xXx
"That's nearly two hundred staples," the doctor said to Peter. He shook his head. "Be careful, and they should be removed in three weeks. I am informed that with your metabolism, less than one. Still, don't push your luck. That's a nasty collection of cuts." The doctor glanced at Stark, then turned his attention to Logan in the next bed.
"How do you feel, champ?" Stark asked quietly. Natasha stood at his side.
"Like I just got cut to pieces by an alien, that's how I feel," Peter replied tersely. "You're sure I got no rads?"
"No radiation," Stark confirmed. "Whatever the blast was, the ship must have contained it. I figure I might send a team to recover it."
"You could get the hull, maybe, but the rest is trashed," Peter shrugged. "You weren't there, you didn't see it go up."
"Humor me," Stark said with a small smile. "Good work."
"Thanks," Peter shrugged. "So… I know, it's weird as hell. But can you take Kravinoff's skull to his island? Bury that? I want him to rest easy, believe me," Peter said with half a grin.
"He will," Logan said, hoarse. The doctor glanced at the charts, nodded, and left the room. "Stark," he rasped on. "Any word on that spear?"
"It's adamantium, as you suspected," Stark said.
"The hunter had a spear, nets, darts, a gun, a disk, who knows what else," Peter said slowly. "D'you think there might be enough gear on one of those things to lace a skeleton and make claws?"
"Based on the mass tests we've been doing?" Stark said. "Yes. About exactly the same amount."
"So whatever genius worked with the Project and gave me my skeleton must know about these things," Logan mused, "as well as how to shape the stuff."
"That's alarming," Natasha said mildly.
"Now we know about them too," Peter said, "so that's a silver lining. Can't wait for the next one," he added sourly. He sighed. "I gotta be getting home, check on Mary Jane, go see Aunt May." Wearily, he hauled himself up off the table.
"Want a ride?" Stark asked, concerned.
"No," Peter said with a small smile. "I can still make it home. Thanks, though."
"Pete," Logan said quietly. "Looks like I owe you another one. You ever get in trouble, I'll be there."
"Nobody's keeping score," Peter replied. "Natasha saved my life, you saved hers, we're just a bunch of people who should know better flinging ourselves into danger. Don't spare it a second thought. It's what we do." He nodded to them with a smile, and he ducked out.
"Nice young man," Natasha observed.
"Sometimes," Logan amended, leaning back. "Sometimes."
xXx
Peter stumbled into the living room, gratefully sinking into a chair at the table. He saw a note, swift writing scrawled on it.
May dying
Can't reach you
Come quick
For a moment, Peter was shocked and motionless as the news sank in. He popped up out of the chair, squirming out of his clothes, his flesh tugging painfully on the staples that held him together. He dashed into the bedroom, tugged out a box and tossed the lid aside, yanked the mesh clear. Stripped, he started dragging the mesh on; pain quickly stopped him, and he slid the mesh carefully over the staples that held his wounds closed.
Then he gathered up clothes, tugged the mesh over his face, and darted out the rear window into the alley. He reached the roof, and sagged as his thudding heart fought the weariness and wounds that dragged at him like heavy chains.
Gritting his teeth, he ignored the pain and flung himself off the building. Firing out web cables, he swooped over the city in what looked like lazy arcs.
His cut hands stung as blood seeped from them. His grip was watery, stupid. He felt off-center, heavy. As he slung wide over the interstate, he felt a powerful urge just to let go and tumble down in front of a truck. He could hardly move his arms enough to keep the kinetic, high-energy swoops going.
Blood began to seep through his mesh.
"I must get there," he hissed through his teeth, desperate.
And the pain grew to be too much.
Peter Parker quietly seeped away, and the spider ghost carried on the task.
xXx
Peter pushed the door out of the way, staggering out of the men's room. He hobbled as fast as he could to the elevator, feeling speed gone from him, feeling a thousand pains racing through his nerves.
The elevator gradually ascended as the battered young man glanced at his jacket, not caring that he was dressed for chilly weather during the hottest stretch of the year. He tried not to breathe, tried not to press against anything that would reveal the blood in seeping through his mesh and into his clothes. He did not want to try to explain why he was bleeding, not here in a hospital.
Peter pushed his way out of the elevator and tried to jog, headed for Aunt May's room. He slowed as he arrived; Mary Jane stood in the hallway, hugging herself tightly, looking away as she fought tears.
"MJ!" he managed, hoarse, and he staggered to her.
She whirled around to look at him with eyes that shone with unshed tears. She couldn't say anything. Peter's sharp hearing heard the doctor in Aunt May's room.
"She's gone. Record the time."
His breath left him in a shudder, as though he had been hammered. Limping past Mary Jane, he hesitantly approached.
Lifeless, the old woman lay in state on the hospital bed. Even in death, creases of worry mapped her face. Peter reached the bed, touched her chilly hand.
This time he didn't need to glance at the machines to make sure she was still alive.
"You must be Peter Parker," the doctor said, watching him. Peter could only nod. The doctor hesitated fractionally. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, and he left the room.
Peter followed, questions whirling in his unsettled mind, but he was too slow to catch up and ask anything further. He stopped, turning to Mary Jane as tears welled in his eyes.
"I missed it," he whispered. "I didn't… I wasn't…"
"Come on," she replied, looking away. "Let's get you out of here."
They got an elevator to themselves. In great pain, Peter struggled not to break down. Mary Jane said nothing, not on the trip down, or the walk to the parking lot. They settled down into the car.
"She was waiting for you, Peter," she said quietly as the street lamps strobed by overhead. "Then… she just couldn't hold on any longer."
Peter's unsteady breaths became shudders as the first tears flowed.
Mary Jane patted him on the back, the road blurry before her. She glanced at her hand, warm and slick with his blood, and she bit her lip as she saw it soaking through his clothes in irregular blotches.
"Let's get you home," she said softly, swallowing hard.
Saturday, September 4 2004
Peter tossed the shovel full of dirt down into the hole, on the mahogany box. He stepped back, his face drawn and pale. He was strikingly handsome in his dark suit and black tie. He surrendered the shovel and resumed his black cane, leaning on it heavily. Mary Jane, also in black, was veiled. She took his arm and held him close.
Peter looked across the grave. Illyana and Tandy stood together, Gwen beside them. All blonde, all beautiful. He saw the narrow pixie face, now serious, of his former roommate Harry. Tyrone looked slim and solemn, his troubled features seemed carved in place. Captain Stacy stood by his daughter, gazing down into the grave. Peter wondered if the old man felt the shadow of his own grave creeping up behind him. He shook the feeling off, shivering slightly. Mary Jane squeezed his arm, leaned close.
As the service ended, Peter turned. "I don't want to be social today," he murmured to Mary Jane, who nodded. They turned and left the scene, not waiting for well-wishers.
Pounding footsteps approached from behind. Peter frowned.
"What is it, Logan," he said, not looking up.
"Just wanted to say I'm sorry for what happened," Logan said gruffly. "Really. Hey, I missed you at Kravinoff's funeral."
"I was planning this one," Peter said sharply. He glared away from Logan and picked up the pace.
Logan let him go, watching as the slim young man lurched away on his injured leg. Then he sighed, fishing a cigar out of his coat pocket.
An attractive young woman strolled up to his side as he bent over his cupped hand, lighting his cigar. "Is he okay?" she asked.
"Nope," Logan replied. "That fella is not okay. But we gotta give him some space. We all gotta deal with loss our own way. He lost somethin he can't ever get back. He didn't just lose the only parents he ever knew. He lost a moment in time." He looked over at the young woman. "How bout it, Illyana. I'm feelin the need fer some pizza, beer, and darts."
"I'll call Piotr," she replied with half a smile.
"You do that," Logan nodded, watching as Peter ducked into his car. "You do that."
xXx
"I'm exhausted," Peter said, his voice hardly above a whisper as he stumbled into the living room and folded down on the couch.
"I can tell," Mary Jane replied with a stab at humor. "You never make it all the way to the car still wearing your jacket and tie if you're even close to healthy." She tried a smile.
Peter leaned back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. He was strangely quiet. "No matter how long you know it's going to happen," he said softly, "you can't prepare for it. Aunt May… She's always been there. And now she isn't." His breathing was slightly uneven.
Mary Jane glanced around the apartment, then settled on the couch next to Peter. "So… are we going to move into Aunt May's house?"
"No," Peter said flatly. "I decided to sell it. Within an hour of putting it on the market, I had a buyer. Movers are taking her stuff to a storage unit tomorrow. We can pick out anything we want to keep in the morning, they'll be there in the afternoon." He blearily regarded his wife. "Almost covers her debts. I have enough saved up to get rid of the rest."
Mary Jane absently rubbed at her exposed upper arm, feeling oddly chilled. "Peter? I know losing Aunt May is hard for you. But… Something else is the matter. Come on, you can talk to me. Do I have to scold you for six months first?" she asked wryly, feeling odd as her humor fell flat against his eerie calm.
"I should have been there," Peter murmured, his eyes clouded. "I had no call to be swinging around in my playsuit while Aunt May, my only living blood relative, was dying in the hospital. Her life hung by a thread, and I was out on safari. I…" Words failed him. A single tear slid free, glittering down his cheek, his eyes strange.
"Hey," Mary Jane soothed, taking his hands in hers and shifting around to kneel in front of him, gazing up into his eyes. "You were being true to yourself. You were helping the city. Aunt May would be proud of you. You are a hero, Peter. You're my hero." Her smile didn't falter as she looked into his luminescent, wounded eyes.
A shudder passed through him, and his eyes focused. "Hero?" he said, straining to keep sharpness from his voice. He blinked, sending tears out of his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice. He almost smiled, a sort of grimace. "Mary Jane. Let me tell you a story." He cleared his throat as his calmness settled again. "A story about my Uncle Ben."
Mary Jane blinked. "You never talk about him," she said quietly.
"Right," Peter nodded. "We'll get to that. August of 1993, I was fourteen. Eleven years ago, almost exactly," he noted, a quiver in his voice. He cleared his throat again. "My powers were starting to manifest, and I was having… some trouble dealing with that. Uncle Ben thought I was being secretive. So he confronted me, at last. I pushed the old man," he said, his hand trembling slightly as he gestured. "That was before… before I knew my own strength. He hit a wall. He broke."
Mary Jane sat motionless, staring at Peter as he gazed into space. Peter shrugged slightly. "The old man died, right there, done in by my own hand. It wasn't what I wanted. At least, not what Peter Parker wanted. But Ben was piecing things together. And the darkness at the heart of my powers… my spider ghost, if you will… well, maybe it wanted Uncle Ben to have… an accident."
Peter shifted slightly, his eyes clearing. "Anyway. I didn't know what to do, so… so the spider ghost repressed the memory. Took over, like it does when I'm in danger. Beat the old man's head in with a pipe, took the wallet, and got me home. When I resumed the helm as Peter Parker, I was free of the burden of the memory of what I had done. The spider ghost covered its tracks and mine with calculated precision. And it wasn't until last winter… that I found out."
The clock ticked in the background.
"So," Peter said, his voice empty of emotion, "I am left to wonder. Maybe I was out protecting the city." He paused. "Or maybe I was too weak to make my life a higher priority than the spider ghost's agenda." He closed his eyes for a long moment.
Then he abruptly rose, stepping around Mary Jane. He glanced down at her, but didn't meet her eyes. "I'm wiped out," he said distantly. "I don't want anything from Aunt May's house. You can go pick up whatever strikes your fancy." He gestured vaguely. "I'm going to go sleep for a couple days." Still fully dressed and formal, he turned and headed down the hall to the bedroom.
The door closed behind him.
After a while, Mary Jane rose to her feet and glanced around. She hesitantly approached the phone, feeling strangely vulnerable and isolated. Picking the phone up, she got halfway through punching in Gwen's number. She paused, then hung up the phone. Picked it up after a moment, punched in some of Harry's phone number. Her finger hovered in the air, then she hung the phone up again and bit her lip.
"I must be desperate," she murmured to herself as she picked up the phone and started dialing her family's number. But she wondered what she'd say. And she gently replaced the phone in the cradle.
Forlorn, she sat at the kitchen table and gazed out the window. A deep, subtle rumble of thunder echoed outside. Then, at long last, a gust of wind battered the loose windows.
Mary Jane dully gazed out on the baking city as the heat wave finally broke, the first breath of rain sweeping across the barren heat that stretched out as far as the eye could see.