R.S.V.P
It was hard to believe that almost two years ago, Peter found himself the victim of absolute Parker Luck in the form of one nasty, radioactive spider bite. One that completely changed his life in ways he still couldn't fully wrap his head around.
“Oh come on!” Peter rapidly flipped the light switch to the laundry room up and down, and up and down, and up and down — until eventually, and with no restraint of his aggravation, conceded to the darkness.
It shouldn't come as a surprise; the super of the building was a total joke when it came to making repairs.
“Just great,” Peter mumbled, exaggeratedly digging for his cell phone in the back pocket of his jeans — lowkey glad he thought to bring it despite this being just a ‘quick trip down to the basement.’
May should've known by now it was never just a quick trip.
And despite him gaining totally-awesome super powers nearly two years ago, night-vision was not one of his new, nifty abilities that he could store away in his metaphorical utility built. Even if Ned still insisted, to this day, that it could be.
It was times like these that Peter wished Ned was right.
Unfortunately, dark meant dark, even with eyes like his. He may not need glasses anymore, but that didn't mean he could see his way through Mordor without the light of Sauron’s eye guiding the way.
Peter unlocked the cracked touchscreen of his phone and switched on the flashlight app, trudging forward into the laundry room while making sure his sock-clad feet didn't accidentally step in any laundry detergent that Mrs. Hayes was notorious for spilling.
No different than a radioactive spider-bite, that would be just his luck.
Peter sighed as he threw open the door to the fusebox in the far back corner, nearly tucked behind one of the dryers and almost made inaccessible — it actually was made inaccessible, but Peter had nudged the dryer slightly to the side the last time they needed to come down here. He was pretty sure the scuff marks could be seen on the tiled floor. But like most things in New York City, nobody questioned it.
At the same time as he accessed the fusebox, he scrolled through his contact list with just the pad of his thumb, hitting the very first number that came up.
It rang, four times in total. Long enough for Peter to wish he did have night-vision, but not long enough for him to wonder what exactly he'd do with it.
“What's up? You not able to get in?”
May's voice came right through the speaker of his cell, her words almost seeming to bounce off the many industrial washers and dryers that occupied the dark and empty laundry room.
Peter waited until that reverberation passed before answering.
“No, I'm down here,” he said, keeping the call going even as he shined the phone's flashlight against the open fusebox, practically studying the inside of it the best he could with squinted eyes. “But we’re gunna have to play the game again.”
Peter swore he heard May's groan all the way from eight floors up.
“Ughhhhh, really?” Her sigh was equally as loud, followed by the pitter-patter of footsteps across their apartment. “Okay, hold up, let me get all the light switches turned on.”
The ambient noise of May shuffling room to room filled any silence between them. Peter used the moment to quickly scan the laundry room, swiveling his phone around to make sure he was truly by himself.
It was hard to make out every little detail with just his phones flashlight, but from what he could tell, it was just him and the laundry machines. None of the residents in the building had a habit of using the apartment's washers or dryers, not since half were broken anyhow — and those that remained working left a moldy smell to their clothes, with dryers that failed to dry all the way through.
Both Peter and May had thrown away handful of shirts, pants, and all of Peter's underwear when they first moved in before realizing it was just smarter to utilize the laundromat across the street instead of doing six cycles of the same clothes to get the smell out. To Peter's knowledge, Mrs. Hayes was the only one to still utilize the laundry room. And she always smelt like mold. Which said plenty in and of itself.
It may have been coming up on two years now since Peter got his powers — one year and nine months, if he did the math — but they'd only been living at this apartment since a few months after Ben died. Which wasn't long after he met Mr. Stark, now that Peter started to remember.
Not long after everything in Germany, May found them a new place to live across Queens, opting for something a little cheaper to fit their needs. After all, they could only rely on her salary from the FEAST shelter to pay the bills. The modest but small apartment unit was more than suitable for them both.
It was just…problematic, at times.
Peter didn't mind. It wasn't that he didn't like the new place — it was a little past a full year now that they'd been living there. They adjusted to their laundry needs, got used to the broken stove timer, sealed up the cracked windows — they made it their home, the best they could. It wouldn't ever be what home once was for them, but they'd try.
And as long as they had each other, they had a home.
Peter just wish he could contribute to that home in more ways than making basement trips when the fuse blew.
MJ had gotten a job over the summer. Maybe he should try and do the same.
“Okay,” May cut right through his runaway thoughts, “I'm ready, let's go.”
Snapping back to awareness, Peter turned his attention to the fuse breaker, shining the light of his cell phone against the inside and finding the first breaker switch on the panel board.
“That's number one,” he said, waiting a second before pushing the switch back in place. “What'd it do?”
May waited a moment before answering, “That would be my bedroom.”
A warning message popped up on Peter’s screen. He used the pad of his thumb to swipe it away before reaching for the next breaker switch.
“You know,” Peter started to say, flipping the switch and leaving it in the off position for a few seconds. “None of this would’ve happened if you had just ordered pizza instead of trying to cook something.”
A click came after he flipped the switch to the other side.
“Peter, I have told you a thousand times that you can’t use the microwave with the Crockpot on,” May paused before she went on to announce, “That was the living room.”
Peter made a face, seen only by the glow of his phone's screen, as he flipped the third switch inside the fuse breaker. “But the Crockpot wouldn’t have needed to be on if you agreed that Philomena’s was a better idea than tacos.”
A soft laugh came through first, before, “Kiddo, you said that you had pizza for lunch, what is with your incessant craving for—”
“That was not pizza, May,” Peter very firmly insisted, going so far as to bring the speaker of his phone right to his mouth — ensuring everything that came next was heard, loud and clear. “Not even the rats in Brooklyn would’ve eaten that pizza. And I’ve seen them eat some sketchy things. Also, what light was that — that was number three.”
“Uhhh…bathroom! Looks like that was the bathroom,” May’s pitter-patter of footsteps came right alongside her voice. “Are you sure none of them are tripped? You should just be able to find the one that’s flipped and turn it —”
“None of them are tripped, May,” Peter exasperatedly interrupted, “I’ve looked a dozen times —”
“It’s just so strange that —”
“I’m looking at them right now. All of them.” Peter pointed a rigid finger at each breaker switch inside the fuse panel. “On, on, on, on, on —”
“Okay, okay —”
“On, on, on —”
“Okay, kiddo, okay!”
May's laugh, at the very least, bled right through her own exasperation. As frustrating as the situation was, Peter let himself smile a bit at that.
That smile quickly faded as he looked back to the fuse box, using his thumb and forefinger to flip the fourth switch down.
“You know,” he said, flipping the switch back in place, “this happens almost every time a fuse blows. The super really needs to look into the wiring for this building.” Peter scrunched his brows until they were wrinkly against his forehead. “It’s all…wonky.”
“Wonky, huh? Using our big-brain words today.”
Peter rolled his eyes.
“Shut up, May,” he lackadaisically bit back, once again using his thumb to swipe away a warning message that popped up on his screen. The device got significantly dimmer, even the flashlight growing weaker at the lack of power. “Didn’t we say we were gunna mark all these switches when we first moved in? That way we’d remember what’s-what?”
“Life got crazy,” May easily answered, her soft footfalls coming to a sudden stop. “And hey, I haven’t tripped the breaker in a while now. Not since I last tried making pot roast.”
“Please don’t try and make pot roast ever again,” Peter didn’t miss a beat.
Despite being eight floors above him, Peter swore May’s offense was palpable. “It wasn’t that bad— ”
“They called the fire department,” Peter countered swiftly. The was a brief pause as he tried, and failed, to shake away the taste that seemed arise with the memory, one that must’ve been permanently engraved into his tongue. He stuck it out to try and rid the flavor. “It was bad. So bad.”
Sometimes, no answer was answer enough. And aside from May’s clearly audible grumble, her defense was next to none.
They really should've ordered pizza tonight.
“That was the fourth one, by the way,” Peter changed the subject, reaching back inside the fusebox as he waited for an answer. “What’d that do?”
A noise of disagreement came from May. “Mhm-mhm. Your bedroom.”
The sigh that blew through Peter's lungs held enough force to puff out his cheeks like a Chipmunk. There was no denying that they really needed to get these switches labeled, but May was more than right — life had gotten absolutely crazy. It was no wonder something like this fell on the back burner.
Peter still couldn't believe that around three weeks ago, he’d died. Died died. And now here he was, trying to get the power back on inside their kitchen because May could only use the Crockpot on the outlet that would cause a blown fuse if literally any other appliance in the kitchen ran at the same time.
Crazy just didn't describe his life these days. They needed to invent a whole new word for that.
“Okay,” Peter’s brows began to narrow into a tight V as he looked between the fusebox and the screen of his cell phone. “Four down, six to go. I’ve got like, five percent left on my phone battery, hopefully it holds out—”
“Peter, you have got to get better about keeping that thing charged!”
Peter winced and gave a grimace he knew May couldn't see through the phone. Or maybe she could. It was hard to tell with her — sometimes he swore she knew it all.
“I know, I know,” he insisted.
“What about a wireless charger?” she began to ask, almost desperately. “Can Tony build you something like that, something that charges it while it’s in your backpack? A backpack charger?” May sighed — almost as if suddenly realizing it was foolish to recommend an invention on the very item Peter had a tendency to lose every single day. At the very least, it was Tony’s problem now to deal with. “Seriously, kiddo, your phones gunna die one day and you’ll need it and if I can’t get a hold of you—”
“May, you’re starting to freak out —”
“And if Tony can’t get a hold of you and if you need help —”
“May. Freaking out. Stop.” Peter forcibly flipped the fifth switch on the left side of the fuse breaker, and flipped it back in place with the same amount of force. “What’d that do?”
“Oh, sweet,” May’s stress seemed to switch off no different than the fuse breakers had. “That did it. Come on up, and don’t forget —”
There was no warning message on Peter’s phone that time. It simply shut off, both the flashlight and the device entirely.
Peter looked down at the black screen with a frown. Well, everything was black now — no light in the laundry room once his phone died for good.
“Crap,” he muttered, stuffing the device into his back pocket — completely forgetting this pair of jeans had a growing hole in the butt until his finger nearly got trapped there. “I really do gotta get better about charging this thing.”
Closing the metal door to the fuse breaker, Peter turned on his heels and began to leave the laundry room.
He slipped and fell on laundry detergent on the way out.
“Oh my, my, yes, it’s been…it’s been quite the few months, for sure. A lot of preparation has gone into this, many things occurring behind the scenes — and now that OsCorp has reached the point of publicizing this announcement, well…I won’t lie, it’s a bit of a burden off the back.”
As Peter threw open the front door to the apartment, the first thing he heard was the distant voices coming from the living room television. It was at a volume that told him May wasn’t really paying attention, just using it for background noise. Yet it was loud enough that it reached over her struggle with pots and pans all the way inside the kitchen, and certainly quick to grab his attention.
Anything OsCorp related had a tendency to do that these days.
Peter hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the front door to living room when he looked over at the TV, frowning deeply.
“But of course, things are just beginning. We have a long future to look forward to, one that’ll far exceed my time on this earth.” The voice of the man sounded professional, each word said with a sharp precision and clarity to his statements. “It’s all about legacy, after all. And the Osborn dynasty has yet to untap their full potential in what lays ahead. I’m excited to be apart of these unfolding developments with them.”
Whatever channel was playing, Peter quickly deduced it was a news station. Something where someone was being interviewed — an old man, that much was obvious. He wore a business suit that Peter was sure cost five times May’s rent, and his grayish white hair matched perfectly with the deep wrinkles that dug harsh lines into his skin.
And yet, despite talking about OsCorp, the man was most definitely not Norman Osborn. Peter wasn’t sure he’d actually ever seen him before. Granted, he never paid much attention to these things until recently, but still.
He approached the back of the sofa, watching the TV and moving almost in a trance. So much so that he completely forgot his laundry detergent soaked socks were still gripped in his hand, and his bare feet still sticky with the residue they’d encountered.
“You sound quite optimistic about the longevity in OsCorp’s future, Mr. Symthe,” the interviewer said, his tone as serious and straitlaced as the much older man sitting across from him. “Does this mean you’re not worried about the dissolution of partnership with Bio-Labs? Their upstate, New York facility alone brought in OsCorp over thirty percent of their shares and profits last year.”
The man being interviewed gave a light chuckle — Spencer Symthe, Peter discovered, right as the lower third graphic appeared on the screen, displaying his name in whole.
It also gave him a title. Peter furrowed his brows as he quickly read it. Right next to his full name were the words, Co-chairman.
The man may have not been Norman, but there was no doubt that he was right up there in hierarchy.
“Last year is behind us, OsCorp looks only to the future,” Spencer simply answered, as smoothly as the words that came before him. “Bio-Labs served us well in the past, but OsCorp is moving forward with their endeavors in other ways. Having gained majority ownership in buying them out will only prove to serve us further than ever before. We have something quite exciting happening here very soon. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details just yet, but our acquisition of Bio-Labs has made way for something far better. Both for us and for mankind.”
The interviewer looked down at his lap and the sleek notepad in his hands. “Is it true OsCorp purchased that facility from Bio-Labs?” he read off his notes.
“We did, yes,” Spencer answered so quickly, the camera didn’t cut to him until mid-sentence. “We came to an agreement with Bio-Labs on a price, and OsCorp is hoping to utilize the facility for further expanding their research studies across the east coast.”
Peter suddenly looked left and right, and then down to the sofa — finding the TV remote stuck in-between the armrest of the cushions. Discarding his socks, he grabbed the remote and hit the first button his thumb could get a hold of. It displayed the title of the show over the screen — ‘Executive Insights with Mark Mitchell.’
“There’s been…quite the controversy regarding those research facilities, Mr. Symthe,” Mark Mitchell, Peter correctly assumed, went on to say. “I’m sure you’re more than aware of the legal trial that took place this afternoon — any comment?”
Slowly, Peter dropped the remote down onto the end table next to the couch. All the while, he never looked away from the TV.
“Ridiculous claims made by ridiculous people.” Spencer waved his hand right alongside his answer. “Despite his rank in the air force, I assure you that Colonel Rhodes has no interest in the safety of this country. He sides with his interest and his team alone — that is, the Avengers. The only people we seem to allow to live above the law.” For a man who had kept his tone even and unwavering, there was a slight hitch in words that heated them up, something Peter couldn’t ignore. He suddenly sounded frustrated, angry. To the point where a pause followed, and he noticeably cleared his throat. “These claims made by him and subsequently, the team he participates with, are as foolish as they are deranged.”
Mark simply nodded. “It’s been no secret that Stark Industries very own Tony Stark has been pushing this case, advocating for the entire revocation of OsCorp’s funding and participation with the Institutional Review Board. He states that compliance with regulatory requirements have been, in his words, the biggest disgrace to not only the field of science but to humanity as a whole.”
“And yet Judge Whittaker has made it very clear today that he disagrees with those claims,” Spencer answered the question that had yet to be asked. “Tony Stark’s efforts to shut down OsCorp have been nothing but a blip on our radar. The court system sided with us on that today, making it very clear that there’s no grounds to the absurd accusations put forth by rumors and heresay.”
Mark cocked his eyebrow high, and so did Peter. Both of them for different reasons. “Is that your way of saying OsCorp’s research studies haven ’t been neglecting proper codes and regulations, and remain to demonstrate due diligence in maintaining public safety standards for both their participate and employees? ”
“By all means, yes,” Spencer easily answered. So easily, Peter went to fold both arms over his chest, the look that pulled at his face causing lines he was far too young to be dealt with. “If all goes well, the former Bio-Labs facility will be up and running within a few months, once converted into one of OsCorp’s technological facilities. And it’ll foster not only the community and development of science careers, but also expand the boundaries of research to pave the way for a brighter tomorrow.”
“Oh, gosh!”
May's shout reached over the low volume of the TV, and her frantic footsteps out of the kitchen did just the same. Peter twisted at the hips to see her waving and flapping a dishtowel at the open door of the stove.
“I cannot get that smoke out of here!” May chuckled with a bit of a cough, roughly clearing the smoke out of her throat as she turned around to Peter and asked, “Did you get the mail?”
Peter suddenly frowned. “The mail — huh?”
“The mail,” she repeated, throwing the dishtowel right over her shoulder. When Peter didn’t respond, May let one hand rest firmly on the bone of her hip. “I asked you to get the mail on the way up.”
With a smile so tight that it practically thinned his lips out to nothing, Peter sheepishly admitted, “My phone died.”
The look he got in return was the exact look he expected to receive.
Didn't make it any easier to deal with, of course.
“Forget it,” May grabbed the dishtowel off her shoulder and wagged at in his direction as she turned back into the kitchen. “Just help me with these taco’s. I need a pepper chopper and you’re just the guy for the job.”
Peter went to give the TV one last glance, but even as May started laying out an array of peppers across the kitchen counter to be prepped and sliced, his attention once again gravitated to the interview taking place.
“…thank you, again, Mr. Symthe, for your time this evening,” Mark began to wrap things up, going so far as to place his notepad aside, no longer having any use for it. “Though I won’t lie, I think I speak for all our viewers tonight when I say there’s a bit of disappointment in not having Mr. Osborn here as promised.”
“Of course. Trust me, I understand,” Spencer sympathized with an expression that suddenly fell uncharacteristically grim. Peter unknowingly turned further inward to face the screen. “But I hope yourself and the viewers understand just how devastating it was to the Osborn family to lose their country home in a unexpected, catastrophic gas-leak a few weeks ago. That house belonged to Norman's late wife, after all, which made it all the more difficult for them to come to terms with the loss. I think it's important for everyone to understand just how much of an emotional toll this has taken on the family.”
A tightness suddenly seized at Peter’s throat.
He didn't know about that.
He had no clue about that.
And he'd just been at Harry’s place, like…two weeks ago.
It burned down?
“Tragic, indeed,” Mark seemed to answer for Peter’s thoughts. Only far less emotionally involved. “Can you at least tell us if the Osborn’s are doing well?”
Peter didn't think a simple nod was enough to send palpable waves of relief through his body. But seeing the rich, old man nod his head in turn was enough to make him dizzy on his feet. The last thing he wanted was for Harry to be hurt.
And knowing how dangerous his dad was becoming…
“They are, I spoke to both just a few days ago,” Spencer seemed to negate Peter’s inner turmoil, almost too easily. “They’ve taken some much needed time off, and some time away.”
“Peter!” May’s shout sliced right through his thoughts and the interview taking place. “Come on, before Ned gets here!”
Peter was noticeably torn between the TV and the kitchen. He took a few, slow steps away from the sofa, but his attention stayed on the screen of the television the entire time.
“Time away?” Mark parroted. “Does that mean we should expect a delay in the 2017 annual OsCorp shareholders meeting?”
“Oh no, no,” Spencer dismissed the concept with an easy laugh and a wave of his hand. “No, we have no concerns regarding the AGM this year. Everything will go on as planned.”
“And Norman Osborn?” Mark asked with a quirked eyebrow and a skeptical frown. “He’ll be in attendance?”
“In fact,” Spencer let the pause that follow stretch his lips into a rigid, drawn-out grin, “believe me when I say Norman’s quite eager to share all his excitement in what’s to come.”
There was something disconcerting about the smile that spread across Spencer's face. It turned every aging wrinkle into a cavernous trench that Peter swore held more secrets than he could dare to uncipher.
For being an interview with the press, he had a feeling there was little truth being told.
“Last time, Peter!”
May’s voice rattled him back to the present moment, where Peter quickly spun on his heels and turned away from the TV for good. His bare feet made sticky noises against the kitchen tile with the laundry detergent that had soaked through the socks he’d taken off.
“You know, May,” Peter started to say, digging into the kitchen drawers as he looked for a knife to cut the peppers. “Happy would probably be way happier if you stopped trying to cook.”
Standing over the sink and using quick motions of a knife to scrape off the burnt taco shells, May told him, “For the fifth time, we’re not ordering pizza.”
Peter grabbed a knife from inside the drawer and pointed it at her direction. “I’m just saying — it’s not too late.”
May turned around, wagging her knife right back at him.
“Jalapeños. Chop. Now.”
The kitchen quickly filled itself with the background noise of Peter and May’s casual conversation, her questions about his studies and classes mixing with his chopping of peppers, and the sink occasionally running water. It overlapped with the finishing interview still sounding from the living room television; quiet, but still somewhat audible in the distance.
“Making it out of a house fire puts quite the toll on someone,” Mark went on to mention, dipping his chin low with a sincere curiosity. “I hate to ask, but will Norman be recouped in time for this conference?”
As quickly as the camera had focused on the interviewer, it switched to the man sitting across from him.
Spencer gave a tiny grin, the crows feet around his eyes protesting at the movement.
“I’ve been with Norman since day one of OsCorp,” he confidently said, “since the very afternoon he convinced me, at a bistro table on 54th street, to invest my profits into a far fetched concept he had for a robotics and genetic engineering company. If there’s one thing I know the most about him, it’s that he’s stubborn. Stubborn enough not to accept my no, all four times I said it. And stubborn enough to push onward in the wake of devastation. A setback like this won’t keep him stalled for very long,”
The camera zoomed in a bit on his face, catching the twitch in his forced smile. It stopped short of bringing his features out of focus, and as if noticing the hyper-focus on him, Spencer turned his attention to the lens — speaking directly to the shows audience.
“I assure you, wherever Norman is, he’s absolutely fine.”
Step forward.
Foot forward.
Step forward.
Foot forward.
Μ Ø V Ɇ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
Step forward…
Foot…
Forward…
…step…
. ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮ ₖᴱₑᴾ ᴹₒⱽᵢᴺᴳ
ƘƎƎρ ʍØѴłᑎĠ
Μ Ø V Ɇ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
The voices drowned out the sound of his footsteps. His ears rang with the whispers that burrowed deep into his head, jumbled and indistinct — somehow coming from all directions, speaking all at once.
They pushed him forward. Moving the depleted form of his physical vessel long past what little endurance he once had — now as empty as the roads he wandered.
Each trudge forward emitted a searing heat that burnt the asphalt below him, with wisps of smoke rising from his feet and tendrils of fumes twisting around his body. Not even the thick fabric of an over-sized, purple wool coat could contain the ash and soot rising off his pores. It merely burnt right through, leaving holes that exposed him to the night air; the heat of his own body a harsh contrast to the chill, autumn night.
And yet, despite it all, he kept moving.
Foot forward.
Step forward.
Foot forward.
Step forward.
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
n ̙̖̙͈̰̘̬̬̳̼̣͍̦ͅo̮͎̹̞̩̺̻͔t͎̠̼̹̻̫͉D͚͍̼͕' t̮o̮͚͔̣͇̖̯̮̼̠̲̲̣͉p̜͙S̞͖̬
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
n ̙̖̙͈̰̘̬̬̳̼̣͍̦ͅo̮͎̹̞̩̺̻͔t͎̠̼̹̻̫͉D͚͍̼͕' t̮o̮͚͔̣͇̖̯̮̼̠̲̲̣͉p̜͙S̞͖̬
D Ø ͙ ᑎ ͓'̝̖ҭ Sҭ Ø p ̩
The desolate back roads seemed to go on for miles, with the only light coming from the occasional car passing by; casting fleeting shadows that clung to the tattered coat draped over his back, bouncing off the sharp colors of tattered plum. Headlights beamed fiercely against his figure before dissipating far off into the distance, with vehicles traveling the road at a pace he failed to keep up with.
Still, he kept moving. Dragging each leg forward, with the skin of his exposed feet scraping against the narrow shoulder of the two-lane rural roads.
The rough texture of the unforgiving pavement cut into his toes and blistered the soles of his heels, leaving patches of blood that dried up before they could leave a mark. Embers of flickering fire continued to spark with a heat sourced from within, and each step forward left behind a molting impression on the damp and dirty pavement.
The trail of smoke that wafted off his body became the only marking of his journey. Even that was eventually lost, with the haze of gray and black smog getting lost in the dark night sky.
ƘƎƎρ ʍØѴłᑎĠ
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
n ̙̖̙͈̰̘̬̬̳̼̣͍̦ͅo̮͎̹̞̩̺̻͔t͎̠̼̹̻̫͉D͚͍̼͕' t̮o̮͚͔̣͇̖̯̮̼̠̲̲̣͉p̜͙S̞͖̬
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
D Ø ͙ ᑎ ͓'̝̖ҭ Sҭ Ø p ̩
Μ Ø V Ɇ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
The voices were insistent drone that spurred him on. Whispering, cajoling — commanding. Moving him like a puppet with no control to his strings, a prisoner to the relentless forces that held him in their grasp.
Move.
Keep going.
Keep moving.
That's all he knew.
n ̙̖̙͈̰̘̬̬̳̼̣͍̦ͅo̮͎̹̞̩̺̻͔t͎̠̼̹̻̫͉D͚͍̼͕' t̮o̮͚͔̣͇̖̯̮̼̠̲̲̣͉p̜͙S̞͖̬
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
D Ø ͙ ᑎ ͓'̝̖ҭ Sҭ Ø p ̩
Μ Ø V Ɇ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
As he trudged forward along the secluded northern country roads, a sudden brightness illuminated his back — casting long, jagged shadows on the pavement before him.
The noise of a blaring horn came not a second later, cutting straight through the weight of stifling silence.
For the first time in days, his feet came to a stop — right as an approaching car sped up from behind. When he craned his neck around, almost as if he were entranced by the sound, the two piercing headlights nearly blinded him with its intensity. The bright LEDs cut into every crevice of his skin, sinking deep into the lines of his face and shrinking his pupils until they were nothing more than a speck of black sitting in a pool of green irises.
That same emerald hue in his glazed eyes seem to intensify as the headlights shined brighter against his figure, his legs unmoving even as the car came speeding towards him — not even the voices occupying his thoughts enough to pry him away.
Norman didn't budge. The horn kept blaring one long, continuous warning sound, drawing closer as he stayed rooted in place, with the hood to an over-sized, heavy coat concealing most of his head from view.
“…off the road, you jackass!”
The car hurtled past him, along with a plastic cup that was thrown out the driver side window — missing its target entirely as it splashed the liquid contents along the grass fields flanking the road. Tires screeched on the pavement as gears were shifted and the wheels spun, leaving behind a cloud of dust and the lingering scent of burnt rubber.
Slowly, mindlessly, Norman turned his head back around towards the road in front of him — watching as the vehicle disappeared into the distance, its taillights receding into the darkness like twin red eyes.
A faint echo of the engine dwindled away with the lights, the road up ahead long and seemingly unending, obscured heavily in the pitch black skies of the night. The absence of sound fading out of earshot left a vacuum for the voices that ran rampant in his head — growing louder, more urgent. Whispers that turned into screams, clawing away at his sanity.
Norman listened to them. Following where ever they wanted him to go, starting with a single step forward.
Step forward.
Foot forward.
n ̙̖̙͈̰̘̬̬̳̼̣͍̦ͅo̮͎̹̞̩̺̻͔t͎̠̼̹̻̫͉D͚͍̼͕' t̮o̮͚͔̣͇̖̯̮̼̠̲̲̣͉p̜͙S̞͖̬
ꟼ͕͚̠̹͍̻ᴼₜꙄ ͖̗͇͔ᵀ̘̩͉'Ͷₒ̮̗̮̯ᗡ̲̜͇̘
D Ø ͙ ᑎ ͓'̝̖ҭ Sҭ Ø p ̩
Μ Ø V Ɇ . ̭̠͈͍.̳̤͈̠.̝̱̠.̦͖.̩͖.̺.̮
Peter didn’t want to brag, but he was kind of a genius when it came to certain things.
“There’s still good in him!”
He did, after all, invent his own web fluid that was stronger than steel; a marvel of a creation with both powerful adhesive and a huge tensile strength to boot. Not to mention the web-shooters that came with it — both his original version and the upgrade he managed to put together over the summer, thanks to Mr. Stark lending his remaining nanites after the whole Bermuda Triangle craziness.
“I also thought he could be turned back to the good side. It can’t be done.”
But all that was nothing compared to his success with the living room TV.
It took much trial and error, along with quite a bit of frustration from May, but Peter eventually figured it out. He discovered that if he wanted to achieve the perfect volume to hear the TV while simultaneously eat his food, he needed to use the remote control to set the volume to level eight, and then use the buttons on the television itself to increase it by three. It couldn’t be done with just the remote or just the buttons, and May gave up a long time ago on understanding why, but for Peter, it was perfect.
“He is more machine now than man. Twisted and evil.”
Not that it mattered much — the television could've been on mute and both he and Ned would still be able to quote every line spoken, even as they chewed ferociously like hungry wolves in the wild. Hell, with Peter’s insatiable appetite since The Bite, he could have easily made a starving wolf seem tame in comparison.
“I can’t do it, Ben,” both he and Ned mouthed at the same time, lips covered in grease as they both chomped eagerly on their dinner, watching the screen intently as if it were their first time seeing the movie.
The characters moved on the screen and Peter's eyes moved with them, even as he leaned forward towards the coffee table to grab another slice of pizza from the open box in front of him.
“You cannot escape your destiny,” Obi-Wan stressed, right as Ned fist-pumped his hand into the air — as if silently encouraging the fictional character from where he sat.
The slice of pizza nearly lost half its cheese when Peter picked it up. Even as he slowly and deliberately placed the melted mozzarella back onto the pizza slice, his eyes didn't look anywhere but straight ahead — captivated entirely by the movie that played.
“I tried to stop him once,” Luke cried out. “I couldn't do it!”
Peter’s chewing slowed down a bit, just enough that Obi-Wan’s voice was louder than before as he went on to say, “Vader humbled you when first you met him, Luke…but that experience was part of your training.”
Over both the sound of his chomping and the sound of Star Wars playing from the TV, Peter could make out the faint noise of a key wiggling in the front door. Seeing as he only knew two other people who had access to May's apartment — and seeing as one of them had been preoccupied in court trials all day to bother make a visit to Queens — he knew exactly who it was, and didn't even bother looking when the door finally flung open.
“Hello, hello!”
Happy's voice barely reached over both the movie and their chewing — Ned was practically slurping up the melted cheese dripping off his slice of pizza, nearly losing it all together when it almost plopped down into his lap — and along with the greeting came the jingle of Happy's keys, rattling against one another as he entered their apartment.
Peter noticed that jingle stop abruptly, followed by three large sniffs that could've put a bulldog to shame.
“Why do I smell…Mexican pizza?” Happy suddenly asked.
Over in the kitchen and sitting in the corner nook, May kept her focus on the screen of her laptop no different than Peter to the screen of the TV — even with Happy arriving inside the apartment, settling his keys on the wall mounted key rack with a sense of familiar causality they were all growing accustomed to.
“Over-seasoned the taco meat,” May dryly answered, her fingers clacking away on the keyboard of her laptop and her eyes set straight on the screen as she followed up with, “Also burnt the taco shells. Help yourself to some pizza.”
Glancing from the living room to the kitchen, and briefly noting both boys sitting on the sofa consuming what appeared to be their second box of pizza, Happy set his belongings down the counter ledge behind the nook — gently pushing away a few miscellaneous items to make room.
“Oh, now c’mon!” Leaning forward, he gave May a quick peck on the cheek — one she briefly engaged in, only to return back to her work just as quickly. “I'm sure it's not that bad!”
A noticeable sound came from the living room — it was hard to tell if the boys were laughing, making movie commentary, or inhaling their food so fast one of them finally choked on molten mozzarella.
May seemed unfazed by it, aside from a hefty eye-roll that was obvious underneath the large rims of her glasses.
“This it here?” Happy looked inside the kitchen, pointing a leather-gloved finger straight ahead at the Crockpot that still sat on the stove top, the lid half-on and the very-burnt taco shells sitting next to it.
May's noise of confirmation came alongside the noise of her keyboard, mixing in with the movie still playing from the living room, and yet still not audible over the hushed-but-not-hushed movie quotes from Ned and Peter, both reciting the lines out loud without realizing it — even with half-chewed pizza garbling their words.
Happy, the unwittingly brave soul he was, had already ventured into the kitchen where he took the ladle from the sink and dug into the pot without hesitation. He didn't even give himself time to sniff the spoonful before taking a gander at having a bite.
If the word regret had a picture next to it in the dictionary, his face would've been a perfect fit.
Downright defeated, May looked over the rim of her glasses as Happy struggled with his mouthful, his throat bobbing and spasming relentlessly as he forced himself to swallow.
It took a long time for him to swallow.
All the while, May didn't even try to hide her amusement in the lengthy pause that followed — or give him the grace of looking away as he clearly fought the instincts to upchuck the contents of his stomach. It wasn't until his left eye finally stopped twitching that he regained some sense of composure.
“So…pizza, then?” Happy finally choked out, already making his way to the stack of pizza boxes sitting on the kitchen table not far from May. “This Angelo's?”
Happy didn't even get a chance to open the lid of the cardboard pizza box before Peter whipped around on the couch, so fast it was a feat he didn't tip over the back of the sofa along the way.
“Angelo's? Heck no!” Peter couldn't have shot to attention any faster had he actually been shot, his voice easily reaching over the movie and Ned's obnoxiously loud cheese slurping. “Everyone knows the best pizza place in Queens is —”
As quickly as Peter had started to talk, words suddenly failed him.
He blinked twice to make sure he wasn't seeing things.
And then a third time, just to be sure.
“Hey, Hap...” Peter slowly drawled out, his eyebrow so high up his forehead it might as well have reached the apartment above them. “Since when did you need Nascar gear to drive a Rolls Royce?”
If it had just been the leather jacket, Peter may not have questioned it at all. The gloves, however, were a tip-off, and the helmet on the kitchen ledge — well, that was as odd things could get. The longer Peter stared at it and he began to wonder how Happy's head even fit into that helmet — sleek and stylish, full-faced and definitely not something he could picture the Forehead of Security, as Mr. Stark so elegantly nicknamed him, wearing around town.
Happy had already started to take off his thick and heavy-looking leather gloves when he went to answer.
“Happy's going through a mid-life crisis,” May beat him to it — still paying attention only to the screen of her laptop, even when Happy threw her a look normally reserved for the teenagers sitting across the apartment.
“I am not going through a — ”
“Oh my god!” Ned’s exclamation easily tore through any defense Happy may have conjured up. No different than Peter, he flipped over the couch at a speed that did nearly tip him over the back of the sofa. It was only with Peter's help that he regained balance, all the while excitedly asking, “Did you get a motorcycle, Mr. Hogan?”
Peter quickly shot his head towards Ned, and just as quickly back to Happy. The expression on the man’s face said it all, and if that didn't, the look of exasperation on May's certainly did.
“Not just any motorcycle,” Happy went on to answer regardless, the gleam in his eyes making him seem nearly as giddy as both the kids. “A Harley Cruiser, the best low rider on the market right now. Brand spankin’ new, too — custom-designed paint job, one of a kind.”
Ned squealed, easily out-doing Happy’s excitement.
“Dude, seriously?” Peter wasn't far behind them both — his grin grew large enough to see his back molars, and he was already jumping over the back of the sofa to hustle into the kitchen — literally jumping over the back, yet making sure his feet landed gracefully and without so much a thud to upset the downstairs neighbors. “You got a bike? That’s so cool!”
Taking off her glasses with one hand, May looked away from her laptop and craned her head up at Happy.
“Tell them what you originally wanted.”
A beat of silence fell over the kitchen. The movie kept playing in the background, even as Peter stumbled into the kitchen — the bottoms of his worn out but still very pink Hello Kitty pajama pants nearly tripped him up twice.
He looked at Happy, expectedly, the building curiosity in his eyes somehow louder than all the nonstop ramblings he could have for hours on end.
Happy tried making his shrug as casual as possible. “Technically I was looking for a sports bike, something more like a crotch rocket —”
“No, it was a crotch rocket,” May couldn’t help but interrupt, her words saturated with easy laughter as she leaned back into the kitchen nook. Folding both arms across her chest, and lifting her chin up high, she caught Happy’s gaze with a smirk. “And tell them why you couldn’t get one.”
At this point, even Ned had turned away from the TV, though he stayed put on the sofa as he picked for another slice of pizza to consume — reaching into the box blindly, not daring to tear his focus away from the conversation taking place.
Happy looked to Peter and back to May, and then back at Peter, before finally answering,
“It…it hurt my back.”
May scoffed and went right back to her laptop, already typing away before Happy could even consider gathering his defenses.
“Just a little, nothing major,” he eventually managed, turning away from Peter and right towards May — wagging a finger as if it bettered his case. “And you know, I still think I may have slept wrong the night before, I could’ve probably just gotten that Suzuki 650 —”
“So anyway,” May shot her head up and looked right at Peter, “Happy’s going through a mid-life crisis.”
Peter was already halfway across the apartment before she'd even finished talking.
“Is it out there? Right now?” Yanking up the blinds, Peter practically stuffed his face against the window, pressing his nose so hard against the glass it left puff marks with each breath he took. “The bike? Is it here?”
Happy rolled his eyes so dramatically, it was remarkable they didn't get stuck at the back of his skull. “No, I walked here — what do you think, kid?”
Completely unfazed by the sarcasm, Peter whipped around and pushed off the window — already five leaps across the apartment in the time it took to take a single breath.
“Can you show me how to ride it?”
It was hard to say if it was Peter's animated enthusiasm that caught May’s attention, or his rapid reappearance into the living room — both did the trick well, and May shot her head up at a speed that should've given her whiplash.
“What?” She tugged forcefully at her ear. “Say that again?”
Peter threw both his arms out wide.
“I’m a quick learner!” he insisted, realizing that his justification was a bit on the weak side as he went to yank up the waistband of his Hello Kitty pajama pants. Scrambling for a better defense, he practically jogged to the kitchen table to break the distance between them. “And what's the harm? I have my license now and everything!”
May brought down the screen of her laptop with a hearty chuckle. “You need a whole different license for that, bug boy.”
Though Peter's face noticeably dropped, he kept pushing on.
“Okay, but like, really, what's the harm?” Peter looked to Happy, as if hoping the man would join his side — only to find him busy with the different boxes of pizza laid out on the kitchen table. As he decided between pepperoni or supreme for his choice of dinner, Peter turned back to his aunt. “What if I need to know how to ride a bike? What if, one day, I need that information, May?”
May looked completely unpersuaded. “You can YouTube it.”
Peter's face dropped even more, and he pointed a finger at the man decked out in leather. “Happy can teach me now!”
“Tony Stark himself could barely teach you how to drive a car,” May reminded him, her head tilting so far to the side that her earlobe pressed up against her shoulder. “You just barely passed that driving test.”
Peter swung his finger from Happy right over to May. “But I passed.”
May met his smugness with her own. “Seven shopping carts, Peter.”
“Six and a half!” Peter argued, immediately. The small smirk that bled through his bite put a brief pause between them before he eventually clarified, “The small ones don’t count as a full cart.”
Happy gave a small chuckle as he plopped a slice of pizza down onto a paper plate.
“May, I can take him around the block, it’s no big deal,” he said, closing the lid to the pizza box as he went for the one below it — grabbing a slice of each to put onto his plate. “He’s not entirely wrong, it doesn’t hurt to know these things.”
Peter knew he liked Happy for a reason.
And yet, still, May didn’t look convinced.
He could fix that.
“Please,” Peter practically begged — no, he did beg, sliding seamlessly into the kitchen nook and pushing May into the corner with each nudge of his body. “Please. Please. Please. Please —”
“Oh good god, fine!” May caved, giving one hard shove against Peter’s shoulder to push him out of the nook. “Fine, go, get out of here.”
“Yes!” Peter was already rushing to the front door before she’d even finished talking, once again nearly tripping on his pajama pants along the way.
May didn’t even look his way as she called out, “Put on some clothes, Peter!”
As fast as he ran towards the door, Peter backpedaled across the apartment until eventually making a sharp u-turn and running straight for his bedroom.
“Yes! Right, yes!”
The only thing louder than Peter's excitement was the sound of his bedroom door being thrown open, bouncing off the wall without a single effort given to stop it. If May had looked behind her, she would’ve been able to see clothes tossed throughout the room as Pete rummaged through his dresser drawers for something to wear.
Instead of looking that way, she kept her eyes locked firmly on Happy — the expression on her face saying it all.
Happy, either oblivious or hoping to quell any frustrations, took a large bite of his pizza while pointing his free hand towards the front door.
“You gunna come check it out?” he asked between bites. “She’s a real beaut in the city lights.”
May gave a firm shake of her head.
“Oh, no, no...” she half-said, half-laughed, going to re-open the screen of her laptop and immediately resume her typing. “I find this whole thing to be very pathetic.”
Before Happy could even take another bite of pizza, Ned emerged from the living room with bare-feet that shuffled quietly against the kitchen tile, muted mostly by his own pajama pants dragging on the ground — decked out with light-sabers and other Star Wars elements. The movie was still playing, but long since abandoned by both teenagers.
Gently sliding into the kitchen nook, he took a seat on the bench right next to May.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Parker,” Ned began to say, placing both hands politely in his lap. “I’ll stay behind and keep you company.”
May looked away from her laptop and over at Ned, smiling softly as she laid a hand against his shoulder.
“That’s very sweet of you, Ned,” she said, before gesturing her head in the direction of Peter’s bedroom. “But you’re more than free to go with Peter.”
The hesitation that stemmed from Ned, though well intended in its performance, was as cheesy as the pizza laid out on the table — Happy was already down his first slice and reaching for his second, being extra cautious not to let any loose toppings fall onto his leather jacket.
Ned nodded his head solemnly, closing both his eyes and thinning his lips as if some grave, important decision was being made.
“Only if you insist, Mrs. Parker,” he said, his tone somehow more serious than his exaggerated chivalry. It took a few scoots to get out of the kitchen nook, where he had to grab the counter ledge to help him stand up. And yet still, Ned managed to start running across the apartment before his feet had even landed on the floor. “Oh my god this is the coolest thing ever! We’re gunna ride a motorcycle!”
May shook her head with a gentle chuckle as she returned back to her laptop, the sound of both boys frantically stumbling through Peter's bedroom a distant but present backdrop to her typing.
“Dude! You’re standing on top of my pants, move!” Peter’s voice could just barely be heard over the movie still playing in the living room. “C’mon, hurry up!”
Happy noticeably cleared his throat as he slid into the nook next to May. When that didn't break her focus from her work, he went on to nudge his shoulder slightly against hers, and pointed with his thumb to the motorcycle helmet on the ledge behind them both.
“Harley Davidson,” he said, smiling.
May craned her head over to him, giving the same smile with a completely different, “Mid-life crisis.”
“I can’t find my shirt!” Ned’s voice was far more muffled from across the apartment, almost sounding as if he was looking under the bed or somewhere in the closet. “Where’d I put my shirt? I coulda sworn I put it —”
“Just wear what you’re wearing, let’s go!”
“You changed! Why can’t I? This isn’t cool, I need to wear something cool!”
“Admit it…you like the biker look on me.” Happy waggled his eyebrows, earning an honest laugh from May as the background noise of both teenagers frantically rushing to get dressed overlapped their conversation. “It’s the leather, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure,” May laughed, brushing off non-existent lint from his shoulder before giving it a few pats. “It’s the leather. Just wins a girl right over.”
“No, Ned, it’s not — it’s not under the bed, don’t go under — dude, don’t, you’ll get stuck!” Peter’s voice drew closer only to dwindle away with a whispered-hush. “What you got is fine, now let’s go before Happy changes his mind.”
“Okay, okay, okay!” Ned’s gasp easily broke the laws of physics as May swore she heard it over the television — and she wasn’t alone, by the look on Happy’s face. Regret, once again, could’ve used a photo of him in the dictionary. “You should wear your suit!”
“What!?” Peter’s exclamation managed to be both a whisper and a shout. “No, dude — are you crazy?”
“Okay, but how cool would it look —”
“— so cool!’
“So cool!”
Smacking an open hand against her eye, May rubbed at her temple until she saw stars that New York City didn’t have to offer. And when a loud crash came from Peter’s bedroom, she elected to ignore it entirely.
“Boys,” she said into her smile, closing her laptop and giving up on her work for the night — reaching forward for a slice of pizza that Happy happily got for her.