Chapter 3
“Well, hello Spider,” said the Black Cat.
“Hi, uh—you,” said Parker.
Right away Tony shot him a suspicious look over his beer glass. “You do know her name, right? What kind of relationship was this?”
“Don't be indecent,” Parker said primly.
“Oh, please,” purred the Cat, “be indecent.”
Parker ignored this request. “You don't know her name,” he pointed out to Iron Man, who could be expected to take interest in the identity of the famous thief.
What a knight. Tony propped his jaw in his hand, like a child in class. “Awfully chivalrous of you, Parker, given the circumstances.”
The pixelated head tilted toward the kid. “Why Spider, whatever circumstance could that be?”
Brows raised, Tony stopped at the pet name. “Wait. She does know your name, right? What kind of relationship was this?” he said again.
“I always preferred the Spider,” said the Cat. Then she considered Tony. “So you know his name, then? What kind of relationship is this?”
Parker sighed.
Tony swigged his lager and thought of Tiger, Spider, Web-Slinger, and all the names too impolite to list. “Does no one just call you Peter?”
The kid flicked an ornery look his way. “Apparently not.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this exchange...the first in, oh, a few years now?” The Black Cat appeared to tick off the time on her fingers, which assumed an indistinct mass in Tony's vision. “Surely it has nothing to do with a certain missing masterpiece, after I'd pinky-sworn my integrity?”
Belatedly Parker realized how accusatory the timing of his call was and he shrilly attempted to backtrack.
“Oh, no—I know you retired—totally believe that... I was so sure, I wanted to show Tony—and this isn't really my wheelhouse, just thought you could advise...”
He sold the innocence about as well as he'd ever sold the charm. The Little Matchstick Girl would have done better outside a Mets game.
“Slick as ever, Spider,” said the Black Cat. Though her face was obscured, her sultry voice was relatively clear over the speaker.
Iron Man had never really dealt with the infamous art thief, though he'd always sort of hoped she'd take a shot at his collection. She knocked over Hammer Industries once. While paintings and sculptures were the Cat's bread-and-butter, she'd dabbled in mercenarial corporate espionage once or twice and Tony was a little insulted she'd never thought any of his prototypes worth the risk. Then again, few places on Earth were as secure as Stark Tower.
Tony decided to wade in. Diplomatically. “Given your expertise in the field, we figured we'd consult you first.”
The woman leaned back. “A Botticelli's nothing to sneeze at, but still I'm surprised to see you working together on this.” She turned to Parker, with a slight edge. “And, Spider...I'm upset. I think I'm owed better than a work call first thing after you nearly evaporated.”
“Sorry,” Parker muttered. He drummed his fingers on the burnished table top before he admitted, “MJ told me she'd alerted you.”
Some of the slyness fell from the Cat's voice like an icicle dropping suddenly from a ledge. “Spider, if it weren't for your wife's initiative, I would have never known you were gone. If you'd died I'd have been none the wiser for a long time.”
That's how completely Parker had fallen off the radar. Maybe the kid still patrolled, but he didn't get the press he once did. Tony had also wondered how long it would have taken him to realize Spider-Man was missing, if Mary Jane hadn't contacted him.
Parker's ex-wife. Neither of them seemed to be correcting anyone on the matter.
There was a long moment. Tony's gaze drifted outside. The snowflakes falling beyond the window had better resolution than the hologram before them.
The Black Cat shook her head. “You know, Spider, there was a time when I thought I'd love if the virtue rotted right off you. I wanted to see what parts of you remained, after the acid did its work—all those years of street war, and crime, and all the things people do to each other. Then you did become the apathetic, bitter wreck I wanted, and you know what?” She leaned back, contemplative. “It disappointed me.”
Parker's mouth tightened, but he made no rejoinder. Tony placidly sipped his beer. Part of him was a little sympathetic; the Black Cat wouldn't be the last to rake Spider-Man over the coals. Evidently the kid was prepared to face everyone he'd disappointed in the last couple of years, but there was no end in sight for the apology tour. How long would he have to answer for his guilt?
Then he remembered this was Parker, and that answer was always “forever.” Deep down the little bastard was desperate to be held accountable. If the documentarian Matthew Burns ever turned his attention to Spider-Man, it'd kill the kid.
And then he also remembered that he, Tony Stark, was one to talk.
“You are one lucky bug.” The thief adjusted her seat, apparently crossing a leg. Prepared to throw them a bone, she continued, “I may be out of the game, but I still know how it's played. As a gesture of goodwill, it happens I can point you in one direction.”
Parker leaned against the wall in relief. “That'd be great, F—I mean, that'd be good.” Then he looked irritated with himself at the slip.
“So her name starts with 'F'?” Tony wondered aloud. “Really narrows it down.”
“Do with that as you will, Stark,” said F. She sounded amused. “I can't promise this is the right direction. It may only be a coincidence.”
As he poured more beer from the pitcher into his glass, Tony said impishly, “That's funny, a coincidence got us here. Another one might as well get us somewhere else.”
Parker shot him a look before addressing the Cat. “So, where does stolen art go?”
“Nowhere, usually,” she said. “A farmhouse, someone's basement, ransomed back to the owner...but sometimes, and this is by no means a certainty, it winds up at the Hangman's Bazaar.”
This was new to Tony. He glanced at Parker and saw incomprehension there too. “The what?”
“Why,” said F, “the dastard's ball. The scoundrel's market.”
“I feel like you are deliberately not narrowing this down.”
The pixelated woman seemed to smile. “It has a lot of names. There are things you can't fence on eBay, Spider. So this is where you go. And you're in luck, darlings. It's always held on Christmas Eve.”
Parker leaned forward and sank his brow into his fingers. Tony felt like doing the same. “C'mon,” the kid pleaded into his hand. “This cannot be a thing.”
Finally the Black Cat seemed to be enjoying herself. “Isn't it ever. And such a coincidence, the timing. A masterpiece disappears from the vaults of the Met, just in time for the only spectacle at which it can reasonably be fenced, outside of an unscrupulous dealer. And Interpol's made dealers so scrupulous lately.”
“I can't believe I thought I missed this crap,” Parker complained.
Tony harrumphed and unfolded his wallet, preparatory to paying for the meal. “It sure doesn't have the complicated intrigue of your average bodega holdup.”
“You've always undervalued intrigue,” agreed the Cat.
“I think you two undervalue bodegas,” said Parker.
“Here's the thing, Spider. The bazaar's in an honorary dead zone.”
Of course it was. Probably to protect the wares from people like her.
Dead zones were a colloquialism that originally referred to areas under the thrall of a restricted EMP. Technology was so advanced now that it could draw the boundary of the electro-magnetic pulse like a border on a map, confining the electronic disruption to an area small enough not to draw the attention of authorities. Cities, however, were more of a challenge, and New York City in particular. Not to mention, no access to electricity meant no access to bank accounts, and no way to transfer funds.
Now, dead zones were taken to mean areas in which certain manners were observed: cell phones and the like were dropped at the door, as were small arms. Presumably, the bazaar had its own people to handle fund transfers. Well, no matter. Tony was usually a step ahead in that respect.
Parker seemed helpless to wring sense from the absurdity. He huffed and dropped his head back. “Is there, like, a password to get in?” he said as sarcastically as possible. “Do we slide back a bookcase or something?”
“After a fashion,” drawled the Cat. “I have a locker at the YMCA. Go to locker 13 and enter 6-16-37. Women's locker room,” she added slyly. “I'm sorry I can't attend the Bazaar myself, but they remember me there. And unlike you, Spider, I don't burn every bridge once I cross it.”
Despite her small, well-aimed barbs, Tony sensed something more than indifference from the Black Cat. She'd redirected the conversation to resemble the equilibrium she must have had with Spider-Man once. He wondered if Parker even noticed.
“What're we gonna find in the locker?” asked Tony.
“Your way into the bazaar, assuming you still care to use the front door. A chip, set into a bracelet. Admission requires a token.”
“Ah,” said Parker darkly. “I wondered when a Goober would show up.”
A tiny smile tugged at Tony's mouth. He moused around his pizza platter and found a stray piece of pineapple.
“I hope your painting shows up, Spider,” said the Cat. “If it does...be a dear, and let me have a close look at it?”
Whatever she saw, she'd always had trouble not touching. “How about free admission?” said Tony lightly.
“I can get into any museum for free, any time I want. I want to see that painting.”
Something about the way she said it interested Tony. “You a fan of Botticelli?”
“I always preferred the Romantic artists,” said F with a sly look at Parker, who tipped the dregs of his glass into his mouth. “I'm only curious. Did the Met tell you the history of that particular masterwork?”
“Just that it surfaced last year,” said Parker. He'd paused in the act of crunching an ice cube between his teeth.
“In a way. Its existence was suspected a while ago. It was quite the discovery. One, I'm sure, that worried them.”
“Really? Because they thought it might be fake?” Tony recalled the techs excitedly discussing the Botticelli's authenticity at the Met lab.
“Because it might be fake,” agreed the Cat, “and because it might be Raubkunst.”
Parker stiffened. Tony glanced at him, wondering why Raubkunst sounded familiar. Pepper would have known.
The Black Cat continued. “Technically the painting was on loan from Sotheby's, but the Met is diligent. They want to trace its history. They dangled the Botticelli out there last year, to see if anyone would claim it...and no one did.”
“Raubkunst,” Tony murmured, as if it would make the meaning surface in his memory.
“Nazi plunder,” said Parker.
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A short time later, Tony and Parker stepped out into the street. It was late now. Snow drifted lazily to land on hipsters' Carhartt beanies. There were several nights to go before the night before Christmas, and the bustling New Yorkers laughed with a gaiety that always disappeared come January.
The call had lasted a while longer as they worked out a plan of action for the Bazaar. Black Cat had ventured doubt over the boys' ability to blend in. Parker's ability to maintain a fiction required a mask and Tony had never bothered with fictions. This made them inexpert spies. The thief had offered an uncharitable estimate of how long they'd maintain the facade of wealthy rapscallions, come to browse illicit wares.
She didn't make Parker go over the events of the last few days, which Tony had been kind of hoping she would, as he hadn't done so yet himself. More likely she'd already gotten the details from MJ. The specter of Parker's recent adventures lingered over his and Tony's remaining conversation like a poltergeist they were both ignoring.
They had someplace to go and a way to get in. One problem remained: they certainly couldn't waltz into a villains' waltz as Iron Man and Spider-Man.
“I'll pick up some domino masks,” said Parker. “Any idiot can get hold of them.” He'd certainly carried out enough citizens' arrests on those idiots.
Tony glanced at him sideways. He was surprised by how easily Parker had agreed to this plan. Not gladly, exactly, but the kid had actually offered up the suggestion himself.
What had gone down in these other dimensions? Was Tony sure the right Peter Parker had come back?
Parker's phone rang. He glanced at it, then rolled his eyes and muted the call.
“Still dodging calls?” Tony said ironically.
“This is different.” Parker waggled the phone at him before stuffing it in his wallet. “Berenson's got paternity leave coming up and they're trying to get me to fill in for his Neurotechnology class sext semester.”
“They” would be Empire State, Tony surmised. “And this annoys you why?”
“Because I've got better things to do than moderate snot-nosed juveniles.”
But even as he said it, Parker's frown turned thoughtful.
He'd worked in the ESU neuroscience department for a good while at this point. If he hadn't been roped into teaching classes by now, it was because he'd actively resisted the idea. Teaching was something Tony could have seen the old Peter doing.
“Well, speaking of snot-nosed juveniles, mine's back from her sleepover,” said Tony. He began to turn to where his sports car was parked. The Lamborghini sported a nano mesh to obfuscate any attempts at keying the car's surface by other, considerably snottier-nosed juveniles. “Need a ride?”
“Naw, thanks.”
He didn't mention whether he was swinging home. Or where home happened to be.
Tony peered over and saw the care with which Parker straightened his jacket. As Tony watched, nosily craning his head, the kid checked his battered leather messenger bag of the style that was so popular amongst university academics, and saw what looked suspiciously like a change of clothes. And Tony remembered how platonic Parker had kept the conversation with the Black Cat, and how weirdly respectful she had been of that boundary, despite her habitual and slightly stagey sultriness.
“Ah,” said Tony. He put his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket and followed the other man out into the hushed, snowy street, looking up from beneath his brows. “Staying over at MJ's already, are you?”
Parker twitched so violently that Tony jumped out of reflex. “Geez!” he said with his hands raised. “Easy! Just making an casual observation. Like the kind,” he shrugged, “you'd make about the weather.”
Seeing the kid's face redden, Tony could not resist a snigger.
“Oh for God's sake, Parker. You're not a teenager anymore, it's not like you got caught sneaking out.”
For some reason this just made Parker scowl. The kid readjusted his messenger bag and stepped off the curb, keeping an eye out for puddles draining from the piles of snow. “Good night, Tony.”
A snowflake landed on the end of Tony's nose. He brushed it off, feeling childish. He knew he couldn't ask too much of Parker's emotional reserve at this point, not yet. Not when Tony had yet to bridge the gap there. So Parker could rope his life off however he wanted.
In his hands Tony held carryout pizzas to distribute at home. Pepper always preferred the margherita pie. He made to unlock the car when, unexpectedly, Parker spoke.
“I just don't want to get ahead of myself.”
Surprised, Tony straightened up and looked around. Parker stood silhouetted by the street lamps, but his uncertainty was writ clearly against the gloom. The kid twiddled a subway transit card between his fingers.
“Well,” said Tony, “you've got a lot of ground to cover. Might take long strides.”
After all, who knew more about making up for a lot of mistakes in a short amount of time than Tony Stark?
The kid nodded and blew out his breath. It bloomed into a cloud in the cold air.
Parker had a wife who knew exactly what she wanted, and made no bones about it. MJ had a husband who regarded everything he wanted as untouchable, poisoned by its mere proximity to him. I just don't want to get ahead of myself. Somehow Parker had come to terms with the idea that dreams of his own were neither selfish nor impossible, but still he worried that he hadn't earned them yet. Probably the kid wished he'd had to work harder to reenter MJ's good graces.
Someone so addicted to guilt had trouble with the idea of forgiveness without reserve. Pepper had said that once, and she'd said it about Tony.
In his memory, another woman said: “If you've got the money, break all the eggs you want.”
“Kid, seems to me like MJ's taken the lead on this. My advice?” Tony unloaded the pizza boxes into his trunk, then opened the car door. “Let her.”
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Even later that night, Tony sat on his couch. Pepper had retired to Morgan's room for some girl chat before bed. The pizza had been eaten and the boxes discarded into the recycling.
Feet on an ottoman, slouched back into the sectional cushions with his arms folded, Tony blandly stared at the television.
He didn't watch the nightly news much when he was younger. As an Avenger he was used to getting news before it actually hit the news. Besides, the commentary was full of opinions on things he should do, should've done, shouldn't do, and shouldn't have done. In his bachelor days he'd barely acknowledged reports at all, which was partly why Obadiah Stane's ulterior plans had come as way more of a surprise than they should have.
At some point he'd stopped looking away. When he'd become Iron Man.
Now Iron Man watched the one of the anchors speculate on the incongruous partnership between himself and Spider-Man after a decade spent ignoring each other.
“Are we witnessing a reconciliation?” the undistinctively handsome broadcaster asked rhetorically. Since when did the news recruit their anchors from CW shows? “Why now, over this?”
His co-anchor's eyebrow twitched. “This being the theft of a Botticelli painting valued at over a hundred million dollars?” she said with heavy irony, daring him to dismiss it as a trivial concern.
“The Avengers always operated on a different scale of importance,” a third commentator, another man, pointed out. Although they all sat at the same, crescent-shaped table, the television split their faces into three closeup frames. All three broadcasters landed roughly in the same tier of attractiveness. “They were practically a special ops unit, even after the Accords were amended. The Botticelli is news, but it's not...you know, their normal thing.”
“It's Spider-Man's thing,” said the woman. “Maybe this is him and Iron Man, meeting in the middle. Stark Industries holds the Met's security contract, after all.”
Meeting in the middle. She was more right than she realized.
One of the men shuffled his papers, brows arched in a slightly smug apprehension. “Maybe Spider-Man wasn't an Avenger, but he was Avenger-adjacent. Little bit of a coincidence, isn't it, all this while they're a trending topic again?”
His co-anchor laughed. “You think Tony Stark cares what anyone says all of a sudden?”
No, he'd started caring a long time ago. Tony looked around for the remote. At least none of them implied that Tony had somehow engineered this for publicity.
Trending topic. Hindsight was a bastard.
Tony had always been sure of himself in the flush of the moment. His energy was like a perpetual motion machine sparked by good intentions. Once energized by possibility, he'd launch into action with the manic surety of something inevitable. Ultron had been created in the flush of the moment. When the Accords had been proposed, he'd helped propel them into action with the earnestness of a new-made zealot.
And in that same comfortable rush of energy, he'd once destroyed all his suits.
Others had come since, but the ones he'd burnt had been models he'd thought he depended on at the time, lifelines that kept him an Avenger. The conflagration was his declaration of sovereignty over Iron Man. And a promise to Pepper he arguably hadn't kept.
The Clean Slate Protocol remained one of the only acts done in desperate animation he didn't regret, even if it'd reset so much of his work. Even if the slate hadn't stayed clean for long.
But how did you examine an impulse in retrospect, with fairness to the wildfire of thoughts that always preceded it? Burns's retrospective was hardly fair that way—it was easy to look at all the roads not taken, once you knew what they were. Tony resented all the besuited, gray-haired cognoscenti who presided over the court of public opinion.
And he was a little afraid of what they had to say about his part. Whatever their verdict ended up being, he couldn't appeal it. They might not even be wrong.
He found the remote right as his phone rang. Thaddeus Ross's name popped up on the screen. In the spirit of the occasion, Tony watched the line blink.
Instead of picking up the call, Tony idly thumbed to the recording he'd surreptitiously made of his and Parker's joint interview with the Black Cat.
Though Parker had distorted the thief's face in the pizza joint, he hadn't altered the voice noticeably much. Voice recognition technology had come a long way. If ever Tony came across the Black Cat again, he could easily cross-reference the points of reference in comparing the voices, like matching the whorls of a fingerprint.
Tony wasn't especially interested in doing Interpol's work for them, but he was curious about something. He pressed “play” on the audio recording.
The voice, so sultry a mere two hours before, was rendered indistinguishable by a static through which the words themselves were just barely discernible. Parker had coded a scrambler into the audio signal of his own call which made it impossible for an outsider to trace or identify the speaker.
Expressionless, Tony deleted the recording and repocketed the phone.
Some things didn't change.