"You know why I'm here and you know what I'm going to say," Voorhees said quietly, smiling under his half-mask.
"Who are you?" Peter demanded.
"That's not important," Voorhees said with a dismissive wave. "Here's my number," he added, handing Peter a simple business card with a number scrawled on it with a cheap pen. "What is important is that you are going to work for my employer for two hundred and fifty grand a year plus bonuses for cat burglary and assorted other tasks."
"I'm not that cheap," Peter shot back, pocketing the card. "You can't afford me. Your boss can't afford me. My price is a real life. You don't have that to give me. Get lost. Tell your boss the answer is no. Still. And it will remain no. So stop sending thugs who smoke in public buildings."
"I'm afraid that's the only kind he has," Voorhees grinned. "Oh!" he said in mock dismay. "Seems someone else wants to cut in on our little dance. Want me to off her?"
"Don't even joke," Peter said, his eyes hard.
He turned to make eye contact with Mary Jane. Her halo was off, and she meant business. Her arms were folded across her chest and she was positively rigid with fury that blazed from her green eyes.
Too quick—
Peter barely registered that the masked man was moving before he felt a sting in his chest, a quick pressure. He looked down to see his attacker pulling back an empty ampoule.
"Twenty four hours," hissed the masked man, "absolute tops, and you die. No matter what you are. Think about my offer. Call me." He turned and moved through the crowded people as though they were not there.
Peter felt flushed as the slow burn began. Every sense raged.
"What," Mary Jane said. "Drugs? You a dealer? What's your excuse?"
Peter fought his rage tooth and nail. "Drop it, MJ," he said as lightly as he could. "This is not the time. And no, I don't do drugs." He turned to follow the masked man.
Mary Jane grabbed his arm.
"For once in your miserable life," she half shouted at him over the music, "tell the truth! Enough of this macho mysterious act!"
Eye contact.
She flinched.
His face twisted into a snarl. "All right," he snapped. "All right then. Truth." He gripped her wrist and headed for the exit at uncomfortable speed, his stride long enough to tug her nearly off her feet. She stumbled as fast as she could to keep up as he banged through the exit door to the loading dock of the student center.
"Picked the wrong day," he muttered under his breath. "Pushed the wrong buttons." Mary Jane panted with fear and exertion as Peter muttered to himself. "It's time someone knew. She asked for it." He reached the end of the dock.
"Oh god," she gasped. "Are you a hit man?"
He barked something like a laugh. "Hold this," he said, tossing her his jacket. She gasped as she caught the jacket. He kicked off his shoes and yanked off his socks with startling speed. Then she let out a scream as she whipped up off her feet into the air.
Some part of her mind registered the feel of his wiry hand on the small of her back as she rushed up through the air pushing multiple g's with their speed. They landed on the flat roof of the student center and he pushed her with what looked like a gentle motion. She reeled back, spinning, desperate to keep her footing. As she managed to stand up, half sobbing, Peter was in her face.
"I'm different," he snapped. "I have abilities. And because of that I'm a target, from time to time, and I live in mortal terror of the day when I get someone near and dear to me killed. Like tonight. The man I was talking to could have killed you just as easily as he could have taken another breath and you're barking at me like some little yippy dog. Listen to me. Open your eyes."
She desperately tried to slow her breathing as she staggered back, deep fear gripping her as she saw what was in his eyes, what he kept hidden; she confronted something not wholly human as he breathed her air and pushed her back.
Then in a heartbeat's space he turned his back to her; but he looked subtly different without his jacket, hyped as he was. There was an unnatural tension and liquid grace in his body; his shoulders, his arms were oddly angled. He was strength. He was speed. She was afraid. She tried to get control of her breath.
"Mary Jane," he said, something helpless in his voice, "you could have figured this out if you wanted to. Last New Years, I was supposed to look after your cat and didn't? It's because I was torn down by a secret agent, beaten within an inch of my life. And when the cops grabbed us after our first real date? A spy hid a stolen industrial secret in my camera bag. Yeah, Lincoln was after me and you and Harry almost got killed in the crossfire. So." He sucked in his breath and let it out slowly. "Stop judging me by your stupid little social code. The stakes are just too high for me to worry about whether or not I'm properly dressed for the party. You can't possibly understand that, so I don't hold it against you. But I swear if you push me one step further then there's going to be a reckoning." He still stood with his back to her.
Her breath still eluded her. "You really can fly," she whispered. "You are your own magic carpet."
"Well, I can't fly, not exactly," he said, looking up at the sky.
"And you weren't kidding, not exactly," Mary Jane breathed. "Does Gwen know about this?"
"You tell me," Peter said, his voice bitter.
"Hell no," Mary Jane managed, getting control over her breathing. "Wow. I mean," she said with a helpless gesture, "wow. What all can you do?"
He slowly turned to face her, and his eyes were more like those of the Peter she knew. "I'm strong," he said simply, "and fast and tough. I can stick to things. I notice things. I argue with myself. I'm a snappy dancer." He shrugged, and murmured to himself, "I've come this far." He tugged up his sleeves, and Mary Jane absently realized she had never seen him in a short sleeved shirt before.
She saw long scars along his forearms, and looked closer.
Not scars.
The ridges of flesh were puckered over each other, and as she looked closer she saw something pale and gray. "What the hell?" she whispered.
Peter pointed his arm at the chimney and flexed slightly; a stream of sticky goo whizzed out incredibly fast and smacked on. He tugged the strand, holding it taut. He shrugged. "Web."
"Cool," she breathed, her eyes lighting up. "Can I touch it?"
"Uh," he said uncomfortably as she stepped closer. She took his other wrist in both hands. To his hot flesh her hands felt cool. He let her turn his wrist over, slowly, noticed she kept her eyes pointed down, at his wrist, away from his gaze. She reached out and gingerly touched his spinnerets.
"Okay enough," he said, jerking his arm out of her grip and shoving his sleeves back down. "Enough. Ugh. I've never let anyone touch… that… before," he said, looking out over the campus lights. "I hate this."
"What?" Mary Jane said. "You hate what?"
"Being vulnerable like this," he said, crossing his arms tightly, pushing his forearms into his chest. "I've kept this secret for years. Nobody was ever supposed to know."
"I'll keep your secret for you," Mary Jane said solemnly. "I swear it."
Peter shut his eyes and let out a sigh as he lowered his head. "I can't believe I just told Mary Jane," he muttered.
"About time you told somebody, if you ask me," she said dryly. Then she cocked her head to the side, curious. "Don't you get a kick out of it, though? The power?" He glanced at her, and half smiled.
Then he took a step towards her and casually tossed her off the roof as though she were weightless. Too shocked to scream, she hurled off the edge of the roof, tumbling in space. She saw the ground rush up—
Peter dove after her, caught her, fired web with a peculiar popping sizzle, and swung them into an alley where he slapped against the wall taking all the impact himself.
"Sure," he whispered into her hair as she clung to him, her heart hammering, her eyes unable to blink. "Sure I get a kick out of it. Just like you did. It's a rush with a price. As much as I wish this was a game, and in spite of my weaker moments, this power is not a toy."
She clung to him, and she felt him tremble. She felt his body, hard and wiry and tough, and she wondered how she could possibly have missed it before.
Realized why he wore baggy clothes and kept his distance.
Realized that, had things gone differently, she might have found out about his talents in another way.
Then Peter dropped to the alley and leaned her up against the wall. "Make my apologies to Tandy and take her home, will you? Harry can take my car home. I think I need some time."
"Sure thing," she managed airily, waving her hand towards him. "I'll be able to walk in just a minute here."
"Take your time," Peter said grimly. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have lost my temper. I wish I could take this back."
She laughed a bit faster and higher than she wanted to. "Parker," she said, "you never cease to amaze me. I'll clean up inside. Go vent your angst." For a long moment she just looked at him. She shook her head. "Wow."
With a bound he left the alley. She turned and weaved her way back to the student center. She stooped to collect his shoes and socks, then she passed through the door into the thudding and relentless music.
On the roof of the student center, Voorhees fired up a cigarette, took a drag, and smiled to himself. Sweet thing… But first, business. He hopped off the roof and vanished into the night.