the bag was where he had left it. Sighing in relief, Peter hauled the bundle into his arms and headed back to the apartment.

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A/N: Well, I'm quite a way through the story now, and the way it's plotted out there's about a third or so more to come before I'm finished. How's it going, what do you think??

Cheers,

Apteryx