An alarm clock screeched. Peter heard a shout, and then a thump. His blankets had disappeared. He opened his eyes to see his dad on the floor, tangled in the blankets and looking clearly startled. Peter laughed at him before he reached over and turned off the alarm.

"You wake up to that every morning?" Dad asked. "God, kid, remind me to get you one of those crazy new age alarm clocks that…I don't know, wakes you up with the gentle sound of waves or something."

"I will never wake up with that," Peter said. "Better to get me the Japanese one that runs away and hides."

"Oh, God—my worst nightmare," his Dad said. He got up off the floor and threw the blankets back on the bed, covering Peter. "Feel like going to school today?"

"Yeah, I guess," Peter replied, uncovering his face. He looked around. "Hey where's Pops?" Tony looked around.

"Probably making breakfast," he answered. "Get dressed and I'll take you to school this morning."

"No hunt for the bus today?" Peter asked jokingly.

"Milk this situation right and you might end up with a bike of your own," Dad teased.

"Oh? A bike? How about a go round in one of the suits—"

"Don't push it."

"Fine." His dad left the room and shut the door behind him so that Peter could get dressed. Peter stripped down to his boxers and opened his closet.

"That…is not how I left my body," Peter said aloud, in shock. The mirror on the back of his closet must be faulty. Did Dad replace it with a trick mirror as a prank? Peter examined himself from all angles—he was…kind of buff. He was still a bit…wiry and small, but now he was more solid. It wasn't exactly a Captain America worthy transformation, but it was still incredibly noticeable. Peter checked the edges and the back of the mirror, but it didn't appear to be changed in any way.

"Peter stop primping it's already 7:30!" Tony called up the stairs.

"Crap," Peter said. He put the change in his body as far out of his mind as he could—oh, who was he kidding? He was still marveling at himself as he put on his shirt and pants. He went to put in his contacts when he realized—nothing was blurry, and he wasn't wearing his glasses. He checked the mirror but, sure enough, his contacts weren't in. "Ok, officially the weirdest day ever…" Peter threw his school stuff in his backpack, shoved his feet in his shoes and headed downstairs. Pops and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table. Pops had made scrambled eggs for breakfast, but Peter knew he didn't have any time for that. Pops must have known too, because the minute Peter set foot into the kitchen, two pop-tarts sprung up from the toaster.

"Take it easy today, Peter," Pops said as Dad got up from the table.

"I'll try, Pops," Peter said. His Dad put on his helmet and they went outside. Peter knew that his dads had a nickname in the neighborhood, and that was 'the masked motorcyclist'. Some of the neighbors swore it was one man, and others argued that it was most definitely two. Either way, none of the neighbors had ever seen the masked motorcyclist(s?) leave the house without a helmet. The mystery of the masked motorcyclist had become almost an urban legend over the eighteen years that they had lived in the house (and, Peter thought, it was on its way to becoming a Nancy Drew novel), and that was why it had become almost a hazard for his dad and his pops to step outside in daylight hours. All the neighbors craned to get a good look. It was why Dad had been talking about getting a new house, lately—but Steve, who had lived in Brooklyn his whole life—wasn't having any of it. But Peter felt the stares of the neighbors on his back as he and his dad hurtled down the street to school. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

Peter hopped off the bike when he got to school and said goodbye to his dad. He walked up the familiar steps and went down the old path to his locker. Despite the odd morning, it was looking like just another day at Midtown High.

"—and then I'm going to hit you so hard your grandma will be able to feel it!"

Yup, just another day at Midtown High indeed. Peter looked around until his eyes fell on Flash, who was intimidating Mark again. Mark cowered in a corner, pleading with the guy.

"I didn't snitch, Flash! I didn't! It wasn't me, honest! Please don't hit me!" But Flash drew back his fist anyway. What was wrong with this guy? Peter rushed over and grabbed Flash's fist.

"Knock it off, Flash," Peter said. Flash batted his hand away and turned to face Peter instead. Once again, Mark ran off.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you Parker?" Flash asked.

"This? I could do this all year," Peter said easily. Peter noticed a crowd began to form—they knew that they were about to watch Peter get creamed.

"Or maybe, I'll do all the beating I'd usually give you in a year right now, and if you live, maybe you'll stop messing with my negotiations," Flash said, cracking his knuckles.

"Hit me with your best shot, you stupid bully," Peter spat. Flash charged. Peter's eyes widened, his adrenaline surged—and suddenly time seemed to slow down. Peter could clearly see everything that was happening. He could see that Flash had left his left side completely open and that he was partly off-balance. He could see that the tag of his shirt was up in the back. He could see there was a kid picking his nose at the end of the hall, could tell that Sally was fending off the flirtations of Malcom Matthews, but most importantly, he could see the fist coming at him, and he could step right out of the way. Flash threw another punch, but Peter dodged it. He threw another, and another, and another—but he couldn't land one on Peter. Peter couldn't believe it—neither could Flash.

"Come on, Parker," Flash roared. "Man up and fight me!" He took another swing, but Peter dodged again, never even having to step aside. By now a definited crowd had formed around them. Flash's punches became more furious, but still he couldn't land them. Peter could hear cheers every time he dodged. From the corner of his eye he noticed Gwen, smiling and rooting for him. He started to smiled back when a fist connected with his face and he fell to the floor. Flash grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him up. "And now you're gonna pay, faggot."

Flash drew back to punch, but Peter caught his fist in mid-flight. He turned his wrist the wrong way—Flash screamed obscenities and let go of Peter with his other hand. Peter let go of Flash's wrist. The crowd cheered and Peter grinned. He picked up his backpack, which he'd dropped in the commotion, and started to walk away. But Flash wasn't done yet. With a feral cry, Flash lunged at his back—but this time, Peter was ready. He whipped around and hit him squarely in the nose, Flash's own charge making the blow ten times worse. Peter heard a sickening crack, and Flash staggered away, howling in pain and clutching a bleeding nose.

"By bose! You broke by bose!" Flash said thickly, unable to pronounce his Ms or Ns properly. Blood poured out of his hands. Peter felt ill.

"What's going on?" shouted a furious, adult voice. It was Mr. Kaplan, and this time Mark was beside him.

"By bose!" Flash groaned. "He broke by bose!"

"Parker?" Mr. Kaplan asked in disbelief.

"It was self-defense!" Peter was surprised to see Jake Andrews stick up for him. "Flash was trying to beat the crap out of Peter."

Mr. Kaplan sighed deeply and massaged the bridge of his nose like he had a headache.

"Thompson, Parker—to the principal's office," he said. When neither of them moved, he glared and said, "Now." Peter picked up his bag and headed to the office, Flash walking dejectedly beside him and Mr. Kaplan walking behind them both. The bell rang and the halls cleared as the two boys stepped into the principal's office.

"Kaplan?" Principal Mason asked, puzzled. "What's going on here?"

"Parker and Thompson decided it would be a great idea to have an all out brawl in the hallway," Mr. Kaplan replied. "It would seem that Mr. Parker has broken Mr. Thompson's nose, but I have been informed that this was 'in self-defense' by a student witness, and I'm rather inclined to believe it." Principal Mason sighed and waved his hand.

"Yes, yes, all right Will. You can get back to your class now—oh, but could you tell Nurse Jackson to get in here?" Principal Mason said. Mr. Kaplan nodded and then left the office. "Well, boys, it's just us now, isn't it?" The Principal stared at them both hard, but Peter didn't say anything, and Flash was preoccupied with trying not to bleed on the carpet. Principal Mason sighed again and handed him the box of tissues from his desk. Flash took the box, stuffing Kleenex up his nose. "Are either of you going to say anything for yourselves?" Peter didn't speak, but neither did Flash. The principal sighed for the first time and flipped open a spiral-bound book.

"I'll have to call your parents, then," he said, flipping through the book.

Peter groaned internally. He didn't even know what his parents would do—hire an actor, maybe? Convince Uncle Bruce or Uncle Clint to pose as his dad? Peter sunk further into the chair, clutching his backpack. One thing was for sure—he was in deep trouble.

Principal Mason had set up a parent-teacher conference for that afternoon, right after school, and had sent both Flash and Peter back to class. It was now the last class of the day, biology, and Peter was just counting down the minutes to his death. Would it be a swift death, provided by his dad? Or would it be the excruciating, painful kind exacted by his pops? With his luck, it would probably be the latter.

"—and pull out the tray when you're finished. The purple section will either be in column A or column B, and that should tell you which allele you have," said Mr. Stromberg, the biology teacher.

"Peter. Peter, yours is done," whispered Gwen. Peter started—so it was. "Which do you have? Mine's lit up in column A." Peter opened up the tray and looked at the sample.

"Uh, both," Peter said. "It's purple in both—that can't be right, can it?" Peter asked with a frown. Gwen shrugged. Peter raised his hand and Mr. Stromberg approached.

"Yes, Peter?" he asked.

"Mine tested positive for both," Peter said, showing him the tray. Mr. Stromberg frowned.

"That's not…I'm afraid that's not genetically possible, Peter. You must have done something wrong at some point in the experiment. But it doesn't matter—this is a dormant gene, anyway," Mr. Stromberg said, and then he moved on to help Mark with something.

"But I know I did this right," Peter murmured, looking over the lab directions once more.

"We all make mistakes, Peter," Gwen said. The bell rang.

"Turn in your reports before you leave!" Mr. Stromberg cried as everyone made a mad rush for the door. Gwen slung her satchel over her shoulder.

"So what are you doing this weekend, Peter?" she asked.

"Avoiding slaughter," Peter replied. "Principal Mason called my parents in for a conference this afternoon. You know, about Flash's nose."

"He's a bully," Gwen said firmly. "What goes around comes around. But I guess they'll have to ground you, won't they?"

"Probably," Peter agreed, though he didn't really know. He'd never been grounded in his life—his parents rarely needed to punish him. Gwen gave him a sympathetic smile.

"Too bad. I'm going to see the new Batman movie—thought you might want to come with me," she said.

"I can always sneak out of the house," Peter said quickly, and Gwen laughed.

"Why don't you just give me a call? If you're grounded, we can go next weekend," she suggested. She slipped him a bit of notebook paper on which she'd written her cell number. "Unless you've been grounded until you're thirty or something."

"I'm not sure I'd put it past them," Peter said with a half-smile.

"Well it's not going to help your case if you're late," Gwen said. "I'll see you soon, Peter." She waved goodbye and Peter watched her go, a little bit in a daze. Had—had Gwen Stacy just asked him out? This really was the weirdest day ever. Peter put on his backpack and hurried down to the principal's office—Gwen had a point, after all.

When he arrived at the office, he wasn't quite sure what he was seeing. Principal Mason was behind his desk, looking a bit baffled, and with good reason—Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries and the superhero Iron Man was sitting in front of him.

"Dad?" Peter blurted out. He hadn't actually expected either of his dads to show up. "Why aren't you at work?"

"Why aren't you being the good kid I know you are?" Dad countered. He got up to face Peter. "Why are you going around punching people?" Peter groaned.

"It wasn't like that, Dad—"

"Oh it wasn't like that? Then tell me how it was like Peter. Did you not break another student's nose?"

"He started it—"

"And you sure as shit finished it, didn't you?" his dad said hotly. Principal Mason cleared his throat.

"Uh, Mr. …Stark, sir…this is Mr. Parker's first offense here at Midtown High, and given information supplied by eyewitnesses, we've decided not to pursue any further disciplinary action. We trust you'll handle the situation at home," he said, looking clearly uncomfortable.

"Absolutely," Tony said, still giving Peter the look. He grabbed his jacket and put on his motorcycle helmet. Peter followed his dad out the door.

"Dad—"

"We'll talk about this when we get home," Dad said through his helmet. They left the school and Peter rode home on the back of his dad's bike. Before they went into the house, Dad warned him, "You've put Pops into a cleaning spree. Watch your step."

Oh, no, Peter thought as he opened the door. Pops on a cleaning spree was never a good thing. He was naturally cleaner than either Tony or Peter and often moaned at them to pick up their stuff, but generally he didn't mind their messes. But whenever something made him particularly mad—usually something Tony had done, like going out and getting completely trashed, or not sleeping for days on end despite Steve's best efforts to make him go to bed—he put on the gloves and the apron (apron!) and went all evil-forties-housewife on them. If you stepped in the kitchen when the floors had just been waxed you'd better be prepared for an earful. And Peter had only ever heard his pops curse like a proper soldier when his dad tracked mud onto said waxed floor. The problem with evil-housewife!Pops was that while taking his anger out by cleaning was productive, the fact that Peter and Tony had the tendency to destroy his cleaning only exacerbated the problem.

"Peter!" Pops yelled as he walked into the hallway. Pops was definitely in full on evil-housewife mode—he had on pink rubber gloves, a full apron, and a feather duster in his hand. Peter would have laughed were it not for the murderous expression on his face. "What were you thinking?"

"Uh," Peter said as Dad shut the door behind them and started for the kitchen.

"No, no, not the kitchen Tony, not with those boots on—"

"Oh, Steve, come on—"

"I'M JUST TRYING TO MAKE THE HOUSE LOOK NICE FOR ONCE!" Steve roared. Tony put his hands up slowly.

"No going in the kitchen. No stepping on the kitchen floor. Got it. I'm backing away now," Tony said. Steve pointed at Peter.

"You. Shoes off. Now," he said. He took off his gloves and handed them to Peter. "Go do the dishes."

"But—"

"Go." Peter wasn't going to try to argue with an angry Cap with a feather duster. It was a dangerous combination. Peter unlaced his converse shoes and put them neatly by the door, not wanting to invoke any more fury. His socks were slippery on the floor, but Peter had learned over the years how to walk when Pops was cleaning.

"I already gave him a hard time in the principal's office, Steve," Peter heard Dad say softly. "I think we just need to talk this one out."

"He hit another kid, Tony."

"So? You were always hitting people and getting hit back in the forties—"

"It's not the forties anymore! He shouldn't be hitting people—"

"It was one kid, and probably an asshole—"

Peter hated how they talked about him like he couldn't hear sometimes. Annoyed, he picked up the nearest dish in the pile and turned on the water, scrubbing it vigorously. They had a dishwasher—this was just punishment.

"I don't care if it was one kid or twenty, Tony, the principle's the same—"

"I would be a lot more concerned if it was twenty, actually—"

"You're not taking this seriously, are you? You never take anything seriously."

"Oh, Steve, come on, I told you, I already gave him a hard time of it—I just don't think he deserves any more shouting."

"Who said I was going to shout at him? When did I say that was the best way to discipline a kid?"

"You didn't have to say it—it's the way you're acting, I know that's what you were going to do—"

"What do you mean, the way I'm acting?"

"The cleaning—you're mad and you're taking it out on the furniture. You do this every time."

"I do this every time? I do this every time Peter hits someone? Right, of course, because this has happened so many times! Just because I yell at you after you do something stupid doesn't mean I'm going to yell at Peter—"

"Then why did you send him off to the kitchen to do the dishes for which we have a perfectly good dishwasher?"

"So that I won't yell at him."

"That makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"I think your brain is still a bit icy, Capsicle—"

"Oh, God, we're not starting that again, are we? Because—"

Peter tried to shut out the sound of his dads fighting, but it was a difficult task. Peter squeezed out the very last bit of dishwashing liquid and cleaned out a pot. He looked around—did they have more soap in the pantry? Peter started towards it, but he forgot that the floors had been waxed. He slipped and reached out to the cabinet, but it was too late, he was going to fall and bruise his bum. But out from his hand shot something white. It stuck to the cabinet and Peter's reflexes grabbed it, stopping him inches from the floor.

"—no, Tony, we're not talking about that right now, Peter's in the kitchen—"

Peter's heart was in his throat. He swung around a bit so that he could peak out the kitchen doorway; his dads were still arguing in the living room. He swung around again, his feet on the floor, his back parallel with the ground and about six inches up from it. Peter pulled himself up by the white rope, trying not to think about the fact that oh God it was coming out of his arm. He righted himself and examined it.

It looked like…it looked like…was it a…web?

"Peter? Why's the water off?" Tony called.

"Uhhh, it's nothing Dad!" Peter yelled back, frantically trying to get the white web off both the counter and his wrist. "Just—uh—looking for the soap."

"It's in the pantry," Pops said. And then he and Dad resumed their argument. Peter pulled at the web and it snapped, the force of it sending Peter sliding backwards. He reached out towards the pantry and yet again a web flew out and attached itself to the pantry door. Peter hung off it until he got his balance back—but now he had another web to get rid of.

"This is so not normal," Peter muttered under his breath as he tugged on the web, but it wouldn't budge. Peter pulled as hard as he could, but to no avail. His entire body weight strained against the web, but it accomplished nothing except dangerously bending the pantry door. Peter prayed that his parents wouldn't come into the kitchen. He pulled even harder but it wouldn't budge. "Ugh!" he relaxed his wrist, giving up, and the web detatched—but Peter was still unbalanced, having thrown all his weight into trying to get the web off, and now he went sliding backwards—right into the stack of dishes on the counter.

Crash! Crash! Bang! Thump! Peter ended up slumped beneath the counter, wearing a pot for a hat, broken bits of china littering the floor around him. His dads ran to the entrance of the kitchen.

"Peter!" said Pops. "Peter are you ok?"

"Uh, fine," Peter said, removing the pot. "But I think I broke the dishes. All of them." Pops offered him a hand up and Peter took it, taking care not to slide right into him.

"That's ok, I never liked this pattern anyway," Tony said, picking up a broken bit of the floral-patterned dish and dropping it back onto the ground with another loud crash. Pops winced slightly. "These floors are dangerous like this. I keep telling you to use the swiffer—"

"You can't use a swiffer on a shellacked floor, Tony—"

"Then we'll just get new floors—"

"These floors are as old as me, you can't just get rid of them—" Peter gently reached behind him, scooping up the web on the counter. He edged away carefully, snatching the web off the pantry too, and as carefully as he could, he snuck up the stairs. Peter shut the door to his bedroom, genuinely freaked. He sat on his bed, looking closely at his right wrist. There was a spot whiter than all the rest, and in the center was a tiny little pinprick of a hole. Peter looked at his left wrist—the same was true for it.

"What the fuck," Peter said. Heart beating fast, He pointed his arm at the door. Nothing happened. Peter frowned. He reached toward the door and the web shot out, attaching to the handle. "Woah." He relaxed, and the web fell away from his wrist. He reached toward the ceiling, and the web grabbed hold. He jumped off the bed and swung back and forth by the web. Peter grinned—this was actually kind of fun. He reached towards another spot on the ceiling and grabbed hold of that web, letting go of the other—he swung around the room that way, going faster and faster. He wanted to shout, but he couldn't let his dads come in now. They were still arguing down the stairs.

He felt like Iron Man, flying through the sky—even if it was just around his bedroom. Or like Tarzan, swinging through the vines in the jungle. Or—maybe like George of the jungle, Peter reflected as he realized he was coming up on a wall too fast too late—he hit the wall hard, the thump resounding through the house and shaking the shelves.

"Peter?" called out his dad.

"I'm fine!" Peter yelled back. That was when he realized that he wasn't on his back on the ground. He was stuck to the wall. Hardly daring to breathe, Peter lifted one hand off the wall and reached even higher. He pulled himself up, higher and higher—until he was hanging by his hands from the ceiling. He jumped down, onto his bed. Another thump.

"Peter, what are you doing up there?" his dad shouted up the stairs.

"Nothing!" Peter called back. He took his socks off. Maybe, just maybe… He climbed up the wall with his hands, and then put his foot to the wall—it stuck, too. With a sudden childish glee, Peter climbed all the way up to the ceiling and hung upside down like a spider.

But then the panic sunk in.

Oh my God, am I turning into a spider? Peter wondered. Am I going to wake up tomorrow with fangs? This had to be from that spider that bit him, back at Oscorp. Was he going to die from radiation poisoning? From spider-bite-related cancer?

"Shit," Peter muttered. Someone knocked on the door.

"Peter, open up," said his dad.

"Uh, I'm not decent," Peter called back, quickly climbing down the walls. He looked at his room—it was covered in giant webs.

"I don't care, open the door," his dad said. Peter went to the door and opened it just a crack, peeking his head out. Dad raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing in there?"

"Stuff," Peter said.

"Stuff?" his dad repeated.

"Yeah, just...stuff," Peter said.

"Do we…" his dad looked visibly uncomfortable, "…do we need to have…a talk?" It took Peter a second, but then it dawned on Peter what he meant, and his eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, God, no—I'm not—that's not—oh gross, Dad!" Peter said, completely incapable of forming a coherent thought.

"Well, I don't know what to think—we hear all these weird sounds from up here, and you're not decent and you won't open the door—"

"If you have ever loved me, please stop talking now," Peter begged. Tony put his hands up.

"Fine, fine," he said. "I'm just looking out for you, Peter. Things have been…weird the past couple of days."

"Yeah," Peter said. You're telling me, he added privately.

"Well…dinner will be ready soon—come downstairs in a bit," Dad said.

"How did you manage to get any dinner cooked while arguing like that?" Peter asked, almost impressed. His dad smiled grimly.

"We're used to it, Pete. I'm giving you fifteen minutes," his dad said. "And…try not to make too much of a mess in there…"

"GO AWAY," Peter groaned, shutting the door. He could hear his dad snicker outside the door. Sometimes, Peter thought, it was a bit difficult having a 'cool' dad. Pops wouldn't ever try to make him blush, but for Dad it was a bit of a sport, which, now that Peter was eighteen, could get a bit scarring.

Peter cleaned up the webbing from around the room, stuffing it all in his bathroom trashcan—he'd have to take it out in the middle of the night, or something. When he was done he ambled down the stairs, only to find Pops and Dad glaring stiffly at each other from opposite sides of the table.

"Um," Peter said, "dads? Is dinner ready?"

"What?" Pops asked. "Oh, yeah." He put on oven gloves and took a casserole dish out of the oven—how he'd managed that along with cleaning and arguing, Peter would never know. "Take a seat, Peter."

Peter sat down, and his dads followed suit. Dad dished out casserole silently.

"So what happened today, Peter?" he asked finally.

"Flash was picking on Mark. Again. He was going to beat him up, so I distracted him so Mark could get away. I just dodged his punches at first, but when I turned my back to leave he charged at me and I punched him in the nose. That's it," Peter said. "And I didn't even really punch him—he mostly just…ran into my fist…"

"Well, Peter, that—" his dad started, with a funny look on his face, but after a moment, he couldn't contain it—he just started laughing. "He ran into your fist?"

"Mostly," Peter said. Even Pops had a small smile on his face.

"Is this the same kid that gave you the black eye?" Pops asked.

"Yeah," Peter replied.

"So you wanted revenge, huh?" Pops asked.

"No," Peter said insistently. "It just sort of…happened."

"Well, don't go around punching people, Peter," his dad said. "And…I think that covers it."

"Look Peter, I get that this kid is a bully," Pops said. "I don't like bullies. And I'm not going to tell you to run away, because they'll just keep coming. But next time—try not to break something, yeah?"

"Yeah, ok," Peter agreed. He dug into his casserole, and the family sat in silence for a while. Peter would have liked to think that it was comfortable silence, as often befell their little family—but he knew that wasn't the case. He could tell by the set of his dad's jaw, by Pops' grip on his glass of milk that the silence was anything but comfortable. Peter finished up and put his plate in the dishwasher. His dads bid him goodnight, and as soon as the door to his room shut, he could hear their raised voices start up again.

Peter opened up his laptop and sat on his bed. He plugged in his headphones and turned his music up probably loud enough to cause permanent ear damage. He had some research to do. He pulled up Oscorp's corporate website. Scratch research—he had some hacking to do.

After a few hours of sifting through Oscorp files, Peter came up with nothing. If they were intentionally splicing together human and spider DNA, Peter couldn't find a whit of evidence. Peter sighed and ripped the earbuds out.

"—Oh, because you think you know everything, Captain Know-it-all—"

Peter closed his laptop and put it on the floor beside his bed. He pulled a pillow over his head, a sinking feeling settling in his heart.

This was not normal.

None of it was.