Sunset.
Peter sipped his chicken soup gingerly.
"I've set your hand as best I can," Strange said. "I've put dissolving stitches in your internal injuries, and stapled you shut. I operated on your knee and lined things up in there so you have a chance to heal, and put a brace on that. Your concussion is fading already. I did what I know to do with dental work. So, in a few weeks you'll be well on your way to recovery."
"I don't have a few weeks," Peter said, his voice haunted.
Strange was silent for a moment. "I can create an illusion of wholeness for you, and dull the pain, but you will not survive another fight."
"Because you can't heal me or because you won't heal me?" Peter asked, his voice oddly quiet.
"It doesn't matter, does it?" Strange replied, his eyes glittering. "Deal with the reality."
They looked deep into each other's eyes.
"I have a lot to think about, Doc," Peter said, looking away. "How about those illusions?"
The Doctor opened an ancient calligraphy set. "Here you are," he said, exposing the bandage over Peter's waist. He dipped the long brush in a peculiar foul-smelling ink, then in a swift series of motions painted a calligraphic glyph on the bandage. Then another.
"Keep these bandages on for seventy two hours," Strange said, "and after that you can dispose of them."
"Gotta love alternative medicine," Peter said with a wry smile. "After that, will I still look... mangled?" Peter asked, his voice worried.
"Depends on how much pain you accept, how fast you heal," Strange shrugged. His smile was almost wicked. "There's always makeup."
Peter slowly levered himself up off the bed. The Doctor wordlessly offered him a walking cane, which he accepted with a sideways glance.
"Be in touch," Strange said softly.
Peter nodded without making eye contact, and he left.
xXx
The science building was deserted; oh yeah, spring break. Not much going on Wednesday night, anyway. Peter limped through the building, reached the photo lab. This time he'd rip the door off its hinges if he had to.
Ah; no sign. Good. Peter went into the darkroom and locked the door.
Total darkness.
That felt somehow appropriate to him. He worked quickly and easily in the dark, tugging the film canister out and prying open the cartridge, unrolling the film. In a few quick motions he had attached the film to the reel.
Peter worked with human speed, still aching and stinging in every pore of his skin and every fiber of his muscle. Working as a human would have to do. He wondered if perhaps it wouldn't be a better idea to surrender this alternative life, to move away, escape the hunter. He felt that raw rage, that dim memory of pain and combat that he wasn't really present for. Next time? What would he do next time? If the hunter had not escaped, he would have been killed. Peter felt the agony that randomly streaked through his right hand. At least there was still no blood on that hand. None that would not wash away.
Peter dropped the reel into the plastic canister and screwed the lid on. He snapped on the dim red light. He poured developer in the canister.
Peter leaned back against the counter, turning the canister upside down. "Agitate it, indeed," he muttered under his breath. His senses monitored the process; he always got good pics from his film.
"So it all comes down to one question, Peter Parker," he said to himself in the quiet isolation of the darkroom. "Is Sergei Kravinoff right about me? Am I human?" In that profoundly quiet moment, he came face to face with his power and his mortality.
He turned the developing canister over, and sighed. "Yeah, deep thoughts in the dark sniffing fumes. Do my best thinking here." He shook his head.
He poured the developer out of the canister and poured water in, then set it on the counter. "So what are you going to do with your life?" he asked the canister, and the question was reflected back. "There will never be a better time to decide who and what I'm going to be." In the dark and the quiet he reflected on that, his eyes adjusted to the bloody red glow that suffused the dim room.
After a while, he poured out the water, and poured in fixer. Periodically turning the canister over, he brooded over the possibilities. Tried to imagine a life ignoring his power, or a life without Gwen or Aunt May or Harry or MJ or anyone else. His mind examined the issue from several sides, working carefully and systematically through the tangled issue and finding no relief. He turned the issue and the canister over slowly and carefully as he was lost in thought.
He drained out the fixer chemical and poured more water into the canister. "Right," he muttered. "So maybe that's not the answer. Maybe there is no answer." That sobered him. He stopped thinking and began to simply feel.
A few minutes later, he blinked. "Hm," he said. "Maybe... maybe the questions... are the answer." He looked at the canister, and drained the water. "If I wasn't human," he murmured, "could I wonder if I was?"
He unscrewed the canister and snapped on the light. He looked at the light through his negatives, and slowly smiled.
Most interesting developments indeed.
Time to get to work.
xXx
It was late when he stole into the house. He saw Aunt May asleep on the couch opposite the door. He moved over to her and knelt by her knee, touching her arm lightly.
She woke with a small gasp, and her worried face relaxed into relief when she saw him. She leaned forward and hugged him with surprising fierceness.
"Peter Parker," she said, "where have you been!?!"
"I'm sorry I forgot to call," he said quickly. "A friend from school was in a car accident, and I've helped his family with bedside duties. I didn't think to call. Spring break," he shrugged. "I'm so sorry."
She sighed deeply. "I'm just glad you're safe, Peter," she said.
"We still on for supper with Gwen tomorrow?" he asked with a rakish smile.
"I hope so," Aunt May said worriedly. "She called, and she didn't sound very happy."
"I'll talk to her tomorrow," Peter said. "For now, though, you better get to bed, young lady." He smiled at her, and helped her up.
"Don't do this again, Peter," she scolded. "I was really worried."
"I'm sorry, Aunt May," Peter said. "It won't happen again."
Then she was in her room, and he was in his. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day. But he had much to do before he could sleep. He checked the time. Half past midnight. Plenty of time.
xXx
He wobbled along the sidewalk unsteadily on his borrowed bike, sniffing. The docks seemed a reasonable place to start. He pedaled slowly, testing the air as he went, winding up and down the streets. Almost two in the morning; he had to find the object of his search soon.
There. There, in the wind, that bitter acrid tang. Peter smiled, and steered his bike that direction, up the hill towards a run down residential area.
He had spat on Kravinoff, and now he would be able to track him to his new lair.
Less than an hour later, he pulled his bike up outside an empty apartment building. Slowly, gingerly, he climbed up the wall.
From the roof he glanced down into a large empty loft apartment. Far below, in a bathtub surrounded by incense and candles rested a broken and bloody man. Peter watched, fascinated, as Kravinoff lay motionless in the dim water. His face was swollen and discolored, and the bathwater was rusty pink. Peter focused a moment to make sure he still breathed. For a moment, watching the hunter in his vulnerability, he felt something like shame.
He shrugged it off and crept along the roof to the next skylight. After briefly examining it, he determined it was not trapped. Opening it, he slowly crept in, across the ceiling. He spun a very thin thread, and lowered a piece of paper on it to rest on Kravinoff's table. Then he crept to the skylight and left, down to the bike, on towards home.
Smiling.
Kravin slowly opened his eyes. Prey. His prey was close.
No more tussling. Kravinoff reached out of the tub and down to the double barreled shotgun next to him. Hauled his broken body out of the tub, water sluicing down his body. He sniffed. Damn, he was slow and sore.
He padded into the next room, ignoring the chill air of the dark of night. There, on the table. His eyes narrowed as he saw the folded piece of paper. He picked it up, glancing around. Opened it. Read it.
His forehead wrinkled in perplexity.
"What's your game?" he murmured to himself. One last glance around, and he backed out of the room. He sat back in the tub, running more hot water, and he brooded over the note.
Far away, Peter Parker slept like a baby.
xXx
Mid-morning, and Peter Parker was mobile. He walked up to the student newspaper office, and peeked in.
The office got very quiet. Peter held his breath and strolled in. "Hi, guys," he said. "Where's Gwen?"
All fingers pointed to a counter at the back. Peter headed to the back, where two girls were standing by Gwen, one on either side, and Gwen was bent over a broadsheet with her back to Peter.
"Hi, Gwen," Peter said. "Your dad said I could find you here."
"Where else would I be?" she said, her voice chilly. "You think I'd give up my work here to just, what, sit at home by the phone waiting for it to ring? I'd have to be a real idiot to do that, don't you think, Parker?"
Peter winced. "Ouch. I deserved that in spades, Gwen, but... can we talk?" he asked, glancing around at the newspaper staff pretending to not follow the exchange with rapt interest. "In private?"
She looked at her assistants.
"We got it here," one said. "I mean, if you got something to do, this issue's in the bag, Gwen."
"Go on," said the other, making a small shooing motion with her hands. Gwen sighed, and turned to look at Peter.
"Fine, let's go," she said, and she brushed past him and snatched her coat and bag off the table. He followed her out, rubbing the back of his neck, ignoring the scattered giggles and applause that followed him out.
The wind was raw and a bit chilly after the rain that had dropped now and then over the previous day. Peter winced with the pain but managed to keep up with Gwen's rapid pace.
"So you want to tell me what happened?" she said, not facing him. "Did your phone break down?"
"Not at all," he said. "I just had a kind of identity crisis. Life after college," he said. "Trying to figure out what I'm good at, what my fate is, and who is in my future." He looked out across the campus, stopping. She stopped too, but did not face him. He took a deep breath. "You know, when you come face to face with what you're doing with the rest of your life, it really changes the way you look at things."
He could feel the tears that were building behind her eyes, closing her throat. He turned and walked up behind her.
"Gwen," he said softly, "there is no doubt in my mind that I want you to be part of my life. I just had to come to grips with that. I'm sorry I missed our date. Please come tonight."
She turned to look at him, her eyes bright with tears. "Peter," she said with a helpless gesture.
He quickly took her hand. "Aunt May has been cooking since dawn. It'll kill her if you don't come." He smiled. "Please?"
"Peter," she said, "what do I do with you?"
"Just what you've been doing," he said quickly. "Just be patient with me. I've been sorting some things out. I think everything is going to be okay. I know it is if you stay with me."
"Oh Peter," she said, tears spilling out of her beautiful eyes, "how could I do anything else?"
They embraced, and the wind whipped around them undeterred.
"I'll pick you up at four," he whispered, "or die trying."