Spider Pet

It was still raining when he left the hospital. That didn't matter much. He barely felt it. He barely felt anything. Well, that wasn't true. It was more like feeling one thing too much. Know how people say when you're in pain all over, hit one part harder, and the other pain goes away?

Home was too far from the hospital, at least with his web shooters busted. He had nowhere to go, but he had to get out. He couldn't...sit there any longer. He couldn't face it for one more second. Not this.

He didn't know how he ended up here. Well, he could remember vague details. Pushing past MJ. Leaving through the window. Running across the rooftops. He knew it was close to the hospital. He had no idea how he found the presence of mind to slip past security. It was...easier than he'd expected. Like stepping between raindrops. He'd had a lot of practice the past few months. But now...now he was exhausted. His body was only partially responsible.

He lifted his arm, hesitated, stared at the door, and whispered to himself.

"What am I doing?"

He knocked anyway.

His hazel eyes fixed on the thick carpet outside the room as he waited, heard vague sounds of movement inside. The movement stopped for a few seconds, then the door opened, much to his surprise. He looked up, saw those intense, ice-blue eyes, and froze. His mouth hung limply, throat bobbing as he swallowed the feelings he was fighting to contain.

The silver-haired woman frowned, looking him up and down.

He smiled ruefully. "It's not exactly Prada, I know."

The faintest twitch of her left eyebrow caught his attention. Then she jerked her head to motion him inside. The penthouse suite was...nice. He barely noticed it.

"You look like hell after invasion by Wolverine."

He smiled, snorted.

"Sit."

He did, against a wall, slowly slumping to the ground.

The room was silent for a long time as she took a very comfortable-looking lounge chair made of plush red leather.

"I didn't have anywhere else to go."

Her gaze snapped from the view to him.

He tapped his wrist. "Web shooters are shot. Didn't feel like walking home after..." He stared blankly into the distance.

"You won," she said after some time.

He chuckled humorlessly. "Did I?"

She crossed one leg over the other. "Octavius is in custody, is he not?"

His smile vanished.

"You did what no one else could. You should be proud of that."

His jaw tightened. "I...

created

him."

She blinked.

"The neural net. The way he controlled the arms." He looked down at his hands. "I made all of it." His fingers curled into fists. "We were supposed to..." His hands fell into his lap as he let his head fall back against the wall.

His suit was torn to shreds thanks to Ock. Half of his mask was missing, though not enough for anyone who didn't know his face to recognize him. The armor he'd worn over his suit was little more than a prop at this point. He should've changed, but...there was no time. He needed to get the cure to the hospital. And still it was too late. He shunted his thoughts.

"He was right about me." His head shook. "I can't save anyone."

"I disagree."

He arched an eyebrow at her.

"The substance you delivered will save millions once mass-produced." She leaned back and crossed her arms. "That's not nothing."

He huffed. "You? Giving me a compliment?" He laughed again, humorlessly. "Is this opposites day?"

Her eyes rolled. "We have our disagreements, but in method, not goal."

"This from the woman who's spent the last few weeks hunting me?"

She frowned, eyes narrow. "Wanting you out of the way is not the same as wanting you dead, Spider."

"...yeah." He went back to staring at the wall.

The room was silent for a long time except for the occasional muffled thunder.

"He was my friend." He looked up in thought. "Mentor?" A huff. "Practically a surrogate father, if I'm being honest."

"Not from personal experience, but I know how fathers can disappoint."

He smiled. "Not mine. Well, an uncle, actually." He chuckled. "It's funny. It was my inaction

before

I became Spider-Man that got him killed. This time, I do everything in my power and..." his face fell, head shaking, "it's still not enough."

"You cannot save the selfish from themselves."

"So I'm learning."

Another long silence passed.

He looked up, glancing around the room. "You have any beer?"

She blinked, gave him a snooty look. "Do I look like a plebe to you?" She uncrossed her legs and stood up, sauntering toward the full kitchen.

She was still in her "work uniform," or half of it at least, minus the boots and longcoat. The snug gray tactical suit was form-fitting without being revealing or constricting. Very functional. Practical. It was very her. He pulled his eyes away to focus on the polished hardwood floor.

"In this house, we drink vodka."

The clank of glass on glass drew his attention to the bottle of aforementioned liquor now sitting on a glass table between them. He reached for the neck of the bottle only to find his hand smacked away by hers. He looked up to see two shot glasses in her other hand.

"Oh."

She arched a silver eyebrow at him. "There

is

another bottle in there if you want to

drown

your sorrows."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Better not. Swinging drink is almost as bad as driving drunk." A snort. "Not that I'll be swinging anywhere, since..." He waved a hand dismissively.

The swirl of liquid being poured followed, and moments later a shot glass filled with clear liquid was offered to him. He took and clinked it against her glass, then down the whole thing in one go. The burning sensation as it traveled started waking some of the numbness in his body. Reminded him of why he was numb to begin with.

He downed another shot, then poured himself another when she was too slow on the draw.

"That's a little fast, don't you think?"

His head shook as he cleared his throat. "It's my metabolism. I have to drink twice as much and it still lasts half as long."

"Hm. Explains why you could keep going with your injuries."

He nodded slightly, swirling the next shot around in his mouth to relish the sting for a moment before gulping it down. "My aunt died tonight."

Her refilling faltered for a moment, then resumed before she slowly handed him his glass.

He tossed it back. "She was infected." He gulped. "I...I had a choice to make. There wasn't enough cure. It was..."

"...her or the city."

His eyes squeezed shut.

"I'm sorry."

The words were hollow to his ears. He figured she knew it, because she kept going.

"I don't know what you're feeling...but I know your dilemma. The weight of responsibility."

He cleared his throat and straightened up a bit, taking his glass back. "Yeah, you're kind of a big deal in Symkaria, right?"

"...head of state."

He blinked and coughed, scratching the back of his head. "Right. How did that slip my mind?"

"Had...other things to occupy it."

He hummed absently, staring at his glass. "I had a choice," he said. "She told me I already knew the right decision, like the choice had already been made. But it was..." he held his hand out, "right there." His fingers closed around empty air, then his hand dropped into his lap. "I could've saved her. I can save a city of eight million people...but not the people who matter most."

Her voice dulled as she held her glass out. "That's the job."

Their glasses clinked together.

They didn't drink or speak again for a while.

She was the first to break the silence. "These decisions are always...a curse. The consequences will plague you when the deed is done, no matter the choice. The question is: can you learn to live with them?"

He stared at the ground, shook his head slowly. "I don't know. I can't...I don't know." He swiped at his eyes—or at least the one not covered by the remaining lens of his mask. "Right now, it hurts to breathe, and not because of the ribs Ock busted."

She hummed faintly. "Consider it this way then: if you

had

made a different choice, saved her...would you ever have been able to look her in the eye?"

He blinked hard and looked up at her, eyes wide. He stared at the wall. He didn't reply.

She poured him another shot.

They drank.

He stared into the bottom of his empty glass. "With great power comes great responsibility."

She frowned. "What?"

His head shook slightly. "Something my uncle taught me. Something they

both

taught me. It's...been my ideal, ever since I became Spider-Man." He laughed humorlessly, hysterically. "Great power...so why am I the one who always loses?"

She sighed. "No victory is without cost. Sometimes small, sometimes great. But

that

is the price of power. Nothing is gained without sacrifice."

He snapped to her. "But

her

?" His voice cracked. "Why her?" He threw his hands up. "Osborn, sure, him I get. But my..." His face crumpled. He hadn't even noticed he was crying. "Of all the people who had to suffer, she was the last, the

last

who could ever deserve it!" His teeth bared. "And that selfish—" He snarled, barely keeping it from turning into a scream as he clenched his fists. His head dropped back against the wall. "I should've broken more than his jaw."

"That is not your way."

"Maybe that's why I keep losing."

"Oi," she said sharply.

He turned to face her. "You don't hold back. This whole time, you've been pulling out all the stops to end this and I...what have I been doing?"

"Fighting. In

your

way." Her lips pursed tightly as she glanced away. "Which, I will admit, is...gentler than I would prefer." She looked back at him. "But it is

you

."

"My way isn't working."

"Then why will New York live to see another day?" She sighed, pouring more shots. "Loathe as I am to ever admit fault, I...could not stop Octavius." She handed him the glass. "You did." Her head shook. "And that is not nothing."

He stared into the glass, absently noting that the bottle was almost empty. He gulped it down, then sat in silence for a long time. He wiped a hand over his half-masked face, cleared away some of the tear-marks.

"Did she know? Did she know who it was under the mask?"

His eyes filled again even as he shut them. "Yes."

She poured again. He waited a while. She did too. When he was ready, he picked up the glass and clinked it against hers. As the last of it went down, he glanced over at the bottle.

"That's good stuff."

She hummed affirmatively. "We've been in quarantine for weeks. Couldn't import anything from home, so I had to settle for something local."

"And? How does it compare?"

She smirked. "As it happens, the brewer is an immigrant from Symkaria."

He coughed hard and started laughing. She smiled and chuckled faintly.

He chortled a few more times, then shook his head. "Only in New York."

She nodded. "It does have its charms."

They fell silent again. He could feel the warm buzz in his head already beginning to fade.

"We have our disagreements, Spider-Man."

He looked over at her earnest eyes.

She nodded to him. "But you are a good man, with a good heart. You will survive this." She set her empty glass down. "You will grow stronger...and make her prouder than I know she was."

"...how do you know?"

He didn't need to elaborate.

She smiled. "My father taught me everything I know. He was...reluctant at first, but when he saw my potential..." She fell into a reverie, a nostalgic sheen in her eyes. "He left everything to me when it was time. I will never forget the look in his eyes. The elation at seeing years of love and investment flower." She looked at him. "To know this world and all its ugliness, and still see it the way you do...you must have been very loved indeed."

His lips trembled, vision blurred. He looked away.

"It does not feel like victory now. It will not for a long time. But you are not alone. The lives you saved tonight, the good you did...that is something no one will ever be able to take away from you." She smirked and chuckled. "Not even Jameson."

He snickered. "Oh, he'll give it his best shot."

"Of course. But for those who bother to listen carefully, who see with their eyes and trust their own judgment...they will know the truth. And so will I."

He stared at the empty wall, glanced out the window at the skyline, turned back to her. "Thank you."

She bowed her head slightly. "You are welcome, Spider."

He stared at her, the clear blue of her eyes, the curve of her smile. "Peter."

She blinked. "What?"

He could've smacked himself. He didn't know why he said it. Wasn't too long ago, she was looking to haul him in alongside Otto. But she hadn't had to open the door. Legally, she could've just shot him for trespassing. When they'd first met, he had no doubts she would've done just that. With everything he'd done since leaving the hospital, everything

she'd

done...

It was impulsive. It was stupid. It was probably going to bite him in the ass later.

"My name is Peter."

Clearly, she recognized all of these things, because her eyes were wide for a good three seconds. Then she smiled and nodded. "Peter."

Peter leaned back against the wall, ease creeping into his bones until he started to feel drowsy. Then the last of the buzz faded away, and the pain was back.

A sigh left his throat. "I should go."

She blinked as he started to rise.

"I'm exhausted in more ways than I thought possible, and I'm not gonna magically teleport home sitting around here."

"I thought you said it was too far," she said, standing with him. "Besides which, walking alone in your condition is a very bad idea."

He grinned. "You offerin' to walk me home, Sable?"

She smiled crookedly and arched an eyebrow. "You should be so lucky."

His head shook. "Despite my better judgment, we paced ourselves. Usually means the buzz is gone as soon as the bottle's empty."

Sable winced. "I do not envy you that."

He rolled his neck around, finding his footing on the way to the hall. He stopped short. "Oh, uh...any chance you could tell your security not to shoot me?" He grinned sheepishly. "I...didn't exactly check in at the front desk."

She stared at him, popping a faint smile. "I'm not sure whether to be impressed by your talent for stealth or incensed by the incompetence of the night shift."

He smiled. "And as amusing as it would be to watch you yell at 'em, I really should—"

"You don't have to leave."

He froze, blinked at her owlishly.

Sable looked him over, wincing at the sight of the bruises and cuts visible through his torn suit. "Especially not before

those

are seen to."

He shrugged. "I've slept off worse, trust me."

She arched a silver eyebrow at him. "Have you ever considered that perhaps your lack of self-preservation is part of why you're so exhausted?"

"Silver—"

"Do you know where you are, Peter?"

He frowned. "Is...this a trick question?"

She kept staring.

"Um...NY Grand?"

"Yes, but more specifically, you are in my personal quarters. This makes it Symkarian soil."

"But...this is New York."

"My presence alone dictates otherwise. And as such, you now fall under my jurisdiction as head of state."

His face screwed up. "Y'know, I'm not so sure about the legality of—"

She rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm. "You are not leaving this room until those injuries are at least cleaned." Silver took a closer look as she dragged him back into the room. "In fact...how long have you been awake?"

"Um...I don't know?"

"Hm. And I suppose you haven't washed in all that time, either?"

"Well, my hands—"

"Shower then."

"..."

"Did I stutter?"

"No?"

She arched an eyebrow.

"No."

"Now, are you going to do as told, or do I have to force the issue?"

He grumbled but didn't protest as she corralled him into her

very

large bathroom, complete with—sweet mercy, that was a big hot tub.

"Wow," was all he could say.

"Indeed. Now, get ready. I will be back."

"Um..." He touched his half-shredded mask.

She arched an eyebrow. "You already told me your first name. With my resources, it would be child's play to discover your true identity from that alone."

Peter cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head. "I...yeah, you have a good point."

He reached back toward the seam of the armored section, popped it off, then pulled off the mask underneath, revealing heavy bruising and cuts littering his face. Dried blood matted his thick brown hair. When he glanced over at the vanity mirror, one of his hazel eyes was partly bloodshot, though he couldn't tell whether that was from his fight with Ock or the remnants of the vodka in his system.

"Hm...not bad."

Peter blinked and turned back to her. "Huh?"

Her head shook, a smile tugging at her lips. "I should have something that fits you for when you finish. For now, get in."

She practically shoved him toward the shower/hot tub. He blushed at how forward she was. Clearing his throat, he glanced around while stripping the rest of his armor.

"Um," he called, "towels—"

"Side closet!" she answered.

"Got it." He turned on the spray and waited for a faint trail of steam to rise, then winced. "This is gonna suck a little."

Sure enough, it did. The moment he put the first of his injuries under the water, they stung like mad. And then he got all the way in and had to restrain the urge to scream. That lasted for about the first minute or so. Then he got used to the scalding heat and felt the beginnings of scabs start peeling away. The raw skin underneath was tender, but not too bad. He leaned forward and let the hot water stream over him, breathing choppily as he rinsed the traces of grime and horror off his body.

His hair was first. That dust/sweat trap was the absolute worst when the mask finally came off. This time was no different, only now it was practically black with how much smoke and soot he'd been exposed to. Blackened suds streamed down the drain before he caught the faintest whiff of the scented soap. Something...subtle, classy. Lavender? No. It was nice. Bottle didn't look too pricey. Figured. Silver was a practical person. Extravagant on gear, not on trivialities.

Peter smiled. He could certainly relate.

He reached for the conditioner and lathered a healthy amount in, wincing when he found a cut in his scalp and applying it more gingerly. He closed his eyes, operating entirely on touch, and sighed in relief as the heat slowly washed away his tension. A sudden draft of cold caught his attention. He opened his eyes, glanced at the door through the curtain. It was closed. Silver had probably just dipped in for a second to drop off his clothes. Wait. When did he start thinking of her as "Silver?"

The curtain behind him shifted just a bit, rustling as if driven by a faint breeze. Whether due to the exhaustion or the fact that his Spider-Sense didn't go off, he didn't notice it. Then he rinsed his hands off and started reaching for the soap bar on the lower caddy. It wasn't there. Peter frowned. He could've sworn—

Oh.

Oh.

Suddenly, he knew the ambient heat at his back had nothing to do with the steam rising from the tub floor. A hand on his shoulder stopped him from turning around.

"Eyes forward, Peter."

Peter gulped and blushed hard. That certainly didn't seem fair. No, that wasn't fair at all. There was no way she hadn't gotten a rear eyeful of him and—

Oh,

there

was the soap. In her hand. The one sloooowly gliding across his chest. It started at the lower-right corner, right above his hip, going up and up and up to his collarbone. Then it moved sideways, across toward his neck. Her arm wasn't long enough to reach the whole way. So she got closer. Pressed herself against his back. Peter was hot all over, and it had nothing to do with the water.