xXx
The elevator slid open, and Peter stepped into the aerie where the party had been held the night before. The air positively shimmered with the light that poured through the treated glass.
"Thank you for coming so quickly," Worthington said. He stood on one of many balconies, looking down at Peter. He was bare chested, his torso tight and lean and defined. He jogged down the stairs, wearing wrestling shoes and dressed in athletic shorts. He approached Peter. "It's time we had a talk about the nature of power."
"Alright," Peter said, simultaneously agreeable and cautious.
"Power and vision are linked, Peter. And beauty is a power that cannot exist without vision. And I need you to swear to me that whatever pictures you take in this room here today are strictly confidential. You will download them to my computer, and only my computer. This information is secret, not to be shared with anyone. Do you agree?"
"I agree," Peter nodded.
Worthington tapped at a panel on the wall, and it spun around to reveal a keypad. Worthington tapped a code into it, and the wall along one side of the room twitched and hummed. A panel slid away to reveal large framed pictures, a meter across. Peter blinked, then stared.
The first picture was a malformed freak show child. But the light lay across the smooth curve of the forehead, the hair was curled in a textural worl; one eye was hemmed in by bone, but the other was pure innocence. Worthington watched Peter closely as he took in the next image; a car, aflame, and a body half hanging out and reaching to the sky with a twist of flame around the forearm and fingers, light and shadow and texture blended into a warped abstraction overlaying the scene of death. Peter's senses captured the nuance, grasped at the aesthetic as they played over the next photo.
An old man, peering at the lens over the webbing between his gnarled fingers, pain written in the deep lines of his face. Peter looked down along the wall, his breath stolen by the sheer bizarre composition and peculiarity of the pictures.
"These are beautiful," Worthington murmured. "I am most fascinated with those who are… born different. Reviled and shunned, they remind the world that normal is only a suggestion, not the rule. That we could, given a little twist, be something utterly other than what we are. That our ability to function and interact with the asylum of human society depends entirely on how we look." He paused, eyeing Peter.
"Also in my collection are works of beauty in the midst of ugliness. Where others see atrocity and horror, I can't help but catch the beauty they miss. It's all interwoven. I see ugliness where others see beauty, and beauty where they shrink from what they consider madness."
Peter tore his eyes and senses away from the gallery. "Are you deformed?" he asked softly.
"No, not in the least," Worthington smiled. "But I, like you, was born different." He paused.
"Like me?" Peter said.
Worthington leaned close. "I have trained myself to see deviance," he breathed. "I have studied it since I was a child. Beauty is not in pinup models, it is in the depths of what humanity dare not acknowledge in itself. It is in the change that overcomes the few. Our beauty is in our exceptions, not in our rules. And I can feel it positively radiating from you. You are different, Peter Parker." He leaned back, eyes narrow.
"I won't ask you to share with me," he said. "You can keep your secret for now. Gods know how it's been pounded into you that difference is evil. But… I know that you will understand. When I show you my birthright."
"Your… your birthright?" Peter said.
Worthington nodded. "I can show you the rest of my art collection later. I grow impatient to show you the reason I asked you to come."
"Let's have a look," Peter said firmly, burying his misgivings.
Worthington treated him to an enigmatic smile, then he turned and trotted up a spiral staircase. Peter followed, his eyes trailing the aerie, wanting to photograph it in the daytime.
"You know," Peter said, "we could feature this place in an issue."
"No," Worthington said simply. "It's mine. I don't want to share it with the world. When I have parties here, the guests leave with a sense of grandeur, but no time to really absorb the wonder of the place. That's why I won't let you record it, or others. At least, not for anyone's use but mine."
They reached a walkway that bisected the aerie, and Worthington strolled along to the far end. A blank wall was smoothly curved, back around to staircases on both sides. Worthington tapped at the wall, and a panel flipped up to reveal another keypad.
"You sure have a lot hidden in plain sight here," Peter said with a small smile.
"You'd know all about that," Worthington replied quietly. He turned and looked Peter in the eye. "When I was born, I had wings," he said simply.
Peter blinked.
Worthington regarded the keypad. "My father had them amputated. My mother… she was an angel. And she died birthing me. No one could protect me, I was just an infant, so he had my wings cut off. I carried scars, scars in my soul to match the ones on my back. The wind had been stolen from me, and I thought I would live the rest of my life maimed by the loss of a piece of my soul I could never regain." His smile turned sly.
"Until the advent of cybernetics. Until I could turn my fortune into wings." He darted his fingers at the keypad, punching in a code, and the wall twitched, then rolled aside.
The wings were black, with a high burnished tan sheen. Detailed feather by feather, the construct wasn't steel; as Peter's senses probed at the wings, he couldn't tell what they were made of. Worthington backed up to the wings, and there was a peculiar shiver and a rapid set of sniks.
"This is what you want pictures of?" Peter said breathlessly as Worthington stepped away from the display case and his wings flexed out to full extension. Peter could only stare as he saw them stretch to a wingspan of slightly over five meters. Then they folded, furled, and hung behind him.
"What do you think?" Worthington asked, his eyes dark and focused, a slight smile on his classically handsome features.
"Can… can you fly?" Peter asked, at a loss.
Worthington turned, took a few bounding strides, and hurled himself off the balcony. His wings whipped open, and he sailed effortlessly around one of the columns that held the aerie up, drifting in a lazy spiral up towards the glass as Peter's heart thudded with the surreal beauty of his flight. The sun sparkled on the highlights of the glossy, dark wings as they flexed and shifted with the unconscious grace of appendages.
Worthington flicked himself to the side, kicking off the glass in a quick little run, then his wings folded and he plunged down towards the floor, whipping through the air faster than gravity could pull him. At the last possible moment, his wings twitched open, shaping the air, leveraging him from a dive to a soaring ascension; he twirled around a staircase, zipped through a loop, and flared his wings to deposit him lightly right in front of Peter.
"The windows are treated," Worthington said, not even winded. "No one can see in. I built this place so I could have somewhere to stretch out and let go from time to time. I spent two weeks flying over the rain forest last winter. I'm not ready to face public reaction to a man with wings, and I may never be. But to have these, to be able to do what I am able to do, and not tell anyone… That is a burden. A burden that I want you to share with me."
Peter slowly nodded. "I'll help you with this," he said quietly. "And if you ever go public?"
"Yes, the Planetary," Worthington said with a wry smile. "I imagine you've seen more than has ended up in print. I have that feeling about you."
"You're right," Peter said. "And… I totally understand you wanting to keep this a secret."
"At the same time," Worthington said, his wings twitching fastidiously and unconsciously, "it is a crime to have power and not use it. Hide your strength from the world, yes. But not from yourself. That's why I built this place. That's why I've given you a chance with your magazine. Because I feel something in you respond to that opportunity. And I like it."
"I struggled with identity issues for a long time," Peter replied, giddy with the risk he was taking. "I finally found a good fit for my abilities. Not so random. Not so… ineffective. I've found my place." He glanced around the room. "What kind of shots do you want? What are you looking for?"
"Your eyes," Worthington said simply. "And I'm so glad I found them. Show me how these wings look, how I look. I wanted you to show me this place, and I like how you see. Now? Now show me myself. My wings. My beauty." His head tilted back, his eyes oddly languorous, and his wings slowly folded around him like a peculiar high-collar cloak.
Peter readied his camera.
"Let's get started," he said.
xXx
Peter kicked the door shut gently, and turned to take in the foyer and living room. Exhaustion dogged his steps as he trudged to his study and slowly hefted his bags up to the counter by his desk. A shadow darkened the doorway.
"I was beginning to wonder," Mary Jane said, "if you were going to get back in time to go to Harry's party." Her tone was neutral.
Peter turned. "Did Harry invite your parents?"
"They know we're out tonight," Mary Jane said quietly. "I sent them to the museum, aquarium, and a nice dinner on us." She wore a stunning emerald dress, her hair was braided, and her makeup was exquisite.
"Believe me, after the day I've had, I look forward to a quiet evening with just the two of us," Peter said with a suggestive grin. "Right now, you look good enough to eat."
"I'm going to Harry's party," Mary Jane replied with the same peculiar calm. "I hope you'll come with me."
For a long moment, Peter considered her determination. Then he shrugged. "Give me a minute to get dressed," he sighed.
xXx
"So what do you think, MJ," Peter asked. "Figure we should do like Harry and put a mansion on top of a tall building?"
"I think our setup is plush enough already," Mary Jane shrugged. Peter looked her over, then smiled to himself. The mirrored elevator arrived at its destination, and with a muted tone the doors rolled open. Peter and Mary Jane stepped off the elevator to the dark paneling and elegant taste of the Osborn suite.
Peter helped himself to a fluted wineglass from a tray held by a servant who waited by the elevator. He led Mary Jane down the broad hallway, and they turned to step out into the open dining room.
"Peter! Mary Jane!" called out a voice, and they turned to see a young man approaching with a big grin on his face. Lean and wiry, he had bright eyes and a curly auburn mat of hair combed back against his head. "Glad you could make it. I was beginning to wonder."
"You know Peter and parties," Mary Jane said with a bit of an arch grin. "I got him here, though. How are you doing, Harry? It's been too long."
"Business is good," Harry shrugged, "and life is settling down to a routine. I miss my friends, though. Especially you, Peter," he said wryly. "I haven't been in a car accident or beat up or evicted in what seems like forever!"
"Those days are through," Peter smiled pleasantly, a strange glint in his eye. "I'm chief photographer for Interiosity, a magazine about interior design. Finally got good, steady work. I'm thinking about giving up the Planetary altogether. This new job keeps me pretty busy."
"Well, you're looking good," Harry observed, glancing over the pair. Another newcomer caught his eye. "Hey, I'm so glad you could make it. Have a great time! I'll catch you later." He gave MJ a quick hug, and shook Peter's hand. Then he headed over to the door. "Illyana!"
"Illyana?" Peter echoed, turning. He saw the young blonde woman grin as she hugged Harry and stood back. As they chatted, Peter saw Logan follow Illyana in, glancing around.
"What the hell are they doing here?" Peter wondered aloud, eyes narrowing.
"Harry probably invited Strange. Since, you know, Strange saved his life. Knowing Strange, he probably sent Illyana. Besides, they were both at our wedding. It's not like they don't know each other." She tapped his shoulder. "Hey Parker. Are you really thinking about ditching the Planetary?"
"Look, every time I get involved with Strange and his weird world of wonky wizardry, I end up getting sucked into something where I'm out of my depth. So yeah. Yeah, I'm thinking about it. Pretty seriously."
"Bad news, Peter, I think we've been spotted," Mary Jane said with a small smile as Illyana and Logan approached. "Illyana! Great to see you here," she said. "You look gorgeous!"
Illyana actually blushed, glancing down at her orange and tan dress, her exposed shoulders and arms. Her hair was back in a bun. She grinned at Mary Jane. "Cut it out already, or Logan will catch on and start beating up every healthy male who looks at me and gets ideas." She rolled her eyes. "You'd think he was oblivious to the fact that I teach a martial arts class. He still thinks of me as his little girl." She laughed.
"How you doin," Logan said with a rakish grin, ignoring Illyana, sticking his hand out for Peter to shake. "Been a while."
Peter hesitated, then shook his hand. "I've been busy," he said. "Real busy." He glanced away.
Logan's brows contracted, and he sniffed as he squinted at Peter. "Yeah, I guess so," he said slowly.
"I'll be back in a minute," Peter muttered, and he turned and walked away.
Mary Jane hesitated. "Don't take it personally," she said to Logan. "He's still really struggling with, you know, Aunt May's death."
"I guess he is," Logan agreed, thinking things over as he watched the slim young man walk away.
Peter shifted the door open and stepped into a long room with a balcony down one side, lined with windows. One end of the room had a television array, the other had a pool table and air hockey.
"Thought you might head in here," said a voice behind him. He turned to see Harry standing in the doorway.
"Why's that?" Peter asked.
"Because this used to be my room," Harry replied, walking in past him and looking around. "You and I used to come up here so you could help me with my homework." He chuckled. "I converted this to a game room when I moved into my father's rooms after his death."
"Yeah," Peter said, his mind going back to a distant time. "That was a hard year."
"For both of us," Harry agreed, walking over to the window and looking out. "How are you doing, Peter?" he asked quietly.
"Good," Peter replied. "Are your guests going to miss you?"
"I'll be out shortly for the speech," Harry murmured, eyes tracing the skyline." Remember last year? That was something else, wasn't it."
"Sure was. You haven't had any side effects, have you?" Peter asked cautiously.
"No," Harry replied. He turned to face Peter. "When I took on the darkstone that made you what you are, it drove me crazy with its demands, with its amplification of feelings I tried to keep locked away. And I understood what you live with day to day. I don't want power at that kind of price. I've been behaving myself."
"Well, I guess sometimes you can actually beat the odds," Peter said. "The spider ghost is no more. I'm a photographer now, and damn good at my job. The spider ghost is retired."
"Are you sure?" Harry asked, and Peter felt a dark echo somewhere in Harry's steady gaze. He felt his heart speed up, and he felt on the edge of the answer to the question.
Then something inside him recoiled, and he frowned. "Jesus, Harry, give it a rest." He turned and left the room, and Harry watched him go.
Peter found Mary Jane chatting with Tandy. He approached her, smiled at Tandy. "Excuse me," he said. He turned to Mary Jane. "I need to finish up some work for Worthington, it can't wait. Are you coming with me, or do you want to get a ride home from someone else?"
"Good luck, Peter," she said. "I want to at least stay through Harry's speech."
"I can take her home," Tandy volunteered. "Or get Tyrone to. Handy, having a professional driver around."
"Or I can pester Illyana," Mary Jane said. "Trust me on this, I can find my way home."
"Great, have a good one," Peter said with what he meant to be a winning smile. And he strode towards the elevator.
"Some things never change," Tandy sighed. "Just once, I want to be there to see that guy get all the way through a party."
"May never happen," Mary Jane reflected thoughtfully.
The caterers started rolling tables of food into the dining room and setting up along one wall as Harry dinged his fork against his glass. "If I could have your attention," he said, and the room quickly quieted.
He cleared his throat, and smiled. "Thank you all for coming to help me celebrate Thanksgiving. I have a lot to be thankful for. After my illness last year, I had a chance to re-evaluate what's important in life. Friends and family, people, that's what it's all about. And all the money in the world doesn't do you a damn bit of good if you're alone." He grinned. "That's about all the speechifying I got in me. Enjoy supper!" He put his glass down and gestured to the string quartet in the corner, and they started to play.
"Amen," Mary Jane shrugged. "Let's eat."
xXx
Peter paused as he approached the door to the apartment. Then he slowly turned the knob and opened the door, glancing inside. Something not right. His senses unreeled through the apartment.
A lighter flicked, and Logan lit his cigar. He stood in the dark of the living room. Peter entered the foyer and slammed the door, turning on the light.
"What the hell are you doing in my home?" he demanded.
Logan snapped the lighter shut and puffed on the cigar, then he turned, watchfully regarding Peter. "I promised you I'd be there," he said, his voice slightly hoarse, "if you ever got in serious trouble."
"Yes, you did, and I appreciate that, but—"
"You," Logan interrupted, "are in serious trouble."
Peter stared at him for a moment. "What's that supposed to mean? Who do you think is after me?"
"Nobody," Logan said. "This is an inside job. We've known each other for years, Peter. I've watched you go through a lot of changes. But this latest one? It isn't you."
"Oh, great. Look. Get out." Peter bristled.
Logan's eyes were serious. "I know about resistin the impulse," he said softly. "I know about the voices that come to you at night, and I know how wearisome it gets fightin through all that, stayin grounded. Peter Parker, I think you got tired. And when that happened, you let down your guard. Don't forget who you really are."
"Get out now," Peter clarified, his face darkening with real anger.
"I'm goin," Logan nodded. He walked past Peter, reached the door, turned back. "You gotta turn this around," he said, "or it could mean more than just your life you lose."
Peter stepped past him, flung the door open. Logan nodded and left.
Peter slammed the door hard enough to shake the wall.
"Enough of this," Peter muttered, eyes bright, feverish, graceful as he sprang up the stairs and headed into the bedroom. He opened a box in the closet, and lifted out an expensive camera.
"This is what I think of your gift, Strange," Peter said, taking the camera in both hands. "This is what I think of your goon squad, of your minions, of all your do-gooder meddling." He flexed his hands, and the camera came apart in his grip. Glass from the lens cut his palm as he crushed the camera together, the sharp metal sliced at his fingers.
Then Peter flung the wad of mangled camera into the trash can.
Something within him exulted as he balled up his bleeding fists and stalked out of the room.