Disclaimer: Spider-man and other Marvel-related content belong to Disney Marvel Entertainment. Any other content that includes OC's or plot belong to me. Please enjoy this soft reboot of the original story Symbiosis.


Arc 1: Back in Black

Chapter 1

A voice, muffled like silk underwater, whispered his name. "Pe…ter…er…" It danced on the edge of his awareness, a siren song he couldn't quite grasp. His vision swam, distorted by a veil of pain, blurring the world into an impressionistic canvas of shadows and muted colors. He knew someone was there, a woman, her hand outstretched towards him, trying to reach through the fog. But she was too far, a mirage shimmering on the horizon of his fading consciousness.

His lungs burned, each breath a ragged gasp clawing at the suffocating darkness. He tasted blood, metallic tang coating his tongue. The world tilted, spun, then settled into a sickening stillness. A guttural roar, primal and monstrous, ripped through the silence, sending shivers down his numbed spine. Then, a hulking silhouette materialized from the shadows, coalescing into the grotesque form of Venom. His monstrous maw stretched into a predatory grin, revealing rows of needle-like teeth.

"Parrkkkeerrr…" Venom's voice, a chorus of distorted whispers, echoed in the cavernous silence. Peter's lips twitched, forming a word, a plea choked by the weight of his injuries.

"V-Venom…" He rasped; the sound barely audible. The world tilted again, the monstrous foot descending towards him like a falling moon. Blackness engulfed him, a suffocating blanket erasing the pain.

Right before Peter loses consciousness, he catches a glimpse of a detail from the past event – a lightning strike illuminating the graveyard, a fleeting glimpse of Aunt May's worried face. It was 2 months ago as twilight bled into night, the city exhaled a weary sigh. Workers trudged home, their shoulders slumped, their eyes heavy with exhaustion. The day had been a relentless beast, and sleep beckoned like a siren song.

But slumber would have to wait. For on the horizon, a storm brewed. Inky tendrils of clouds, fat with rain, snaked across the sky, snuffing out the dying embers of the sun. A low growl of thunder echoed, sending shivers down spines, and skittering small creatures to their burrows. The wind picked up, whispering secrets of an impending deluge.

People scurried for cover, their faces painted with a mixture of apprehension and resignation. They knew this city, knew its fickle moods. Tonight, it would rage.

Except for two.

Two lone figures stood sentinel amidst the gathering chaos, their silhouette stark against the bruised canvas of the sky. His gaze was fixed on a headstone, stark white against the burgeoning storm. The inscription: Benjamin Franklin "Ben" Parker, beloved husband, devoted uncle. Rest in Peace.

The young man, Peter, swallowed hard, the lump in his throat a bitter pill. Had he not been so blinded by his own petty desires, by the intoxicating allure of power and fame, Ben might still be alive. The spider's gifts, meant for good, had become instruments of tragedy in his fumbling hands. He wanted to help, to ease the burdens of his family, but his arrogance had wrought only sorrow.

Lightning split the sky, painting jagged scars on the darkness. Thunder boomed, a primal drumbeat that shook the very foundations of the city.

But Peter stood unmoved, his own storm raging within him. Guilt, a venomous serpent, coiled around his heart, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Ben's death was a weight upon his soul, a constant reminder of his failure. It was a debt he could never repay, a wound that would forever bleed.

His attitude towards his life and superhuman abilities was radically changed. The fact that he could have saved his Uncle Ben's life by taking the time to stop the burglar at the wrestling studio demonstrated to Peter Parker that with great power there must also come great responsibility. It was a saying that his uncle had been beating him over the head with when he was 13 years old. His guilt over failing to prevent the death of Ben Parker became the motivating force behind Peter Parker's career as Spider-Man, it was a lesson learned the hard way.

The memory of that night played on repeat in his mind, a constant reminder of his failure. He could still see the thief's panicked eyes, hear the gunshot that echoed through the alleyway, feel the weight of Uncle Ben's lifeless body in his arms. The guilt was a suffocating weight, a burden he had carried alone for years.

Peter's gaze fell on May, standing silent beside him with a bouquet of lilies. Guilt gnawed at him - his secret life as Spider-Man endlessly complicated their lives. He knew it fueled Aunt May's constant fear for her "frail" nephew, the freelance photographer who chased Spider-Man for the Daily Bugle, a vigilante she distrusted based on the smears of the same paper.

He remembers the knock at the door broke him out of his reverie as his mind flashes back to the night Aunt May broke the news to him that she knew who he was.

He wondered who could be visiting him at this hour. He glanced at the clock on his lamppost: 12:30 am. Curious, he went to open the door.

"Who is it?" He says peeking through the peephole, he saw a silhouette, etched in the dim light.

"Peter, it's me."

'Aunt May? Why now?' He fumbled with the lock; his fingers clumsy with dread. Bewildered that his Aunt was here at this time of night he quickly opens the door to let her in. When they meet face to face, she looks impassive ready to shed tears almost just not quite there, "Aunt May please come in…"

The elder Parker woman steps inside his small apartment looking around, she sighs shaking her head apparently old habits die hard, even in his younger days Peter wasn't the tidiest of people no matter how many times she scolded him for this.

Peter unsure what to do begins to ask, "So what brings you here to my neck of the woods?"

She stepped inside, the scent of lavender and regret filling the room. Her gaze swept across the cramped space, lingering on the police scanner next to the bed. Then, she met his eyes, a flicker of something akin to sadness in their depths. Her eyes, usually warm and kind, were hard, searching. "Peter," she said, her voice a low rumble. "We need to talk."

Peter swallowed; his throat dry as sandpaper. "Aunt May, what's…what's going on?"

"I know," She said, her voice barely a whisper. "I know what you are."

Peter blinks, "I don't understand…"

"I know your secret…" She says. The older woman of the age 60 turns to face her nephew, tears dripping from her eyes, "I know that you are Spider-Man…"

Peter's breath caught in his throat. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. He had thought he was careful, meticulous, but her words ripped through his defenses like a bullet through tissue paper.

"How?" He croaked, the word a desperate plea for understanding, his eyes widen in shock. That was one question he was asking himself.

A single tear traced a path down her cheek. "It doesn't matter, Peter. What matters is…" She trailed off, her gaze falling on the mask she pulls from her purse. "What matters is why you felt the need to hide this from me."

"Aunt May…where did you…I mean that's just…" He couldn't find the coherent words to form a sentence this was so sudden.

"Peter, don't tell me that this is just a Halloween costume mask…just please don't." She sighed she turned the mask inside out, "The gadgets and the wiring are far to advance to be just a simple costume."

Sweat began to pool on his forehead, this is not how he thought this would go, he knew that he had to think of something and fast, "Look, I don't know what you are thinking right now Aunt May, but I can explain…"

"No, you cannot…" She said cutting him off, "I don't think you can and there is no need for an explanation. You are Spider-Man." Peter slumped his shoulders in defeat his secret was exposed to the one person that he didn't want to find out, "What do you think would've happened, Peter? Do you honestly believe that I would keel over and die?"

He cringed, "Aunt May…"

She put a finger to his lips silencing him, "When your parents died, I raised you. I carried that burden on my shoulder asking God to relieve or ease it. There were moments that I thought it would crush me, but it didn't, I still held strong. When your uncle died part of me with him…it would have been easy to give up, to just roll over and die. You needed me so I dealt with it and kept going. I buried friends, loved ones and relatives, I've watched you suffer from losses of your own yet there was nothing for me to do except pray and be there for you when you needed it." Then she stated sternly, "If by God's grace I could bear all of that, do you really think that I couldn't handle this…" She lifted the mask as if it was an offense, "Or fall apart?"

He didn't know what to say, his aunt had him cornered with no way out he knew that it was time to come clean after all the years he lied to her face; "You knew…" It wasn't a question.

"Suspicions…nothing concrete until tonight." She replied.

He inhaled then exhaled deeply, "I didn't…Aunt May believe me…honestly, I was just…" He sat down on the bed with hands on his head May sat next to him placing a hand on his shoulders, "I was just trying to protect you…"

"And I believe you Peter when you say that." She said gently, "I also believe you were trying to protect yourself because you didn't know how I was going to react or what would be going through my mind if I found out. I would have tried to either stop you or have you given this up." Peter was feeling small now, it was the cold hard truth; he did avoid it, "IF that would've happened, you'd choose between loving me or doing what you wanted to do. So, you decided to avoid it altogether so that decision wouldn't be made, not only did you avoid it, but you also avoided me. A big part of your life if not THE most important part and you completely shut the door on me."

Peter didn't know what to say his guilt overwhelming.

"All those years lost…to a lie…"

"I know…I did…" He responded weakly, "But…that…was...isn't the only thing I kept from you."

May was a bit perplexed, "You mean there is more?"

Peter once again sighed heavily. He gets up from the bed walks a little forward with his back towards his mother figure, "Telling you what I was doing 10 years ago when I was 15 would also lead to why I was doing what I was doing."

"Yes, that was my next question."

He stammered, "I'm doin' this because… because…" The memory of the stinging' shortchange from the promoter, the desperate excuse as he used his aunt for medicine drowned out by the man's cold indifference, flooded back. He saw the simmering rage inside him, the clenched fists that could stopped the thief, but he did nothing'. The image of the fleeing' criminal, the helpless angry cop, and the promoter's fury all flashed before his eyes, each a shard of guilt piercing his heart.

In that moment of inaction, Peter became a silent accomplice. He let the thief escape, vanish into the night with stolen money and a trail of broken promises. He carried the weight of that choice, the burden of a missed chance, a life lost. This memory, a festering' wound, was why he couldn't face his aunt, why he'd built walls of silence around them. He knew, with a certainty that gnawed at his insides, that the truth would crumble those walls, leaving' them both exposed and raw.

But tonight, the truth was an avalanche, unstoppable and inevitable. Peter was ready to face the consequences, to break free from the prison of his guilt and seek forgiveness, even if it meant shattering' the fragile peace they had built.

He dropped to his knees; his voice choked with tears. "I… I… ca-can't…"

"Peter?" His aunt said, concern lacing her voice.

"I can't do this, Aunt May…" He looked down, tears welling up. "This is the part that would… kill you…"

May looked at him, her eyes filled with worry. She reached for his hands, takin' them into hers. "Peter… I'd take that risk if it means we can go back to how things were before the lies." He didn't move, his jaw clenched tight. "Please…"

A heavy silence descended before he choked out, "I… dear mercy… I'm the reason… Uncle Ben is dead."

"What, Peter… I… don't understand…"

Peter blurted out, "That night, I was just showboating at this amateur wrestling event, thinking I could use my new powers to make a quick buck. A thief ran past, the guard yelling for me to stop him, but I couldn't be bothered. That promoter stiffed me on the prize money. Figured I'd teach him a lesson." He choked back a sob. "So, I let the crook go." The words hung heavy in the air, echoing the weight of years' guilt.

Aunt May, speechless, watched the pain flood Peter's face, mirroring the tears she'd held back for years. It felt like a dam had broken within her, releasing a torrent of grief and regret.

"All this time…" She whispered; her voice thick with emotion. "You carried this burden?" She pulled him into a tight embrace, the warmth of her hug offering a fragile comfort.

Peter mumbled, voice thick with despair, "I understand if you hate me, Aunt May. I look into your eyes, and I see the pain that I've caused you."

"No! You were wrong, Peter," She insisted, her voice cracking. "It wasn't your fault."

He pulled back, eyes wide, surprise mixed with disbelief. "Aunt May?"

Tears finally spilled down her cheeks, washing away years of unspoken sorrow. "It was my fault," she confessed, burying her face in his shoulder. "We had an argument, just a silly spat like married folks do. But Ben… he never liked arguing. He went out after you, thinking I wouldn't forgive him or pick up the argument once again. If I'd just told him, it was alright, maybe…" She choked back a sob, the pain raw and fresh.

Peter wrapped his arms around her, his own heart breaking. "Aunt May… I had no idea."

"You couldn't," she whispered, wiping her tears. "I kept it bottled up inside, all these years. Until now." She cupped his face, her gaze filled with love and understanding. "We both carry this guilt, Peter. But holding onto it won't bring Ben back. We got to forgive ourselves, and each other. Forgive the secrets, the hurt… even my part in this."

Gently, she wiped away his tears, her touch a soothing balm on his wounded soul. "I forgive you, Peter. For keeping this from me, and for Ben. It wasn't your fault, honey."

His lips trembled, overwhelmed by her forgiveness. "Aunt May…"

"You're my nephew," she said fiercely, her voice filled with unwavering love. "And I love you no matter what. Always."

The dam broke. Tears streamed down Peter's face as he clung to her. They wept together, a tidal wave of grief and relief washing over them. The burden may not have vanished entirely, but for the first time, they weren't alone. As their tears subsided, a fragile peace settled in the air, a promise of healing whispered on the breeze.

Peter's heart ached with a lightness he hadn't known in years. The truth, a double-edged sword, had ripped open a wound, but the infection had finally drained away. Squeezing Aunt May's hand, he found solace in the warmth despite the chill that crept through him. A crow cawed harshly from a nearby tree, its black form stark against the stormy sky. Did it mock him, or offer a strange solace? He couldn't tell, but its cry echoed the weight of loss – Uncle Ben, Ezekiel – and the whisper of a new beginning.

The memory of another close encounter with death sent a shiver down his spine. Morlun, that monstrous entity, had pushed him to the brink. His ribs, still tender from the brutal battle, throbbed even with his enhanced healing. It was during that fight, while examining Morlun's blood, that Peter learned the horrifying truth – Morlun fed on life force. A desperate gamble led him to a power plant, where he rigged a device to increase his own radiation dosage, a dangerous act he vowed never to repeat.

He had triumphed, delivering a punishing blow to Morlun. But victory came at a heavy cost. Ezekiel, his reluctant ally, fell victim to Morlun's life-draining touch. Peter, wracked with guilt, could only watch in horror as Ezekiel tumbled into the river, his life force stolen. The memory served as a stark reminder of his own brush with mortality, a chilling counterpoint to the fragile hope blossoming within him.

Aunt May straightened, wiping a tear. "We should get going, dear. It's getting late and the rain is beginning to pour heavier."

Peter nodded, still speechless. They placed the flowers on the tombstone, the inscription etched starkly beneath the gathering clouds. "Peter," Aunt May asked gently, "When are you going to visit Gwen?"

Peter flinched. Gwen's name was a barbed wire fence he didn't want to climb, not yet. "I… I don't know, Aunt May," He stammered, avoiding her gaze.

Gwen. His first love, a love story tragically cut short. Memories flooded his mind - stolen moments of happiness from high school and college, dreams of a future that would never be. They had planned a future together, a future stolen by a cruel twist of fate. Before Gwen, there was Betty Brant, a fleeting spark from working at the Daily Bugle. A few flirts, a couple of dates, but nothing that ignited the fire in his soul like Gwen.

He closed his eyes, the memory of their last night a bittersweet ache. It felt like a lifetime ago, yet the intensity of their connection was still fresh. Gwen had been the missing piece, the softness that balanced the harsh edges of his life as Spider-Man. But now, she was gone, leaving a void that echoed with a deafening silence.

Aunt May cupped his cheek, her touch warm. "Don't wait too long, dear. It's been years."

He cringed, a knot tightening in his stomach. Four years, yet the pain felt as raw as ever. 'Maybe some wounds never truly heal,' Peter thought, only learn to scar over. He glanced at the crow, still perched on the branch, its black eyes seeming to pierce into his soul. Maybe someday, he would be ready to face Gwen's grave, to confront the ghosts of his past. But not today.

The wrought-iron gates of the cemetery clanged shut with a finality that echoed in Peter's heart. The scent of freshly turned earth hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder. He winced with each step, the ache in his ribs a dull throb even with his enhanced healing. Aunt May cast him a worried glance, her lips pursed in concern.

"Peter, honey," She said softly, her voice laced with apprehension. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Peter managed a weak smile, the corners of his lips barely lifting. It was a poor attempt at reassurance, failing to reach the worry etched in his aunt's eyes. A weariness, deeper than exhaustion, clung to him, a weight that seemed to press down on his very soul.

He forced a lightness into his voice. "Just a little banged up, Aunt May. Nothing, a good night's sleep won't fix."

Aunt May sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken fears. "Peter, please," she pleaded, her voice trembling slightly. "I can't bear the thought of losing you too."

Peter felt a pang of guilt stab in his heart. He squeezed her hand gently. "You won't, Aunt May. I promise." He paused, the silence thick with unspoken emotions. "Would you like me to walk you home, or would you prefer a cab?

Aunt May rummaged through her purse, her movements slow and deliberate. "I'll take a taxi," she said, finally pulling out a crumpled wad of bills. "Here, Peter. Some money."

He shook his head, his hand trembling slightly as he held hers. "Aunt May, I can't."

The older woman's gaze softened. "You need it more than I do, dear. And I know that rent is due this week, or maybe it's already…"

Peter swallowed hard, the guilt threatening to choke him. "Okay," He finally whispered, taking the money with a hand that felt impossibly heavy.

As they walked towards the street, the silence between them was thick with unspoken words and emotions. Peter couldn't shake the feeling that the weight he carried wasn't just from the day's events, but from something darker, something hidden. He glanced at Aunt May, her face etched with concern, and wondered if she saw the storm brewing within him too.

After hailing a taxi and saying goodbye to each other they went their separate ways. Peter hops on his scooter bike to go back home. Thunder, struck again, it was time to get moving or else he would be soaked to the bone. The storm's fury escalated. Rain lashed down, a relentless torrent that hammered on the earth.

When Peter arrives in Union Square around 8:40 PM rain lashed against Peter's back as he clambered up the rickety stairs, water soaking through his thin jacket and turning his hair into a dark, plastered mess, clinging to his forehead. Each step sent a dull ache through his body, a constant reminder of the fight. He gritted his teeth and pushed on, the memory of Morlun a heavy weight in his mind. Even brutes like Rhino seemed preferable to that encounter. He reached his floor, the sound of raucous laughter and polka music spilling from Mr. Ditkovitch's apartment.

"Rent!" Boomed the landlord's voice before Peter even reached his apartment. He turned around to find Ditkovitch, a potbellied man with a handlebar mustache, hunched over a card table surrounded by equally boisterous men. The air reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke.

Peter forced a smile, his teeth chattering. "Hi, Mr. Ditkovitch…"

"Hi?" Ditkovitch snorted, his eyes glinting like polished coins. "What's 'hi'? Can I spend it?"

Peter closed his eyes, the weight of overdue rent a physical burden on his shoulders. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable. "Mr. Ditkovitch, look, I've got a check coming in…"

"Eight months late, Parker, again!" Ditkovitch slammed his fist on the table, sending a shower of cards flying like startled pigeons. Peter flinched at the outburst.

"Look, I promise…"

"Promises are like stale crackers – wouldn't fill a pigeon's stomach!" Ditkovitch roared, then gestured wildly with a stubby finger. "But if I gave them to my daughter," He pointed towards a young woman flipping pancakes in the corner, her face reddening with each word, "She'd be fat!"

Peter winced. Did the man truly have no shame, using is daughter Ursla as an analogy? He gritted his teeth. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ditkovitch," He said, each word strained. "This is really not a great time." He reached into his pocket, hoping to at least offer a token of goodwill.

Before he could pull out the crumpled bills, Ditkovitch's hand shot out like a viper, snatching the money from Peter's grasp. A triumphant grin stretched across his face, but a flicker of something else, perhaps even pity, crossed his eyes for a fleeting moment. "You still owe plenty, Parker," Ditkovitch said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "So, if I were you, I'd start looking for a new place. This ain't cutting it."

"Hi, Pete…" The girl Ursula waved at him.

He waved back; with the door slamming shut, leaving Peter alone in the dim hallway. Peter breathed Mr. Ditkovitch's final words hung heavy in the air, it was his eviction notice. Peter felt the familiar knot tighten in his stomach, a cold sweat prickling his skin. Eight months late. The thought of losing his apartment, his only haven in this chaotic city, sent a shiver down his spine.

He forced a smile at Ursula's cheery greeting, the kindness in her eyes a small balm on his frayed nerves. Reaching his door, he pushed it open, the cramped familiarity of his apartment offering a bittersweet comfort. The single bulb cast harsh shadows on the peeling wallpaper and worn furniture, but it was still his sanctuary, a fortress against the storm outside and the one brewing within.

The stale air of the apartment clung to Peter like a damp towel. Rain battered the windowpanes, each rhythmic splash mirroring the storm brewing within him. He tossed his soaked jacket onto the chair, the fabric slumping like his own weary spirit. Despite the throbbing ache in his body, he then sank into the threadbare armchair, the familiar ache in his back a dull counterpoint to the fresh anxiety gnawing at his gut. As he reached for the lamp, his eyes caught the blinking red light on his police scanner.

Curiosity gnawed at him. Four new voicemails. Who could it be? Bill collectors? Hopefully not. With a pounding heart, he pressed play. The first message blared to life, Bobby's booming voice filling the small apartment. "Yo, Pete! What's the ice-olation all about? Harder to find than Waldo in a blizzard! Angel's been bugging me, man, where you been at?"

Peter chuckled, "Sorry guess I've been caught up in a whirlwind of things."

Peter cracked a wry smile, a flicker of warmth battling the chill in his bones. Bobby, ever the optimist, even when life felt like a frozen wasteland.

He hit play on the next message, bracing himself for Angelica's voice, a melody both sweet and kind. "Hey Peter, it's Angelica," her voice flowed through the speaker, warm as a summer breeze "Just checking in. Feels like ages since we last talked. Maybe we could hang out, you, Bobby, and me? Like the old Spider-Friends days?"

The memory of their carefree days as Spider-Friends brought a bittersweet ache to his chest. Simpler times, a pang of longing shot through him as he recalled stolen kisses, fun dates, and the warmth of Angelica's smile. A phantom warmth lingered in his hand, a memory of Angelica's touch.

Reality struck with a harsh blow. Angelica's microwave powers malfunctioning – a problem he'd tried to fix with a dampening bracelet, a temporary solution at best. Her forced departure to seek Professor Xavier's help at Bobby's urging put their separation heavily on him. Angelica had pleaded for him to come, but New York, Aunt May, his responsibilities – they held him captive.

He closed his eyes, picturing Angelica's disappointed yet understanding smile. The faint hum of her microwave powers, a constant echo in his memory. They had parted on good terms, a silent hope lingering in her eyes for a future beyond "just boyfriend and girlfriend." But for Peter, the weight of his life as Spider-Man cast a long shadow, forever complicating the possibility of love.

The next message was a digital bomb. J. Jonah Jameson's voice erupted from the speaker, a volcanic rant echoing through the cramped apartment. "Parker! You've been avoiding sending me pictures of that Spider-freak! Months, Parker! Months, you hear me? Not a single web-slinging shot in sight!"

Peter winced. Jameson's blustery insults were as familiar as the stale coffee and ink-stained fingers that permeated the Daily Bugle. He couldn't entirely blame the publisher; Peter did have a responsibility to get the pictures. But Jameson's relentless campaign to turn the city against Spider-Man left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Can't exactly blame me, JJ," he muttered under his breath. "You've been painting Spidey as a public menace with every headline."

Jameson's voice boomed again, punctuated by a slam. "I better see some pictures by tomorrow, Parker, or you're out on the street! Security will be happy to escort you out if they see your lazy behind around the office! And don't even think about another job in the press industry! Now get to work!"

Peter slumped back in his chair, the threat hanging heavy in the air. "Great," he sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Out of a job if I don't get pictures. What am I even doing with my life? Ten years at the Bugle, scraping by on part-time gigs... I need to get my priorities straight."

A tense silence followed the last message, broken only by the machine's impersonal beep. Then, Mary Jane's voice, a fragile whisper that sent a shiver down Peter's spine. "Hi Peter... it's me, MJ..." she started, hesitantly lacing her words. "I wanted to let you know... I'm going to Europe for a fashion show. I don't know how long I'll be gone, and I know this is sudden..."

A long pause stretched before her, each tick of the clock a hammer blow to Peter's heart. He didn't need to hear the explanation; the silence spoke volumes. Finally, the words he dreaded most tumbled out of the speaker, each one a shard of ice piercing his soul.

"Peter, I don't know how to say this," Mary Jane's voice trembled, "and maybe over the phone isn't the best, but... we need to talk. I don't think this relationship is working out."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The laughter that escaped his lips was a hollow, broken sound, a desperate attempt to deny the crushing weight of her words. Tears pricked his eyes, but they wouldn't fall. He was adrift in a sea of disbelief, the floor rushing up to meet him as he slumped down. "Why, Mary Jane?" he whispered, his voice thick with despair. "Why now?


The next day, 10:00 AM. Soho. MJ's apartment.

Sleep had been a cruel mistress the night before, tossing Peter around like a cheap ragdoll in a hurricane. Memories of their relationship replayed like a scratched record, each spin etching the same painful truth deeper: Spider-Man was a curse on his personal life, a radioactive weight pulling him away from love, warmth, normalcy. Lost in this mental maelstrom, he barely registered the creak of the door opening, revealing MJ's face etched with concern.

"Pete?" She breathed, her smile faltering like a flag in a sudden downdraft. "You look like you haven't slept a wink."

"Feels like it too," He mumbled, exhaustion carving lines into his face like a sculptor with a chisel made of fatigue. "Mind if I crash in for a bit? This isn't exactly a conversation for the streets, unless you're keen on having some eavesdropper with superpowers catch an earful."

She stepped aside, her smile replaced by a worried frown as deep as the Grand Canyon. Her apartment was a universe away from his cramped quarters, sunlight streaming through expansive windows and bouncing off polished furniture like a disco ball in a cathedral. A stark contrast to the shadows clinging to him like cobwebs.

"How are you?" She asked, her voice softer than a whisper in a snowstorm. "Water?"

His eyes darted to her hand, searching for the familiar glint of the engagement ring. It was gone, a gaping hole where their future happiness used to reside. Disappointment clawed at his throat, turning his voice into sandpaper on velvet.

"Cut the small talk, MJ," He rasped, his tone laced with the bitterness of a rejected hero. "I got your message. 'Talk,' you said. So, here I am. Spill it, lay it bare. And yeah, water would be nice, unless it's laced with truth serum. 'Cause frankly, I can handle anything but another lie."

Mary Jane blinked, tears welling in her eyes. Words wouldn't come, so she just nodded, heading to the kitchen for drinks. Peter sat on the couch; his gaze glued to the black velvet box nestled amidst magazines on the coffee table. A lump formed in his throat as dread gnawed at him. It couldn't be.

He reached for the box, his hand trembling. He needed confirmation, even if it shattered him. But he couldn't bring himself to open it. Instead, he gripped the fabric of his pants, knuckles turning white.

Moments later, Mary Jane returned with a small tray. Peter snatched his glass of water, gulping it down like a man parched in a desert. The silence hung heavy, thick with unspoken words.

Finally, he croaked, "Why?"

"Why what?" She choked out, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Why are you leaving me, MJ?" He turned, his voice raw with pain. "After everything we've been through, why are you throwing it all away?"

Mary Jane set her cracker down, wiping her mouth, she sighs heavily. "I can't take it anymore, Pete," She blurted, the words tumbling out like a dam breaking. "This double life... I can't live with it."

"What do you mean?" His voice hitched. "Five years, MJ. You can't just toss them out like yesterday's garbage!"

"It's not that simple," She said, her voice trembling. "I love you, Peter. But I can't marry Spider-Man. I want a normal life, not to be constantly worrying if you'll come home."

Peter looked away, his heart sinking. "So, it's all about me being Spider-Man?"

"It's part of it," She admitted, her voice breaking. "Every night, I wait, not knowing if you'll be back. You almost died so many times, Peter! I can't live like that anymore. I want the man, not the mask."

He let out a bitter laugh. "Life's not a fairytale, MJ. You can't just wish away my responsibilities." He gestured wildly. " You know I made a commitment to uphold this costume to uphold my uncle dying words, 'With great power, comes great responsibility. And to atone for what happened all those years ago. I lost everything, Mary Jane! My uncle, Gwen, Captain Stacey, my job is in the balance... and now, you! What have you lost? You lost nothing! You still have your job; you still have your relatives! Who do I have left MJ? Who? Yeah, I still have my aunt but for how much longer?"

"Peter…"

"Do not 'Peter' me Mary Jane, you knew from the get-go; what you were getting yourself into." Peter paused for slight moment, "I guess you don't love me enough…"

"Don't you dare say that!" She snapped, rising to her feet. "I know what you've been through, Peter. But I can't be Mrs. Spider-Man. I want a family, a normal life. I love you, but I can't handle the fear, the uncertainty."

"You knew what you were getting into," He said, his voice tight. "From the beginning."

"Love shouldn't be this hard, Peter," She whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I love you, but I can't live like this."

He turned away, the weight of her words crushing him. He loved her, but they were two different worlds, colliding in a storm of fear and sacrifice. He had a responsibility, a burden he couldn't share, and it cost him the woman he loved then Peter's laughs.

It was a hollow echo in the apartment, tinged with bitterness and self-deprecation. "You wanna know what's funny, MJ?" He shook his head, a humorless smile twisting his lips. "Years ago, I revealed my identity to Felicia. She loved the spider half, the thrill, the danger. Now, with you, it's the other way around. I'm cursed, huh? Can never win with love." His voice hitched; the playful sarcasm replaced by a raw ache. "Only Gwen… only Gwen loved both sides of me. Isn't that just tragic? That she's not here anymore?" He picked up the black box, its weight a physical manifestation of his broken dreams. "Hope your modeling career takes you places, MJ," He said, his voice tight with emotion. "Places I can't follow. Places where you'll be happy."

He turned and walked towards the door, each step heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled promises. Mary Jane wanted to call out, to reach for him, to assure him she could handle the double life, the fear, the uncertainty. But something held her back. She knew it wouldn't be enough.

The door slammed shut, leaving her alone with the echo of his words and the emptiness of their shattered future.

Tears streamed down her face, blurring the world around her. "I'm sorry, Peter," she whispered, her voice choked with sobs. "I never meant to hurt you."

Peter leaned against the door frame, the engagement ring heavy and mocking in his palm. "Cursed," He muttered, the word echoing in the emptiness of the apartment. He clutched the ring, its weight a physical manifestation of his heartbreak, then clicked his tongue in frustration at his own melodrama.

Shoving the ring deep into his pocket, he felt a desperate need to escape. To get away from the suffocating silence, the lingering scent of Mary Jane's perfume, the ghosts of their memories. He needed action, needed to move, even if it was just to swing mindlessly through the city.

He found his scooter, the familiar rumble of the engine a small comfort. Tucked away in a shadowed alley, he donned the red and blue, his spider-suit offering a thin shield against the storm raging within. He web-zipped out, his movements jerky and fueled by a potent mix of grief, anger, and self-loathing.

The city sprawled beneath him, its vibrant chaos a stark contrast to the desolate landscape of his heart. He swung, hoping the wind would carry away the lump in his throat, the tears threatening to spill. But the city offered no solace. Every swing, every web-sling felt heavy, tinged with the bitterness of his loss.

He spotted a thug attempting to rob a bodega, a scene ripped straight from his everyday life as Spider-Man. But today, the sight triggered something primal, a violent rage bubbling up from within. He landed with a thud, his fist connecting with the thug's jaw with a sickening crunch. The man crumpled, his face a mask of pain and fear.

Yet Spider-Man wasn't done when he began to wail on him. It felt satisfying to vent but as Peter stared down at his handiwork, the world suddenly coming into sharp focus. The thug's whimpers pierced the air, a stark reminder of his own humanity, the line he was dangerously close to crossing. Panic surged through him.

"Hey, let up, man!" A police officer yelled, rushing to the scene.

He'd almost killed a man, lost in a haze of his own pain. Shame washed over him, hot and suffocating. He stammered apologies, released the thug, and fled into the sky, leaving behind a trail of confusion and the echo of his own despair.

"I nearly killed him," He whispered to the wind, his voice choked with emotion. "My life sucks... and it's not even noon." His voice cracked. "Oi vey... a simple thug and I nearly beat him to a pulp?"

He swung on, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of pain. He was Spider-Man, protector of the innocent, but today, he was the one who needed saving, from himself.

Retracing his steps, he changed back, he was going to his aunt house. He needed to vent or at least talk to someone.


11:35 AM - Forest Hills, Queens

The familiar houses of his childhood neighborhood scrolled by in a blur of green and brown as Peter steered his bike towards his old home. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, bittersweet and tinged with the ache of loss. This quiet corner of Queens, where everyone minded their own business, had always felt like a sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos of his double life.

He parked his bike in the driveway, the crunch of gravel echoing in the stillness. Taking a deep breath, he climbed the steps and knocked on the familiar blue door. It swung open a moment later, revealing Aunt May's beaming smile.

"Peter!" She exclaimed, her voice warm and welcoming. "Come in, come in!"

Peter offered a small, gentle smile as he bent down to kiss her cheek. The gesture, usually so natural, felt stiff and forced. "Hey, Aunt May," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aunt May, ever perceptive, saw through his forced cheer. His smile, usually bright and infectious, didn't reach his eyes. They held a haunted look, a deep sadness she hadn't seen in years.

"You look beat, Peter," she said softly, her hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead. "Do you want something to eat? I just made a fresh pot of oatmeal."

Peter's stomach rumbled in agreement, a sound he hadn't even noticed. He hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd last eaten. "That would be great," he mumbled, his voice thick with unspoken emotions.

Aunt May bustled around the kitchen, her movements a familiar comfort. As she set a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of him, she couldn't help but ask, "Is everything alright, Peter? You seem troubled."

Peter doesn't respond quickly but stared at the golden oats in his bowl, the steam curling like question marks in the air. He picked up a spoon, the metal cold against his skin, and forced a bite down. The sweet, blandness did nothing to soothe the churning in his stomach, neither physical nor emotional. He took another bite, then another, each one a mechanical act fueled by inertia rather than hunger.

Finally, the dam broke. A sob escaped his throat, raw and jagged, followed by another, and another. Tears streamed down his face, hot and salty, blurring the world around him. Aunt May, startled by the sudden outburst, set down her own oatmeal and rushed to his side.

"Peter, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice filled with concern. Her hand, warm and comforting, rested on his shoulder.

He choked back a sob, the words trapped behind a dam of grief and despair. He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. He wanted to tell her everything, to pour out his pain and confusion, but the words wouldn't come. All he could manage was a broken whisper, repeated over and over like a mantra, "Cursed... I'm cursed..."

Aunt May frowned, her brow furrowing in worry. "Cursed, how?"

Peter finally managed to meet her gaze, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. "Everything I touch... it falls apart. Gwen... Felicia... MJ... now even my job at the Daily Bugle. I can't keep anyone happy, not even myself. I'm a walking disaster, a magnet for misfortune. It's like some cosmic joke, some sick game where happiness is just dangled in front of me before it's snatched away."

His voice cracked, thick with despair. The weight of his burdens threatened to pull him under. He slumped forward, burying his face in his hands, the sobs racking his body. Aunt May pulled him into a tight embrace, her silence a balm to his wounded soul.

His voice hitched, each word laced with the bitterness of betrayal and the sting of loss. "Everyone says I'm strong, that I can handle anything. But I can't, Aunt May. I can't handle losing another person I love. It's tearing me apart." He looked up, his eyes pleading for understanding, for solace. "I'm just... so tired, Aunt May. So tired of fighting, so tired of hurting. I just want it all to end."

"Oh, Peter," She whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You're not cursed, honey. You're just hurting. And that's okay. It's okay to feel lost, to feel like everything is falling apart. You're not Superman but you're not alone. You still have me, and what I have been telling you and hammering into that thick skull of yours? God is in control of everything, life throws you curveballs and we need to roll with the punches. Yes, it hurts whatever it is that you're going through, now tell me what happened?"

Her words were simple, yet they carried a weight that resonated deep within him. He clung to her, the warmth of her embracing a beacon in the storm of his emotions. He drew strength from her presence, a lifeline thrown into the churning sea of his despair. Peter tells her what happened last night following the events almost an hour ago.

Aunt May sat across the table, her hands clasped in her lap, her face etched with concern as Peter poured out his heart. Words tumbled out of him, a torrent of raw emotion, "And then she says it," Peter rasped, his voice hoarse from tears. "Says she can't take it no more. Spider-Man, she says, it's too much. She wants out, out of the whole dang charade, says she wants a normal life."

He slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen, shaking the plates, and rattling the spoons. "Normal life! What part of me is normal, huh? Did I ask to be bitten by some radioactive spider during the science expo? Did I ask for these powers, the responsibility? Hell no!"

"Peter language…" Aunt May says firmly.

"Sorry. It was thrust upon me, this whole mess!" He slumped back, the chair groaning under his weight. He threw his head back, staring at the ceiling as if searching for answers in the cracks and cobwebs. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Peter," She said softly, her voice laced with empathy. "I know this isn't easy. But you got to understand, MJ, she loves you. And maybe, just maybe, she's scared. Scared of what could happen to you, scared of living' with constant worry."

Peter his eyes red-rimmed and filled with pain looks at the woman across from. "But I can't give it up, Aunt May! It's not just some costume I put on for kicks. It's about responsibility, about protecting' the city, the innocent folks who can't protect themselves. I don't want anyone to go through what I or rather we went through."

"I know, honey," She said, squeezing his hand. "And I'm not sayin' you should. But maybe there's a way, a way to have both. Maybe you can talk to her, explain how much both parts of your life mean to you."

Peter let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, a deep, weary sound that spoke of battles fought and burdens carried. "I don't know, Aunt May. I feel like I've already lost her." Peter takes out the engagement ring from his pocket placing it on the table and Aunt May knew it was over, "Like I'm failing' at everything, even being' Spider-Man. I'm juggling my personal life with my crime fighting life. Sometimes I wish I was never bitten."

Peter gulped down the ice-cold water, the frigid liquid a temporary relief to the inferno raging within him. He wiped away a glistening tear trailing down his cheek with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. "Aunt May," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, cracking at the edges, "it's like I'm cursed when it comes to love. Gwen, taken way too soon. Felicia vanished into the neon-drenched shadows like a wisp of smoke. Angelica, a flame snuffed out before it could truly burn. And now MJ..." He trailed off, unable to even speak her name without his throat tightening like a vice.

Aunt May's sharp tongue clicked, a sound that crackled through the silence like static. "Angelica, at least I met her," she said, her voice laced with warmth. " She was a nice girl. You brought her home with that... friend of yours, Robert Drake."

Peter snorted, a humorless rasp escaping his lips. "Bobby never did appreciate Aunt Maying it," He chuckled, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face at the memory.

May rolled her eyes, her lips pursed in a thin line. "If he wasn't such a rascal, I'd address him properly. But this Felicia girl, you never mentioned her before. Was she before or after MJ? Who was she?"

The smile faded from Peter's face, replaced by a bittersweet pang. "Felicia was before Mary Jane and Angelica and she was after Gwen," He admitted, resting his chin on his hand as the weight of his memories pressed down. Felicia, his trusted friend, his partner in the shadows. He'd tried to help her walk the straight and narrow, and she'd even given it a valiant shot. But there was an undeniable chasm between them, one he'd failed to bridge. "She was a diamond in the rough, you could say. A cat burglar, to be honest."

May's eyes widened in surprise. "Peter Parker, don't tell me you dated a thief!"

He chuckled nervously. "What can I say? Look, Aunt May, you don't know Felicia like I did. We were close, like two sides of the same coin. I think you even met her once if I remember right. A platinum blonde, you chatted with her at the cemetery one time..."

A vague image flickered in May's mind, a vision of a statuesque woman with platinum hair and piercing blue eyes. "That was Felicia?"

Peter nodded, his voice low and laced with regret. "Yeah. Unfortunately, she loved the mask more than Peter Parker though she did eventually start caring but anyway. We were on and off, a whirlwind of passion and danger. Sometimes she drove me crazy, sent me up the wall, but..." He paused, the image of Felicia in her sleek Black Cat suit flashing before his eyes. "Sometimes, I loved her just as much in that persona as I did out of it."

Aunt May listened patiently, her gaze filled with understanding and a touch of sadness. "And what about MJ?" she asked gently, her voice a soothing balm to his troubled soul. "Did she know about Felicia?"

Peter hesitated, the weight of his deception heavy on his shoulders. He knew he couldn't keep it from her any longer. He took a deep breath, the words tumbling out like a confession. "She did. And let's just say, things got... complicated."

"Tell me more," May encouraged, her voice a quiet prompt.

"It all started in Times Square, Aunt May," Peter began, leaning forward in his chair with a sigh. "MJ and I were enjoying a night out when... well, things got heavy."

The bustling scene unfolded in his mind - the neon lights casting harsh shadows, the air thick with tension as Mary Jane and Felicia Hardy stood face-to-face. He could almost hear the purr in Felicia's voice, laced with thinly veiled barbs aimed at MJ's innocence. "Looking lovely, MJ," she'd said, "Though maybe a touch too... innocent for this company."

MJ's fiery spirit sparked instantly. "Unlike some of us," she retorted, her gaze flicking to Felicia's revealing dress, "I don't need a costume to be interesting."

Felicia's smile faltered, then returned, sharper than ever. "Oh, darling," she cooed, "Sometimes a costume is all you need. Especially when it comes to capturing a certain spider's attention." Her eyes narrowed, gleaming with a feline possessiveness. "He always seems to fall for the damsel in distress, doesn't he?"

Peter winced, remembering the sting of those words even all this time later. Mary Jane's fists clenched; her voice tight with anger. "Peter isn't some prize to be won, Felicia! He's a person with feelings, and you're playing him like a fiddle!"

"Playing?" Felicia scoffed. "My dear, I was his confidante, his partner long before you were a twinkle in his eye. And let's not forget, he was the one who came crawling back to me after you... well, let's just say you weren't so understanding of his little extracurricular activities." She trailed off, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

The jab went deep, twisting the knife of Mary Jane's insecurities. Peter knew what Felicia was referring to, the brief period after Gwen's death or being Spider-Man when he'd sought solace in Felicia's familiar darkness and warmth of her arms.

"You may have been first, Felicia," Mary Jane said, her voice low but unwavering, "But I'm the one he loves now. And unlike you, I'm not afraid to fight for him, even if it means facing a jealous cat burglar."

Felicia's smile vanished, replaced by a cold fury. "Jealous? Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart," she spat. "I'm merely amused by your naiveté. You think you can handle a man like Spider-Man? A man who walks the line between light and dark? A man who needs someone like me, someone who understands the shadows?"

She leaned in closer, her voice a venomous whisper. "Mark my words, Mary Jane," she hissed. "This little game we're playing is just beginning. And when it's over, you'll be the one left heartbroken, wondering what you ever saw in him that I couldn't offer better."

With a flick of her hair and a cruel laugh, Felicia disappeared into the crowd, leaving Mary Jane trembling and Peter's heart heavy. The gauntlet had been thrown, and the lines between love, rivalry, and danger had blurred irrevocably.

"And in a way, Aunt May," Peter continued, his voice tinged with regret, "She was right. For a while, Felicia became the person I confided in, the one who understood the darkness Peter Parker carried. But her words cut deep, Aunt May. Especially when she said she loved the masked vigilante - the Spider-Man - more than Peter Parker. It felt like a slap in the face, even though it wasn't physical."

He fell silent, lost in the memories of that heated exchange. Aunt May took another sip of her tea, the clinking of the cup against the saucer a quiet counterpoint to Peter's heavy sigh. "Do you know where Felicia is, honey?" she asked, her voice laced with gentle concern.

Peter shrugged, his shoulders slumping like a deflated balloon. "Not a clue, Aunt May. Not a clue. Vanished like a wisp of smoke four years ago. Remember that winter festival in Central Park? That was the last time we dated, right before I got serious with MJ. It was on and off, confusing as a Rubik's cube. I remember she wanted to tell me something, something big, but she clammed up before she could spit it out. Never bothered to mention it." He paused, his brow furrowing in thought.

"What do you think she wanted to say?" Aunt May asked, her eyes reflecting his own unspoken question.

"Don't know." Peter let out a humorless chuckle, the sound scraping against his throat. "Felicia, she was a walking enigma, that one. And I knew her better than most, believe me. Well, after Gwen too…"

Aunt May's eyes narrowed, a flicker of knowing glinting in them. "Knew her better than most aside from Gwen? What do you mean by that, Peter? And here I thought I taught you better than that young man."

Peter flushed, heat creeping up his neck to his face. He knew exactly what May was implying, those nights of raw, tangled passion, the way they'd explored each other's bodies like two maps yearning to be deciphered. He couldn't tell her that, though. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile. "Let's just say, I had this whole future planned out back then. Kids, a house, maybe even Felicia in an apron with a 'Kiss the Cook' sign on it. Crazy, right?" But a shadow flickered across his eyes, betraying the wistfulness in his voice. "Sometimes, I miss her, even though I know it wouldn't have lasted. We were like oil and water, Aunt May. Exciting, yeah, but a recipe for disaster."

Aunt May reached out, her touch a comforting weight on his arm. "Peter," She said softly, her voice laced with understanding, "Love can be messy, especially when you're young and figuring things out. But remember, you deserve someone who loves you for who you are, both the light and the shadows, the Peter Parker, and the Spider-Man."

Peter squeezed her hand, his heart swelling with gratitude. "Maybe you're right, Aunt May. Maybe someday I'll find someone who gets me, both sides of me." He let out a small laugh, half cynical, half hopeful. "But knowing my luck, pigs will fly first."

Aunt May chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Peter. You're a good man, and the right woman will see that. Just keep your heart open, and who knows what the future holds."

Peter nodded, a spark of hope flickering in his eyes, "I'll try." Maybe, just maybe, Aunt May was right.

Aunt May's hand, warm and wrinkled, patted his reassuringly. "How about we take a walk in Central Park, Peter? All this talk about relationships can get heavy sometimes, wouldn't you agree?"

He let out a deep breath, the tension finally starting to unravel from his shoulders. He could practically smell the sweet scent of freshly cut grass and the delicate perfume of the first daffodils breaking through the cold earth. He pictured himself beneath the towering elm trees, their branches dancing in the gentle spring breeze, whispering secrets only they could hear.

"Yeah, Aunt May," He said, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Fresh air is just what the doctor ordered."


Central Park 12:20 pm

As they walked through the park, the crisp air filling his lungs, Peter felt a weight lift from his chest. The sun dappled through the leaves, casting playful patterns on the path, and the chirping of birds filled the air with a joyful melody. He glanced at Aunt May, her kind eyes reflecting the sunlight, and a wave of gratitude washed over him. He might not have all the answers, but he had her love and support, and that was more than enough for now.

They spent the day meandering through Central Park, the sun warming their faces and the scent of blooming flowers filling their lungs. Children chased pigeons on the grassy expanse, their laughter echoing through the trees, while joggers huffed and puffed on the winding paths. Peter found himself drawn to the shimmering surface of the lake, watching ducks glide gracefully across the water.

As they walked, Peter felt the tension that had been gripping him slowly melt away. The gentle rhythm of their footsteps, the warmth of the sun on his skin, and the easy conversation with Aunt May all conspired to create a sense of peace he hadn't felt in a long time. He realized how much he needed this break, this time away from the pressure of being Spider-Man and the worries about his love life.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows on the park, Peter and Aunt May decided to continue their walk into the city. They stumbled upon a bustling street fair, the air filled with the aroma of delicious food and the sounds of laughter and music. Peter bought Aunt May a colorful cotton candy, and they watched a talented juggler keep a dozen pins spinning in the air. As the city lights twinkled on, Peter realized that even though he had taken a break from being Spider-Man, the hero inside him still found joy in the simple things, in the company of loved ones, and in the vibrant energy of life itself.

He swung open the door, a lightness in his step that hadn't been there earlier. Aunt May's words had worked their magic, easing the ache in his heart for Mary Jane and replacing it with a fragile sense of hope. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, he blinked in surprise. 8:00 pm already? Where had the time gone?

The police scanner crackled to life, its urgent rhythm filling the room as he peeled off his clothes and donned the familiar red and blue. He stretched, the fabric whispering against his skin, and a pang of worry flickered through him. He was going to be jobless. Jolly Jonah's venomous threat echoed in his mind. "And don't even think about another job in the press industry!" He knew the man, and that promise likely held more truth than comfort.

An hour later a frantic rap at the door sent him scrambling. Panicking, Peter dove for his bathrobe in the closet, half-tucking his costume in and leaving the mask askew. Another rap, this time followed by Ursula's calm yet insistent voice, "Peter, it's me, Ursula. I want to talk."

He cursed under his breath, tripping over a discarded shoe and stubbing his toe against the trunk. "Ow my toe! Stupid trunk!" He muttered, emerging sheepishly with the bathrobe clinging precariously to his frame. He yanked the door open to reveal Ursula in pajamas, holding a plate... of cookies? He glanced at the clock again: 9:40 pm. 'Almost broke my neck for cookies? Time for a new routine, Parker." He smiles at the girl in front of him. "Ursula, hey. What brings you here?"

"Well," She began, her Irish lilt soft and lilting, "I wanted to check in on you, Pete. But when I knocked earlier, you were gone. So, I figured I'd catch you later." He studied her, his gaze lingering on the plate as she offers. "Cookies?"

Peter chuckles, "You're a lifesaver, Ursula. Almost died of starvation here." He winked, a playful glint in his eyes. "But seriously," He added, his smile fading, "I'm not really in the mood right now. My fiancée broke off the engagement... I just want to be alone."

Ursula's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, Peter, I had no idea! I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Company for the night? Take your mind off things?" She offered, her voice uttering in a tempting voice, she skillfully unbuttoned one of the buttons on her top, exposing a tantalizing view of her bosom. Despite her slim physique, she possessed an alluring charm that encompassed her entire being.

A wave of panic washed over him as he swallowed nervously. His throat went dry as he swallowed hard. Sure, she had a crush on him since he moved into the tiny apartment three years ago, but she was nowhere near the league of Gwen Stacey, Felicia Hardy, Angelica Jones, or Mary Jane Watson. He couldn't deny the temptation, though. She was practically throwing herself at him, and all he had to do was accept her offer. But no, he was determined not to engage in any foolishness and even felt a heat creep up his neck, a flicker of desire battling with his resolve. But the sting of his recent heartbreak was still raw, and the thought of anything more felt overwhelming.

"I appreciate it, Ursula, really. But I just... need to be alone right now." He forced a smile, his voice tight. "The company's nice, but... maybe another time?" He grabbed the plate, his fingers brushing against hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her. "I'll get this back when I'm done. Thanks, and..."

Before he could finish, Ursula surprised him with a quick, chaste kiss. Her lips were soft, warm, and the gesture held a surprising tenderness that left him speechless. When she pulled away, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling with unspoken emotions.

"I really do like you, Peter," She said softly, her voice barely a whisper. "More than just a friend, I mean. But I understand, and I won't push. Just know... I'm here if you need anything, okay?"

Peter felt a pang of guilt, a sense of obligation warring with his desire for solitude. He opened his mouth to respond, but Ursula squeezed his hand gently, a silent plea in her eyes.

"Good night, Peter," She said, her voice thick with unspoken emotions. "Sleep well."

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Peter standing there, the plate of cookies forgotten in his hand. He watched her go, a knot of confusion and guilt tightening in his stomach. This was going to be harder than he thought.

The door slammed shut, the echo bouncing off the walls like a mocking laugh. Peter let out a groan, collapsing onto the couch with a thud. The tension hadn't left, it had simply shifted, morphing into a knot of anxiety in his gut. Absolutely not. Fooling around with Ursula, his landlord's daughter, was definitely off-limits.

The mere thought of Mr. Dikovitz's booming voice sent shivers down his spine. "Marry her, Parker! You took her innocence!" The image of a forced wedding, a life shackled to an unwanted wife, was enough to make him want to crawl under the couch and hide.

Sure, Ursula was attractive. He wasn't blind. He couldn't ignore the way her eyes lingered on him, the shy smile that played on her lips when their paths crossed. And she was kind, offering him meals when he was down on his luck, a silent haven amidst the chaos of his life. A good cook, too. He wouldn't mind having someone like her around... if things were different. But they weren't. The embers of his broken engagement with Mary Jane still glowed hot, leaving him with a raw, stinging ache. The thought of another relationship, especially one built on such uneven ground, felt like pouring salt on an open wound.

Yet, a part of him couldn't help but admire Ursula's genuine kindness, her selfless nature. Qualities he sometimes felt were lacking in Mary Jane's fiery independence from time to time. He paused in thinking for a moment, was he being unfair? Did he judge her too harshly?

But beyond the Mr. Dikovitz factor, there was the ever-present weight of his secret. Explaining Spider-Man to Ursula seemed impossible. What would she think? How would she react? He just couldn't handle that kind of complication right now.

He sank deeper into the couch, feeling like he was drowning in responsibilities, heartbreak, and the unexpected advances of his landlord's daughter. All he craved was a break, a moment to breathe and untangle the mess in his head. But even that seemed like a luxury he couldn't afford.

His gaze fell on the plate of cookies in his hand, a forgotten offering from Ursula's visit. He winced, remembering the heat rising to his cheeks as she'd unbuttoned her blouse, the unspoken invitation in her eyes. But the sting of his recent breakup was still raw, leaving him with the emotional equivalent of third-degree burns. He couldn't handle another complication, another tangled web of feelings.

He had to tell her he wasn't interested. But tonight, tonight he just couldn't. He took a bite of the cookie, savoring the sweetness for a moment. It was the only solace he had in the storm raging inside him.

Peter popped the last bite of cookie into his mouth, then he peeled off the bathrobe, the fabric clinging to his damp skin. The smell of sweat and the city hit him like a punch to the gut. He winced, tossing the costume aside with a grimace. Maybe it was time for a wash. But there was no time, not tonight. He pulled on his underwear and tank top, the thin material barely a barrier against the chill of the night.

Brushing his teeth, the grit of the day leaving a metallic tang in his mouth, he looked out the window. The city stretched out before him, a tapestry of twinkling lights and towering shadows. He should be out there, swinging between the buildings, a silent guardian against the darkness. But his eyelids felt heavy, his body ached with exhaustion.

Mary Jane's face flashed in his mind, a ghost in the corner of his vision. The ache in his heart was a dull throb, a constant reminder of what he'd lost. But tonight, he wouldn't think about that. Tonight, he would allow himself to be selfish, to prioritize the fragile peace of sleep over the endless fight for justice.

He flopped down on the bed, the mattress groaning under his weight. He shut off the lamp, the room plunging into darkness. But even as his eyes closed, his mind still flickered with the faint echoes of the city's heartbeat, the distant wail of a siren a mournful cry in the night. He wouldn't sleep soundly, not tonight. But he would sleep. And maybe, just maybe, he would wake up stronger, ready to face the darkness once more.

During the night Moonlight painted the city a mosaic of silver and shadow. Below, Peter's apartment window stared blankly back at the alien lurking on the ledge. The symbiote pulsed, a hungry heart yearning for its former beat. It had traversed bodies, each a steppingstone, leading it here. To Spider-Man's nest.

Memories flickered like flames across its consciousness: laughter echoing in a sun-drenched room, the sharp sting of betrayal, the agonizing separation. But this wasn't a nostalgic trip down memory lane. This was a mission. Survival.

It oozed through the rusted fire escape, a shadow swallowing shadows. Peter's scent filled its senses, familiar and intoxicating. Finally, after an eternity of crawling, it found him. Snoring softly, oblivious to the second visitor oozing through his door.

Rising to its full height, the symbiote watched him sleep. It needed him. Needed to bond. But before it acted, it surveyed the room. Yes, this was the same place, but tonight wasn't for sentimentality. It was for survival.

Peter groaned, his eyes cracking open. Toilet duty trumped sleep tonight. His vision blurred, then focused on a nightmare against the moonlit wall. A pulsating mass of darkness, stretching and reforming like living shadows. The white spider insignia gleamed on its chest, a mocking grin from a past he'd tried to bury.

"What the—?" he mumbled, grogginess melting into cold fear. Recognition slammed into him, brutal and icy. "You? What the hell are you doing here?"

The symbiote surged, a tidal wave of darkness. "Paaarrrkkeeerrr…" it oozed, the voice a distorted echo of his own. "Hunger… Need… You…"

Peter scrambled back, dodging its viscous lunge. Adrenaline washed over him, erasing fatigue. This wasn't a street thug, not a petty burglar. This was the abyss in disguise, a predator he knew all too well.

The symbiote lashed out, tendrils like hungry vines, but Peter was faster, lighter. He vaulted off the wall, clinging to the ceiling like a spider.

"Need… symbiosisss… to… live…" the creature rasped, frustration twisting its form.

"And I need to stay alive," Peter retorted, voice tight with fear and defiance. "So step back, or this gets messy."

"Peter," it rasped, a chorus of whispers, a chilling echo of the one that haunted his dreams. "Come to me. We are meant to be one."

Peter watched in horror at the once-familiar costume. He never thought he'd see the alien here, in his apartment, after everything it had done. The strain it put on Mary Jane, his almost-fiancée, the rage and darkness it fueled within him, the broken relationship with Felicia... a million reasons to reject it, a million more to fear it.

"Stay back," he snarled. "No way am I bonding with you, not after what happened the last time!" A realization dawned on him. "Where's Brock? Why aren't you with him?"

"Eddie isss… ssttill… in Rykers… withhh… my other half…" It hissed. "Rememberrr… the… little piece… you gave… to Connors…"

Peter remembered. The sample he gave Connors after the John Jameson debacle, the million-dollar bounty on his head. But if this piece was part of the original suit, why wasn't it drawn back to Eddie? Why this desperate crawl to him?

"Why come to me?" He asked, his voice laced with suspicion and a hint of fear.

"I… still… love… you…" It rasped, the words hanging in the air like a poisonous cloud.

Peter's jaw nearly hit the floor. Love? From this alien entity? He scoffed. "Can I ask why" He pointed his finger accusingly. "I don't see you confessing to Brock!"

"I'm… still… indebted… to… you… have… freed… me… from… my… cage… back… on… shuttle… " It responded.

The memory jolted him. The crash-landing on the Brooklyn bridge, the faint voice he thought was just pollution. It all made a twisted kind of sense now. His first encounter, his unwitting role in its escape. But the answer only raised more questions. "Why now?" he pressed, his mind racing. "And why this form?"

The symbiote shifted, its form flickering between male and female, then settling into a humanoid shape with a vaguely lamppost-like lower body. "I… only… wanted… to… improve… your… life…"

Peter scoffed. Improve? It nearly destroyed his life, turning his rage and darkest desires into weapons against those he loved. "You used me like a puppet," he spat, the words bitter on his tongue. "Felicia's broken arm, the disrespect to Aunt May, the near murders, the terror you inflicted... is that your version of improvement?"

Yes, all of that was true, it may not have been there with its original body nonetheless it can see what the other could see. Dejectedly, Venom was about to receive another rejection like the first time, so it turned to leave when Peter asked the question, "So I'll ask you before I send over to the cleaners what do you want?"

"Another chance," The symbiote rasped, its voice a hollow echo in the silent room. "I can be different. I can help you, like I did before."

The silence stretched, thick with tension. Peter paced the room, his eyes darting between the symbiote and the red and blue suit on the floor, a silent symbol of their tumultuous past. The question hung heavy in the air: accept the risk, or walk away forever?

Peter narrowed his eyes he stared at the pulsating mass; his jaw clenched tight. His mind raced, weighing the risks and rewards of this uneasy pact. One wrong move, and he could be back to square one, consumed by the darkness he barely escaped. Yet, the creature before him wasn't the same snarling predator it once was. It was weak, injured, almost pitiable. A flicker of something akin to sympathy sparked in his chest, quickly followed by a surge of self-loathing. Was he really considering this again?

Taking a deep breath, he spoke, his voice hoarse. "Alright, you can stay. But this comes with strings attached. Big, thick, unbreakable strings. Just get it over with." The symbiote pulsed excitedly, its form rippling in anticipation. Peter grimaced. It still moved too quickly, too eagerly.

He closed his eyes, feeling the cold tendrils wrap around him, molding his skin. The familiar tingling sensation sent shivers down his spine, a chilling reminder of the power he was holding. When the transformation was complete, the white spider emblem glowed on his chest, a mocking beacon in the darkness.

He willed the symbiote into comfortable pajamas, the form shifting with unnatural ease. It was too easy. Too compliant. A knot of worry tightened in his stomach. This wasn't the wild beast he remembered. This was something else, something cunning, calculating.

A long yawn escaped his lips as he stretched, muscles tight with nervous energy. His eyes darted around the room, landing on the discarded red and blue suit. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, followed by a bitter taste of regret. He had sworn never to wear the black suit again, yet here he was, bound to a different part of the same nightmare.

"Ground rules first thing in the morning," He muttered, forcing a semblance of confidence. "Now, bathroom duty calls."

He rose from the bed, his movements stiff and unnatural. With each step, he felt the symbiote whispering in his mind, a chorus of promises and dark temptations. His grip on the doorknob tightened, resolve hardening in his eyes. He would control this. He had to. But he knew, in the pit of his stomach, that this fragile truce might just be the calm before the storm.


LXD: Welcome to the soft reboot of my original story of Symbiosis. Now what I intend to do is 'Trim the fat' so to speak get to the point while trying to provide entertainment in the story with that said this is a soft reboot some things will be familiar to the original story with some changes, I won't say what will change and what will stay the same. Hope you enjoyed so please leave a comment, review, favorite or subscribe.