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
