This story is in the Web of Shadows alternate universe. Superheroes are not public, there is no obvious metahuman community, and the world is full of subtle secret power struggles. I'm doing my own thing here! This is designed to be enjoyable if you know these characters from the comics, but if you've never picked up a comic book in your life it will all make sense. Origin stories are different, continuity and canon are ignored, and off we go! (Copyright for the characters is not challenged, even though I'm using more 'inspired by' and 'based on' than 'canon'.)

Some of these chapters overlap with postings for the Peter Parker Web of Shadows. To omit them would be very damaging to the overall tale of Logan and Illyana, so just deal with it! Our tale spans from the end of 2001 to 2005, where it ends.

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December 19, 2001

The slender blonde shouldered her bag and stepped out onto the platform. Her heart raced. She took a few steps to get out of the welling push of people exiting the train, then she started walking. She passed some long benches, taking in the roar of sound, the mass of endless echoes. Then she saw him, walking straight for her, a short man moving with purpose against the crowd.

She didn't realize she was holding her breath. He strode up to her, hair exploding from his jowls, a cowboy hat jammed down on the free sweeping tufts of hair that fanned around his head. He wore flannel, jeans, cowboy boots, and a canvas windbreaker. He was not handsome, or particularly ugly.

"Hello, darlin," he said with a cockeyed grin that always showed off one of his ferocious canines. "How's my Lisa." He opened his arms, and she gave him a quick squeeze of a hug. He was always startlingly hard and hot; his body was one wiry muscle. She let go and put her arms on his shoulders; just slightly taller than he was, she looked into his eyes with a smile. He sniffed her, nose to one side of her face. Simple habit.

"Hello, dad," she said affectionately. "It's been too long."

He shrugged. "Your call. You have a good Thanksgiving?"

"Sure," she sighed. She glanced around. "Let's get out of here."

He nodded, took her hand, and started threading through the crowd. His hand was solid; the bones immobile, the muscle compacted, the flesh above it hard.

They left the train station and crunched through the light snow, strolling towards the parking lot. He tugged a cigar out, tore the tip off with his teeth, and snapped his lighter open. His features looked cavernous in the faint red glow of the flickering lighter. A strange, contemplative indecision lurked in his expression as he puffed on the cigar once, then the lighter snapped shut.

Lisa smiled at him, almost too cheerful as he looked her over. Then they reached his truck.

He opened the rusted door to his ancient green pickup; it groaned in protest. He hopped in. She waited for him to unlock it, then saw it was not locked. She clambered in beside him. "Aren't you the trusting sort," she said.

He barked a laugh. "Anybody wants to steal my truck can. If they just vandalize it, no two bit metal bar in the door'll stop that." He fired up the truck, and they drove through the freshly plowed streets towards his apartment.

xXx

Snow.

When he was a kid, Peter had thought snow was the most beautiful thing in the world. Now he knew it for certain. He held perfectly still, clinging to the side of the skyscraper. His senses soaked in his surroundings; he felt the flakes stacked against the web mesh of his body suit. He tasted and examined the sifting ice from the sky, he felt the drafts from the street flare up through the sifting snowfall as gravity gently drew the flakes down. His painfully sharp senses tracked the movement above, below, and against him. He felt vertigo, as though he was drifting up through the snow.

Magnificent.

He checked the time. His subconscious was much more helpful than it used to be; it counted his heartbeats, did the mathematics accounting for how his pulse sped up or slowed down, and cross referenced with the objective length of a second. He had once spent a full hour internalizing the rhythmic tick of a second hand. He had been at a lecture, and it seemed there was nothing better to do.

Rapid flurries of calculations beneath his thoughts, and he knew he'd been hanging there for about an hour. He smiled. He let his temperature rise to the slight fever his body preferred. Enough snow. Time to take a look around.

A disturbingly lithe gargoyle, he sprang clear of the snow that had gathered on him, falling spreadeagled towards the street a hundred feet below. At thirty feet, he snapped into action. He thought of swinging down the corridor of buildings, and his body moved and hissed webbing out; it sliced through the night like a thing alive, warmed by his body, and snapped into high-rise steel. His arc changed, and he was moving through the night, gravity simply pressing him against his speed. Discarded webbing dissolved like a thin snowdrift in afternoon sun.

xXx

Logan shook out another bedspread for the battered old bed. Lisa smiled. She moved to the window and looked out across the street.

"Hey, Lisa, did you get anything to eat on the train?" Logan asked.

"Train food," she said with a shrug.

"I knew it," he said, a grin threatening to show all of his feral teeth. He rubbed his hands together warmly. "You up for some sausage potato mash for supper?"

"Only if you've got some beer to put in it," she smiled.

"You kiddin? I knew this was gonna be a special occasion," he said, and he stepped around the corner into the kitchen. "Mash, comin right up, darlin. You just sit tight."

She wandered out of the small bedroom as he got busy, opening and shutting the fridge, cabinets, drawers. She looked around the tiny apartment; living room, bathroom, kitchenette, closet. And that was all. She shook her head gently, trying to lose the memories of this place. The memories that made this trip difficult, more difficult than it should be.

She leaned on the doorframe, knowing better than to offer to help him with his culinary masterpiece. He had the knife out, its impact on the cutting board a staccato rapping. In less than a minute he had cut up a disturbing amount of meat and potatoes. He tossed it all in a pan and started cooking. He had taken off his hat, and his hair swept up in all its glory. She smiled and shook her head.

"Laughin at my do, aintcha," he said out of the side of his mouth. He grinned. "Barber's Despair, that's me." He looked at her. "So how's Boston been treating my girl?"

"Good," she said firmly, nodding. "It's good. I'm learning a lot."

"Just want you to know," he said, looking down at the mess that was starting to sizzle, "I'm awful proud of you, darlin."

She smiled, but there was nothing she could say.

xXx

Peter sighed. Getting late. Time to finish his workout and go home. Strip off the mesh, go to sleep, become half-alive, bow to gravity, shrink.

He shook his head. Fine. So get a workout first. He looked down at the interstate. Lots of trucks tonight. He sprang, landing on a semi moving almost eighty. Wind battered him, trying to fling him off. Calculations whirred through his blood as his body made decisions for him, and he let the wind tear him loose. He hissed through the air and trailed his fingers along the top of a semi ten yards back, slowing to a sticky clamp on its trailer. Wind screamed around him like a thing alive and made of fury.

Another spring. Thwap, on a gasoline tanker truck. He sighed, his heart not in it. Enough fun for one evening. A quick bound carried him over the median and onto the side of a cattle car, and from there web carried him up under the overpass. His black mesh made him a shadow among shadows, and he made no more sound than the snow. Carried through the night on thin web, he felt the ever-present voice in the back of his mind.

Being a spider host instead of a gifted human would mean less dating and more mating. You don't HAVE to lead a double life. He grinned as his thoughts strayed towards a certain red-head. Distracted, he let his webs carry him home.

xXx

Lisa pushed the plate back. "Wow. You haven't lost that certain special something you have with mash making," Lisa said. He smiled.

They looked at each other for a minute, and he sighed and took a swig of his beer. "Go ahead," he said.

"You said that when I graduated from college you'd tell me who my biological parents are," she said.

His voice was low and unpleasant. "I said I'd tell you what I know about where you come from. Not who your parents are, I don't know that."

"But you can guess," she said softly. "I'm months away from graduating. I just wanted to make sure you remembered our deal."

"Never forgot a deal in my life, darlin," he said slowly. "You askin me ta break my word? Jump the gun? There some reason I won't be around in a couple months?" He slowly raised his eyes to meet hers, and there was a steadyness in them that was unnerving. An elevated train roared by outside, so they sat speechless, looking at each other. Something of sadness was in his eyes, and she found it difficult to meet his gaze. It went too deep, much too deep. As though he knew more than he was supposed to about why she came. Her blood ran cold.

"Never mind," she said, standing up and fumbling with her napkin. "I'm exhausted. See you tomorrow, Logan."

"Night darlin," he said softly as she closed the door to the bedroom.

xXx

Peter lay under the covers, hands laced behind his head, trying to go to sleep. He noticed things. He noticed the phase and pace of the moon. He noticed there were one hundred and forty six twigs on the branch outside his window. He noticed that about thirty yards away an owl prowled above the dumpsters looking for dinner-seekers to make into dinner. He noticed that his aunt had laundered his bedspread, and used starch. He noticed the tiny humps and imperfections in his mirror. He noticed that he wasn't going to get more than his four hours of sleep unless he got a REAL workout, not just some truck hopping. Damn. If he stayed in bed much longer his brain would be telling him what the thread count of his sheets was. He rolled out of bed and unzipped his backpack.

"Okay, brain," he said as he tugged his calculus book out, "notice the answers to these." Because he knew it would. He was really, really good at seeing patterns and mapping webs of interconnected variables.

"Maybe I should just sleep on the wall," he muttered. He started in on the calculus, but his mind was wandering.

HER planner had a note. Tomorrow, the park, choir concert. We should go. Support her. His spider mind sprang free of calculations and started working through some less helpful ideas. He sighed.

"Spider sense, indeed. Spider id, more like," he muttered. "Need a real workout next time." His silk glands weren't even itching.

Not much later, Peter discovered that the best pillow is an open book.

December 20, 2001

Dawn was bright and clear, and Lisa was in the shower vigorously scrubbing. She had been through every de-scenter and deodorizer she could find. She had even scraped her skin and bought new clothes before coming to meet Logan. She wondered if he could still tell. She wondered if her caution alone had told him too much.

When she was in high school, it had been a game they played. She would come home from school, and he would tell her about her day. Happiness and sorrow, fury and amusement were all writ in her scent. He knew what her classrooms smelled like, what she had for lunch. She wondered if it ever drove him to the edge of madness to be so sensitive to smell. She wondered how he lived in a building full of people.

Nothing for it now. She didn't put on perfume because she knew he disliked it. She still worried about scent, though. He was so sharp, too sharp.

She completed her brief makeup ritual and stepped out. Logan was wearing an undershirt and heavy canvas pants. Barefoot, he hunched on the couch over a bowl of Marshmallow Maties. He watched the Fishing Channel.

She poured herself some cereal. "Morning, dad," she said.

"Mornin," he grunted. "I was gonna make some bacon and eggs, but I realized you'd be watchin yer girlish figure." He grinned.

"Some of us have to worry about cholesterol," she sniffed.

He chuckled. "So what are we doin today?"

"Well, it's Saturday," she said. "I was thinking about going to the park."

"Then the park it is," he said. He hopped up and padded noiselessly into the kitchen, rinsing his bowl. He was always fastidious about food leftovers. She imagined she would be too if her sniffer told her exactly what they were doing as they sat there unwashed. She watched him tug his socks and boots on, then a shirt, then the windbreaker.

"You know, it is winter out there," she said dryly.

"Yep." He barked a laugh. "Sure is."

He regarded her for a long moment as she pulled her coat on. "I know why we're goin to the park," he said suddenly. She froze.

"Really?" she said in a very casual voice.

"Yep." He fired up a cigar. "You think you can outmatch yer dad in a snowball fight. Ain't happnen, darlin."
"You haven't seen my new packing technique up close yet, Mister Logan," she said, and something unclenched inside her. She realized deep in her bones how dangerous this game really was.

Then they left. As an afterthought, he locked the door. "I like that tv," he said with a shrug. She laughed.

They hit the street, walking towards the park. Lisa saw a Starbucks across the street. "Hey dad?"

"Yes darlin?"

"Could you get me a triple mocha?" She smiled and batted her eyelashes in her most disarming manner.

He slapped his forehead. "Coffee! Damn, how could I forget coffee? Yer a college girl now," he grinned. He loped across the street, hair in full glory. She watched him go until he was across five lanes of traffic on a busy Saturday morning. She stepped out of sight around the corner and dug her cell phone out of her purse. She swiftly autodialed a number.

"Bryant. This is Lisa. We're headed for the park. We'll go to the gazebo on the east end." She snapped the phone shut and stepped around the corner as Logan trotted back across the street with a steaming cup.

"Service with a smile," she said, taking the cup.

"Warm yer blood while you can," Logan growled. He ruffled her hair, and they headed off down the street. She kept one eye on him, and he seemed a bit distracted; he sniffed, now and then, as though he smelled something he didn't like. She looked at the cars and their exhaust, the dumpsters, the cologne on the people on the street, her own coffee. Impossible. He couldn't guess.

He looked at her sideways, then paid attention to the sidewalk, thrusting his hands into his pockets. Neither of them spoke.

xXx

Peter snapped a shot of an old woman feeding pigeons. Then he strolled down the path, most certainly not heading for the gazebo. He felt stupid. It was a good three hours before the rehearsal started, and then another hour before the performance. And he was out here snapping shots of pigeons.

As he walked, his senses unreeled feelers and tendrils to be carried in the wind every which direction. One of them grasped something; his consciousness didn't know what he sensed, but he didn't like it. Alertness snapped awake in him, subtly changing his face. A woman steered her child away as he stood, rigid, testing the air.

"Like I have anything better to do," his consciousness said as he reeled himself towards the thread.

He moved to the edge of the park and found himself looking at a UPS truck.

"This is it?" he muttered to himself. He focused on it. What was wrong with the UPS truck?

Like knitting needles, his consciousness and his senses worked to build a net of answer to the question. For one, it had doors. For another, it had run flat tires. And judging by the weight on them, it was armored. Peter narrowed his eyes. No banks or businesses near the armored truck. So what gives? He cast his senses, waiting quietly. It didn't take long to pick up the homeless man standing by the trash can with an expensive headset under his stocking cap and the cold metal of a submachine gun under his coat.

He hesitated, torn. Something was obviously about to go down here. But was it his problem?

Even if it wasn't, he could be prepared to watch someone else's problem. He was, after all, a hero. And Mary Jane wasn't scheduled to arrive for a couple hours yet. Damn four hours a night.

He slipped off into an alley and squatted behind a dumpster. In seconds he had slipped out of his clothes. His mesh was a black mat adhered to the skin of his lower back. As he shucked his clothes and slipped the mesh free, he felt himself waking up, unfolding; his body temperature started to rise, his muscles tensed, his sinews loosened. Oh yeah.

He bagged his clothes in web, rolling them with unnatural speed and stowing them behind the dumpster. Then he was skimming up to the roof, wondering if all this was really just an excuse to crawl the wall once again.