Still the Yearning Stage
When Peter became aware again, he was laying in a room he had a faint memory of, harboring a dull ache undoubtedly mitigated by a combination of drugs that logically should kill a horse. He blinked a few times, allowing himself to become orientated.
He failed. No matter how hard he focused, the room still slightly spun when his eyes flickered from right to left. This antiseptic in the air burned the inside of his nose and caused his stomach to roll in between pangs of hunger. His IV itched, he could feel the exact moment plastic tubing met human skin. The lights burned his retinas, but closing them just fueled the strength of his nausea. A chasm was open in the center of his chest, oozing out a dull, dreadful fear that something terrible was about to happen, or already had. This wasn’t right.
Peter’s thoughts were a mile behind, moving through thick sludge in his head. He glanced around the room, noting the pinpricks of pain when his eyes caught the fluorescence, the pungent smell of roses from the flowers on a nightstand mingled with antiseptic, and the vast whiteness of the room splotched with bouquets of balloons. Cards ranging in quality from official, from-the-desk-of print to crayon drawings littered the walls, stuck haphazardly as if in a hurry. In the corner was a pile of blocks, as if a child spent their time playing here.
With an explosion of pain on his right side, Peter rolled and felt his abdomen forcibly contract in a desperate urge to force something, anything out. No luck. There was nothing in his stomach to expel. After a moment too long of letting the blood rush to his head, body hanging over the hospital bed, he pushed himself up with one arm, flinging the other out to-
Peter’s eyes snapped to the left side. There was nothing there, just a cloth hospital gown that had been folded over. When he swallowed, he tasted ash thick in the back of his throat. God.
Fragments of memories flashed before his eyes, but they moved too quickly for him to grab onto it. The glint of armor, the tone of a voice, a face, a terrifying face, it wasn’t human, but it was arrogant and cruel. A God. He had killed a God.
There were voices from outside his room. Footsteps, too. Evenly paced, rhythmic in nature, going back and forth the length of a hallway like a pendulum. Peter strained his ears, desperately clinging to the stimulus to avoid seeing that face again.
“Has Strange answered you yet?” His voice was masculine. Entirely too familiar, Tony Stark.
“No, neither has Helen.” Her voice was less sharp and enunciated. She was placating. Pepper Potts.
A deep sigh.
“This can actually be perfect for us.” Tony said. “If Peter is… well if he’s lucid enough to tell the state to fuck off, that makes our case stronger.”
“Is Murdock really our best bet?”
“He’s our only bet.”
Silence.
“I need to see him.”
“We can’t risk waking him up again. Tony, he’s in pain.” Pepper urged. Peter moaned, a low, guttural sound that wasn’t so much as voluntary as being the result of something released from deep within. Panic. A beat of silence. The door opened.
Tony Stark looked like shit.
Peter probably shouldn’t think that. If he was thinking clearly, or quite frankly, if he cared, he would figure he wasn’t a picture of health either. But Tony… he was old. There was a tint to his skin that pointed away from the youthful glow Peter remembered him having. His hair was a tad thinner, grayer, even. He had bags under his eyes. He looked desperate. He kept his distance from across the room as if terrified.
And Peter… what of Peter? If he was truly alive, if this was truly reality, then his arm was gone. He was mutilated. Something terrible had happened and he could feel the cold fury of Ben Parker rage against his back. He had killed someone. Rotting in the medical bed, moaning for help, he could only imagine the pitiful sight he was. For the first time since the spider-bite, he felt truly inhuman. So Peter began to sob, but even shuddering was too taxing. Each involuntary twitch sent pain spasming out in his body. So he cried because he was crying, and he cried because he was ashamed, and he cried because he had only a vague clue of how he got here, and he cried because he missed the rain that wasn’t rain and fields that weren’t fields from before.
Then Tony Stark was before him, and he was kneeling.
“Oh buddy.” he said softly, as if speaking to a human child. Peter’s hand- his only hand, now- shook as Tony reached for it. Their fingers intertwined. The contact felt weird, unfamiliar; almost as if he hadn’t received it in years. The mind may have forgotten the time that had past, but the body never does.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. Helen- you remember Dr. Cho, right?- her nursing staff is on their way right now to get you some stronger stuff for your pain. It might make you sleepy, but don’t fight it, alright? You’re stubborn as hell but I’m going to need you to listen to me for once, capiche?” he continued in the same voice. He stroked Peter’s hand as he spoke.
“You’re going to take a long nap, but on my orders not as long as your last one, and when you’re feeling better we’ll have a long talk about… everything, ok?” Tony asked, and he actually asked, not in the way that most adults tack on an ‘ok’ as a means of punctuation. Peter tried to form words but he couldn’t. The chasm in his chest kept expanding.
“Look at me, kid.” Tony said. Peter’s eyes snapped away from the tiles they had been memorizing.
“From this point forward, I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. Iron Man is on the fucking job. You’re safe. I got you.” Tony said seriously.
Peter didn’t know to tell him that the second Dr. Strange had contacted Wanda, he had already failed.
—
There was something strangely cathartic about how a damp cemetery in Ohio was meant to be the Beginning of the End.
No one ever writes anything of note about Ohio. It was a sleepy state, surrounded by other sleepy states, boarded on somewhat interesting states, some of which had actual cities where actual mutants got to do the things on television that would have caught a younger Wanda in awe.
But in Ohio? Sure, there were a couple things of note- some state college player who was snapped before his transfer year was playing well and might get drafted, there was some nasty train spill east of where Wanda was at, and the temperature was, remarkably, unseasonably warm. She only knew these things because every radio station on her car that played a moment of interesting sound suddenly went silent when she crossed over the border, only to be replaced by songs that might have been popular in the 70’s and grumpy old men who hated warm weather and thought that Burrow kid from OSU was a piece of work.
Wanda wondered if anyone would remember this place in the future, or if Strange’s spell was as powerful as he thought it could be. She wasn’t sure what would be worse- the uncomfortable feeling of a private little town being known to the whole world, or forever anonymity, despite saving millions.
She saw Yelena before Yelena saw her. She was dressed exactly how Strange said she would be, down to the jacket Natasha had worn to sleep back in 2016. The sight was reassuring; Wanda was doing the right thing.
“Your car is loud and your hair is ugly.” Yelena said. Wanda smiled. She already loved Yelena. The guys were always so serious. Yelena was fresh; her thin, bird-like figure moved slowly, as if unfolding, as she stood up. Her hair was messy in a purposeful way, her cheekbones, while round, worked to pronounce the rest of her face in an unmistakable way. She was Natasha’s sister.
“Personally, I thought the glasses were worse.” Wanda said. “But when you blow a wall in the side of a government research facility, people want to ask you questions.”
Yelena straightened up and faced Wanda fully. “Wanda Maximoff. I read about you. Some balls you have to blow SWORD to shit and not even take anything for the trouble.”
“And you have some for thinking you can kill Clint Barton with nothing but some vague leads, a dull knife, and all the pep in your step.” Wanda shrugged.
“Is that an offer for any help, or an offer to join my shit list?” Yelena shot back. “I know you do that witchy voo-doo shit, but I also know you never tried it on Nat.”
“Natasha didn’t deserve it.” Wanda said. “And Clint…”
“Clint doesn’t have to die if Natasha never does.” Dr. Strange said. His voice carried before his body followed, emerging from a halo of golden sparks which seemed to glow brighter against the contrast of the grey-brown cemetery. “And Wanda did leave with something of value, but that’s apples and oranges.”
“I drove across the country while you could do that this whole time?” Wanda asked. Yelena snorted.
“Yelena, nothing in this reality is as it should be, and I believe we’re the only three capable of setting things right.” Dr. Strange ignored her.
“Why do you think I want anything to do with you?” Yelena asked. She gestured to Strange. “Everything about you caused the Snap.”
“Everything about me is the reason you’re not reduced to atoms, but once again, apples and oranges.” Dr. Strange said. “Yelena, you’re smart, so you know I’m here to bargain with you.”
Dr. Strange slowly looked at Wanda, who wore the ghost of a smirk on her face. His eyes flickered back to Yelena, which were young, hungry, and most useful of all: angry. So he began with the beginning, which experts tend to agree is the best place to start. He began with a dream three days after a child killed a god.
The sky was on fire, and for a brief moment Stephen’s eyes saw the whole of the cosmos; his vision stretched over and around him, and he floated endlessly. He was eternally hot, eternally cold, eternally young, eternally old. He saw the world as he knew it through another’s eyes; he saw the stormy New York skyline and the ruins of the statue of Liberty, superimposed over the visage of a child, a girl. America. Focusing on one detail omitted the others, as if his mind wasn’t capable of processing all the sensory data around him at once. Probably because it couldn’t. One moment the statue Liberty, the next, the girl America. She repeated Stephen’s name three times, as if reminding him, then hers.
He saw himself. He saw his fear. He saw Peter Parker, and Peter Parker, and Peter Parker.
The entire scene was depicted to him via a tapestry of matter weaved together bonded over his eyes. Yet; a single yarn tied to his core pulled him forward, past the sheet of reality separating him from this alternate world. Something was terribly wrong. The multiverse was collapsing, and in the center of it was himself and Peter. The child who killed a Titan, the child who killed a God.
There are certain laws of reality that aren’t meant to be unwritten. America reached for him from across the great divide and grabbed his wrists with a cold energy.
“You’re the wrong Strange.” She said with disdain, then pulled away from his vision, throwing him past the fabric barrier separating him from the apocalyptic scene before him.
Next- Stephen didn’t know how to describe it. There’s no way for the human mind to comprehend suddenly being a different person with different memories. The simplest way he could state it was that without explanation, without reason, truly, was that one moment he was the version of himself being pulled across the fabric, and the next, he was the fearful caricature of himself across the barrier. He knew all of that man’s fears, his perspective. He knew that Tony Stark was dead and Peter Parker was alive. He knew of the multiversal collapse. He knew of Wanda’s power. Every original experience of this copy’s existence was instantaneously molded with his own- but that didn’t make sense, did it? Because for Peter Parker, the multiverse generated endless copies and iterations- not a melding of souls.
All Stephen Strange knew was that for a brief moment, less than a single drop of an entire universe’s ocean merged with another. The intersection of realities didn’t collapse- it joined perfectly. It fused. It went against everything he had learned.
Moments later, Stephen woke up truly himself again, in his bed, in a world where Tony Stark was alive but so many others were dead. How many other universes were out there? How many had he not seen the day Thanos made his final stand?
Stephen Strange had long since lost the ability to be an optimist. The world did not deal in absolutes. There was no perfect ending. But, combine a few good endings, well, that could be quite possible. So while the world began to stand on shaky feet, and custody battles were argued in the press, and the Harry Osborns and Betty Brandts of the world scrambled around for their one shred of vanity, their one proof of purpose, Stephen receded deep into the Sanctum. Little by little, he spent his days searching the grand tapestry for a single thread to pull to tear it all down.
And with what surprise that the thread was named Peter Parker.
—
“Why aren’t we taking the subway?” was the first thing MJ said as she sat up in bed, looking at the silhouette of Ned in the doorframe after he burst in. “It’s faster. And safer.”
“Betty is sending us an Uber. We got to go, MJ.” Ned urged. He turned on the light to her room - when did she begin thinking of this room as hers? - and opened the closet, throwing a clean band tee and a pair of jeans at her. MJ shrugged.
“Does your Nana know we’re leaving in the middle of the night?” She asked.
“No.” She pulled off her crew-neck in favor of the new shirt.
“Does anyone know where we’re going?”
“No.” Ned was out of the room now, returning moments later with his computer bag. MJ stared at him.
“So who did we manage to piss off?” MJ asked, grabbing the gun from under her pillow. It still felt heavy and uncomfortable in her hand, like it was slightly too big for her fingers to comfortably hold. When she tightened her hand around the cold casing, the dangerous look in Harry’s eyes flashed in the back of her mind.
“Doesn’t matter, Betty is sending us a ride to her office.” That knocked MJ out of her flashback and back into reality.
“You called Betty?” MJ didn’t know why she was so angry. Maybe it was the trademark Brandt smile plastered alongside a bastardization of one of the single most tragic events in human history in every bookstore window. Maybe it was because she was petty.
“We don’t have a long list of friends right now.” Ned said. He was uncharacteristically terse. “Are you dressed?”
MJ glanced in the mirror. Her hair was messy and her eyeshadow she neglected to take off ran down the side of her face in the way football players would wear eye black before big games. Still, she looked twice the woman Betty was nowadays. Dignity can’t be dressed up if it isn’t there to begin with.
A honk, outside.
“Let’s go.” Ned said quietly, and they slipped into the rainfall.
—
Senator Alexander Brown saw the piercing white light descending from the crying sky and decided at that moment to do nothing about it, despite the shiny, black, discrete government-issued phone on his nightstand that stood to imply otherwise. He simply slid out of bed, shuffled into the kitchen, and put a pot of coffee on.
These meetings were never short.
He watched through the kitchen window as the white light grew close enough to form the idea of a shape; a woman wearing glittering blue armor with eyes of fire. In another world, another time, he would have mistaken the event for a visiting angel. She definitely looked the part, and he was sure somewhere in her intergalactic diplomacy, the phrase “Be not afraid” had managed to worm itself into her vernacular.
Briefly, he wondered if all of God’s miracles were self-righteous aliens making a pit-stop at the galaxy’s favorite gas station, Earth. He wondered what the rest of the universe thought of the Bible, of Jesus. Alexander Brown didn’t have it in him to actually ask Danvers if there was a soldier from her battalion bearing the name Christ.
By the time she landed in his backyard, the shine of her energy poured into the room like daylight. She slowly knocked twice on his glass sliding door just as the pot of coffee went off; out of spite, or maybe pettiness, he took his time pouring a mug for himself before opening the door.
Carol Danvers stepped inside.
“James told me Beck is suing on your insistence for Peter’s custody.” Carol said matter of fact. Despite their long discussions, she always managed to stick to business. It's one of the things he respected about her. “I thought we settled this.”
He took a long sip of his coffee. How long was this going to drag out?
“I thought we were aware that your involvement in this case is a massive conflict of interest, but here we are.” Alexander replied. “Be honest with me Danvers, you can’t tell me that this mess involving James’s closest friend doesn’t have an impact on your opinion.”
“It just means I know who exactly it will hurt, nothing more or less.” Carol said. She pushed past him to pour herself some coffee. Jerk. She probably didn’t even need it. “This is a vanity case for you, let’s talk about that.”
“It’s an election year. I’m not sure what you want.”
“I want you to do the right thing.” She turned her head slightly, revealing eyes that still burned. Danver’s intimidation tactics had long since lost its luster, however. He knew she had a fine-tuned control of her abilities earned after decades of experience. Alexander was in no danger, really.
“Are you sure that leaving Peter’s custody with the Stark’s is the best thing? They are arguably the most powerful family in this nation. People are calling to canonize Parker as a god damn saint. You can’t tell me that Stark won’t use that for his own gain.”
“For the rest of his life, everyone will be using Peter for their own gain. His family is dead, Alexander, be compassionate. Stark is the only person who has the resources to give him as normal a life as he will get.”
“So you agree with me on Stark.” Alexander raised his mug as if in toast.
“He’s Peter’s best option. There is no place or person in New York that understands fame and loss like a billionaire orphaned superhero.” Danvers justified.
“By that logic, what about you?”
“Intergalactic heroism isn’t a job with a 401k, Brown. Besides, you would no sooner grant me custody then legalize mutant schools.”
“It's modern day segregation with zero government oversight.” Brown replied. “Come to me with something constitutional and we’ll talk.”
“In the grand scheme of things, your constitution is an infant.” Danvers said. “Not everything has to live and die by it.”
“Sure, not everything. Hundreds of American men and women have died for it, however, so forgive me if I’m a little sentimental to the one goddamn thing holding the train wreck we call a nation together.” Alexander fired back, akin to a verbal punch. Danvers retaliated.
“You know that’s not what I meant. All I’m saying is that as someone who's done the whole ‘totalitarian, no-nuance government’ thing, I’m not quite a fan, and watching how everyone is handling Peter Parker right now is giving me some bad flashbacks.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do-”
“I want you to support Stark’s custody.” Danvers set the mug hard on the table like a gunshot. Alexander jumped. “That’s what I need from you. I’ve defended your planet, your people, more times than they deserve. All I ask is for this one thing. This one fucking thing, Brown.”
“Stark has to prove his right to Parker the same as everyone else.” Alexander said in a level tone. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Bullshit-”
“Fine. He has to prove himself a little more than everyone else.” Alexander waved his hand. “But can you understand that a man with a chronic, horribly public history of drug abuse and alcoholism, who called terrorists to blow up his house- which, by the way, annihilated a reef system protected by the federal government, hindering conservation efforts severely- who built actual, real-life killer robots, who helped wipe an entire city off the map, and without a shadow of a doubt employed the kid he’s trying to adopt as a child soldier may possibly not be the best option for a severely traumatized child?”
Danvers stared him down.
“Who else?” She said softly. “Who else, then?”
Senator Alexander Brown’s mind began to wander. He thought of SHIELD, he thought of SWORD. He thought of a normal suburban family. He thought of celebrities and presidents. He thought of religious leaders and governments across the seas. He thought of the big, wide world, and a child who had no place in it. The idea that Peter Parker would land in some suburbia was a myth, a nice bedtime story for his committee members. Suburbia for Parker would be hell, a vast, superficial reminder that his cosmic sacrifice both meant everything and nothing, surrounded by people out of touch with culture and sense of self, microdosing on consumerism to drown out the inherent melancholy of a 100-car parking lot.
“Sure, Tony Stark may not deserve custody. But if the world worked on what we deserved, then someone else would have my powers and you wouldn’t have your office in the ivory tower. So who else, Alexander? Who the fuck else can provide for Peter?”
“I don’t know.” He said, which was the most honest the politician had been since he had first ran for office. The rain began to fall even harder. He looked out the window.
“The papers are already written up.” He said softly. “There’s nothing I can do about it, now.”
Carol looked at him long and hard. Then she stood up, crossed the length of the kitchen, and placed her hand on the sliding door exit. She turned her head slightly.
“That’s the problem with men like you,” she said. “You always say that.”
—
Ned never thought he would be in the Daily Bugle’s NYC office, but then again, he didn’t think his best friend would be a missing superhero, his girlfriend would write a book about his death, he would crash a May Parker memorial Gala, or that half the world’s population would spontaneously disappear and reappear within a decade. So really, it wasn’t that far fetched.
Weirder things had happened than him and MJ being whisked in a back entrance by an older, stranger Betty Brandt and into a glass office above the cloud layer. Ned Leeds from before the Blip would be gushing about how exclusive the whole affair was. The Ned Leeds who was desperate to see his best friend again just watched his reflection in the glass as Betty locked the door and drew the blinds.
“Ok.” Betty sighed. She sat at her desk. It was one of those futuristic models with all smooth corners, an ivory color trapped under glass meant to mimic the sheen of an apple ecosystem. There was a fake plant on one edge, with plastic leaves spilling down the side. On the other was a framed picture of Betty in a white dress and Harry in a black tux. “What do you need?”
MJ looked at him expectantly, and a part of him felt bad for dragging her out of bed and across the city before the sun was evening thinking of rising. Only at this moment he noticed how tired she looked, how much thinner she had gotten, how dull her eyes really turned. Peter had been Ned’s center from the moment he had come back, but he wasn’t the only missing face in MJ’s life. For every moment Ned had felt aimless, drifting back into a world that kept turning, MJ had been feeling that and more. At least Ned had a Nana to leave in the middle of the night. He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled, a little bit of shame escaped with it.
“I need a private interview with Pepper Potts.” He said, not once taking his eyes off of MJ. “I need to talk to her again.”
“Again?” MJ tilted her head. Betty laughed in a hollow tone.
“That’s why you called me in the middle of the night?” Betty asked. “Everyone wants a private interview with a Stark right now. We’re watching the biggest event of the century unfold.”
“She knows where Peter is.” Ned stood his ground. It didn’t matter that he was almost sure his hypothesis was correct, unless he had time to better plead his case, Peter was still as far away as he was when Ned first came back. Besides, an interview put him on the offensive rather than the defensive. It looked better if they were both sitting facing each other than having him dragged out of his apartment in cuffs.
“Exactly.” Betty said. “Sure, I was on good terms, but that’s because I wrote a fluff piece about her a few years back and bought her a drink at a Met two years ago.”
“You’re not going to at least try?” Ned pressed. Betty hesitated. Her eyes landed on the wedding photo.
“You owe us.” MJ said. “You wouldn’t even be at a Met to buy her a drink if we hadn't died.”
“You told me you would help us.” Ned said. Betty looked like she was thinking about it. Her eyes went back to the wedding photo.
“Where was Peter the night before the Blip?” She asked in a cold tone.
“Jesus, Brandt.” MJ scoffed. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I didn’t ask you, Michelle.” Betty said. “I asked Ned. Where was Peter?”
Ned took a deep breath; he looked out the only window not drawn over with blinds and saw his reflection stare back, standing five paces away from Betty’s reflection. He felt so much more like Betty than himself right now; uncomfortably old.
“Peter was doing the right thing.” Ned said. His words were measured. “Like Spider-Man always does.”
“Did he kill Mr. Osborn?” She pressed. Her voice was like a knife to the throat.
“Stop chasing a story for two goddamn minutes and pick up the phone.” MJ said.
“Ned.”
Both sets of eyes were on him. Ned crossed his arms. He told the truth in the only way he knew how.
“Mr. Osborn was already gone before Peter showed up. Is that what you want to hear?”
“That’s not the truth.” Betty shot back.
“You said that you would help us. You said we can be friends again.” Ned said. “Now please, get me to that meeting.”
Betty sighed. The fire in her eyes was gone. “It’s going to take a while.”
MJ sat down on the loveseat opposite of the desk, pushed against the interior wall. “We got all night.”
Ned had never felt more grateful for her friendship than at this moment.
—
It took Harry two tries, but the third time he willed his blood-slicked hand to open the apartment door, it worked. He hesitated in the door frame for a moment, stupefied, one arm hanging limp and the other grabbing it like a lifeline. The lights were still on, a pale yellow contrasting against the dark gray hues of early morning visible through the windows. Leftovers were sitting out from the night before, tainting the air with the first traces of rot. Betty was gone. Of course she was.
Harry crossed the length of the kitchen. He left watery footsteps in his wake. His back fell against the counters and he slid to the floor. Harry thought he heard the sharp ringing of cheap electricity, but the longer his ears strained, the more it became to sound like a scream; her scream.
He needed to go to OSCORP immediately. The itch was beginning to evolve into a burn. Whatever experimental 1% immortality drug had been shot in him all those years ago was finally beginning to have an adverse effect. His head fell forward. Was blood always this comically bright?
Desperate tears began to blur his vision. He was fine until the past few weeks. Then everyone came back and… Spider-Man, Peter Parker. He was alive and the madness latent in Harry’s genes came back at full force. It couldn’t be his doing, could it?
Peter Parker had made Harry kill that woman.
He laughed. He laughed so hard his head tipped backward and hit the back of the cabinets. He laughed so hard he struck the linemeon floor with his fist, leaving a bloody mark. He laughed so hard he did it again, and again, and his abdomen began to burn just like his arm, a burn that centered on the inside and spilled out like a bad type of rot. He laughed so hard he screamed, and like a puppet controlled by strings suddenly shot forward before slumping, never ceasing.
He laughed so hard he cried. He laughed so hard he couldn’t hear her scream anymore.
Slowly, the heaving of his shoulders mellowed out to a steady rise and fall. Slowly, the dark grey hues outside began to slip into a more comfortable yellow as the sun began to poke her fingers between high rises. Slowly, golden rays spilled across the kitchen floor and just barely touched his still-tied shoe.
Harry sat up. With a steady hand he reached for the countertop and pulled himself upward. He looked down at himself, at his sullied suit, and stepped backwards slightly for a better view of the red marks on the floor. Harry frowned; he needed to clean up his mess before Betty got home. He disappeared around the corner hallway, returning with yellow gloves and a pristine bottle of bleach.
Harry scrubbed the floor with careless attention, seeking only to eliminate the impurities visible to the naked eye. While he was unaware of it, he skimmed the surface of consciousness as he worked, lest he return to the darkness of the hours prior. Rather quickly, any trace in the apartment of his evening was gone. He even opened the apartment door and gave the entire surface a cursory, disinfecting sweep.
His suit was stripped from his body and bunched into a bag under the bed. If he had been looking, he would have seen a manila envelope that wasn’t there before. But he wasn’t.
Next was a shower. He smelled like tequila and regret; a sharp smell that faded into something like copper. He had work today, that wouldn’t do. He had a lot of work to do. He needed to go to OSCORP. Blunders happen all the time. That’s why he was an executive. Executives fix blunders.
Just as he exited the shower, he heard the front door to the apartment open. There was no exclamation of shock or fear; there was no need for it. There was no need for alarm because there was nothing alarming for Betty to come home to. She was alone with Harry, that’s all.
After he was sure all the bubbles had receded down the drain, Harry exited the shower, and with robotic precision, carefully dried the whole of his body. He heard Betty’s movements around the apartment, almost investigative, but there was nothing to fear. Harry put on trousers and a button-up that erred more on the side of business than business casual. Only after he had ran a comb through his hair for a third time did he exit the bathroom, and when he did, almost ran face-first into his wife.
“Oh.” Betty said. “You’re home.”
She looked awful. A pale sheen had taken over her face and two gray patches sunk in under her eyes. Makeup had been applied, but by the way it was discolored and smudged aged it to at least last evening. Her hair was frizzy. She had been up all night. She looked scared.
Maybe another version of Harry would have screamed at her for making him look like a fool at the Gala alone. Or possibly, he would begin with a cold indifference that cut her at the perfect intersection of guilt and shame. There were so many ways he could make her hurt a fraction of the way he was hurting.
“Let’s go on a date.” is what Harry settled on saying. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve been working so hard.”
She looked at him warily.
“I’m sorry about last night.” Betty offered. “I… the office held me up. A big story is coming out.”
Was it about Peter Parker? Was his location found? Or were the state’s suit finalized?
Was a woman found dead in Hell’s Kitchen?
“It’s ok.” Harry said. “I get it. Let’s get brunch.”
She snorted. It was kind of cute. “You hate brunch.”
“But I love you.” He said. She leaned in and kissed him. For a brief second he felt warm; the feeling of flesh against his, breathing and alive, served as some emotional defibrillator. A shock. But it wasn’t because of some fondness; no, it was because it was eerily similar to the feeling of warmth under his hands as he watched blood bubble around him.
She pulled away. There were stars in her eyes. There were black holes boring in his.
“I’ll go get changed. Do you have a place in mind?” She asked. Harry nodded. “Perfect. I’ll be ready at fifteen.”
—
“You still haven’t told me why we’re here.” Betty said as she walked hand in hand with Harry. He had planned an entire romantic outing for them- the first one since before the Lost returned. However, the afternoon took a darker turn when he insisted on a stop at a gun store.
“The city can be a dangerous place.” Harry defended. He wrapped an arm around her waist, leading her in a lazy circle of the store. “I don’t like you walking home at night without protection.”
“I’m hardly walking home alone.” Betty smiled. She paused to trace a finger down the edge of a revolver. “I don’t even remember the last time I rode the subway.”
“Still- with vigilantes deciding what justice is now, I don’t like that you can’t defend yourself.” He turned to face her. “Pick out anything you like. I’ll teach you to use it.”
“Is this about Spider-Man?” Betty lowered her voice. “Be honest with me, Harry.”
“So what if it is?” Harry asked as Betty examined a larger pistol. It was metallic details on the side of a dragon. “That’s a nice one.”
“He saved so many lives, Harry.” Betty said, but her voice was hollow, like even she didn’t believe it. She chose another pistol off the shelf, this one was less ostentatious. It was slim and black, with a reassuring weight. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”
Harry watched her hands fidget with the gun. “There would have been another way. There always is. Here, you’re holding it wrong.”
He took the gun from her hands and modeled the basic form. “You’re supposed to point your body with it, not hunch in over yourself.”
He gave it back to her and returned to browsing. “Either way, a murderer is a murderer. When you see the cops on the news, do they ever talk about how many lives they saved? No- just the one they recently took.”
Betty blinked. “I think there’s a lot more nuance to it than that.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Harry was across the store from her. The gun was heavy in her hands. He got the attention of a clerk. “My wife will take the one she’s holding- yes, add the ammunition to that as well.”
Betty would only use the gun once, but she didn’t know that yet.
—
“I don’t do child soldiers, Mr. Strange.” Yelena said with finality. She tilted her head to Wanda. “You’ve already found another girl to do your dirty work, you don’t need me.”
“Killing Clint won’t get your sister back, but this will. My plan lets you do both.”
Yelena shook her head the tiniest bit. “I don’t do hits for other people anymore.”
“Fine.” Strange said. “Let me put it this way. The multiverse is going to collapse whether you like it or not. Do you want your consciousness to end up in a world with your sister, or without it?”
Yelena turned her attention to Wanda. “Why do I feel like I’m making a deal with the devil?”
Wanda smiled. “You aren’t used to chasing your own happiness, are you?”
Yelena shook Strange’s hand.
“No.” She said, “I guess not.”