Chapter Text
Ingestion
The dozen or so approaching police sirens startled him out of his thoughts. Accompanying them not too far behind were also a couple of helicopters. Peter grimaced, clenching his fists as he glared at the distant Oscorp Tower overlooking the rest of Midtown. He had to fight the instinct to swing down there and lend New York’s finest a hand, but he knew his presence would only complicate matters further. He was the reason they’d shown up after all.
It took Normie longer than expected to notice his pet alien was missing. The backup generators must’ve finally kicked in.
He had been trying to convince himself that he was doing a good thing for a while now, but that didn’t stop the guilt from welling up inside. It felt too much like looking the other way, letting the thief pass—in this case, the thief being himself—because it wasn’t his problem, as if he had better things to do than care.
He clenched harder.
Except this time it was different. This time, he wasn’t ridding himself of the responsibility. He was embracing it, trying to change things for the better….
The jury was still out on whether that was a good idea or not. He’d like to believe that it was, and that he wasn’t a massive idiot for doing what he’d done, but despite his Spider-Sense Peter was not clairvoyant. Still, he’d gone this far, and it wasn’t like he could back out now. Whatever happened, happened. It’d be up to him to ensure that everything went smoothly.
Get it? Because of the—man, that’s terrible. Not even a pun, let alone a quip…. I’m getting sloppy.
A month ago, John Jameson’s shuttle had been forced to make an emergency landing due to some kind of malfunction. For reasons unknown, it hadn’t been the only thing to come back to Earth. A certain alien slime had hitched a ride on the rocket, marking humanity’s first official discovery of extraterrestrial life. Later, it’d been captured and delivered to Oscorp, the country’s leading biotech firm, to be studied in conjunction with Mr. Fantastic and ESU’s head bio-geneticist, Doctor Curt Connors.
Cue Peter freaking out, memorizing Oscorp’s ventilation layout, sneaking in four days ago to snoop around so he could learn where they kept the alien, devising a plan that involved shutting down the power to said section of the building so no alarms/security measures would be triggered and finally, sneaking in once again to perform his Symbiote Heist™.
He shook his head, trying and failing to calm his nerves. Could he have kept to himself and left well enough alone? Probably, but that would’ve meant abandoning the alien on Osborn’s platter, despite having the means to save it from the prodding hands of government-backed scientists and other, shadier third parties. Although he would be lying if he said that was his only reason.
Truth was, Peter was attempting to change things. Partially to avoid the absolute hell that would’ve resulted from the inevitable misbond he’d have had with the Symbiote and partially to see if it would be down for a partnership. On paper, he’d get a sweet upgrade and a buddy to watch his back, and it would get a bond with someone who could theoretically procure both of its food sources while treating it better than Oscorp’s eggheads. That was the general idea anyway.
It was a risky move, especially since he had no way of knowing what kind of Symbiote he’d willingly bonded himself to. Ock’s machine had shown him multiple possibilities, it hadn't given him a clear-cut answer, and Peter had been too distracted at the time to focus on future What Ifs. The Symbiote could be of either types, the kind that fed on negative emotions while corrupting its host or the kind that kept to adrenaline/phenethylamine without turning him into an edgelord, or both. Nevertheless, he had to give it a shot.
He knew this would be a major gamble, but he didn’t want to abandon the Symbiote on the not-so-off chance it did turn him into an asshole.
How would that be fair to it? If the guy that was supposed to be a hero tried to get rid of you at the first sign of trouble, just because what you happened to eat made him a asshole, should he really be able to call himself a hero? Peter didn’t think so. For that matter he was more than willing to work with the Symbiote. It may have been an inky sapient slime from outer space, but it was a person like any other. And Spider-Man did not turn his back on people, regardless of whether or not they were human.
I mean, I can’t pick and choose who I help.
It was selfish to steal the Symbiote when so much could be learned from it, he wouldn’t deny that, but for it to be enslaved in a glass box, treated as a resource to be exploited—that wasn’t right either. The alternative was to let Norman convert it into a bioweapon.
Peter sighed, turning to the four pigeons sitting next to him. “You guys get what I’m talking about, right?” All he got in return was a few tilts of the head before they flew off. “Pfft, figures….”
He cleared his throat once the helicopters passed the building he was perched on.
“Y’know, this is kinda what I had in mind for the two of us. It gets lonely talking to birds and Bruce the Gargoyle here.” He patted the statue in question. “It’s nice coming up here to think, don’t get me wrong—even though Oscorp Tower doesn’t do New York’s skyline any favors—but brooding’s just not my style. I’m not the Caped Crusader. It got old after the first couple of times and…well, I’d appreciate a second opinion,” he said weakly, not really expecting an answer. “Feels like I’m flying by the seat of my pants more often than not, y’know? Especially after what happened with May, Ock and his underwater lair…. I’ve been scrambling to try and make sense of everything, and then you come along and it’s….” Peter went to rub his eyes only for his fingers to hit the lenses, so he settled for his temples instead.
“I s‘pose I just hope the cold shoulder won’t last long, but I don’t want to rush you. Definitely not. Just think it’d be prudent to talk so we could set up some ground rules and avoid any, uh, miscommunication." And not speedrun their way to Venom, he added mentally.
“See, that, that right there, that’s the problem, Spidey!” He sprung to his feet, pacing up and down the wall. “C’mon, benefit of the doubt, stop it with the pessimism.” Peter concentrated—really, he did—trying to shake off the ugly What Ifs, except that only made him think about them further. Groaning, he threw his hands up in defeat. “Nope, can’t do it. Okay, maybe it’s better if we both hold off on that talk until we can come at this from unbiased perspectives. ‘Till then, have fun skimming through the ol’ webhead, I guess,” he said, extending a hand in preparation to fire off a web.
Right as he heard the familiar “thwip” ring out from his web-shooter and got ready to jump, he stopped.
A single hum of content radiated throughout his being, one that was not his own, and passed him over like a gentle breeze before swiftly dissipating into silence. Along with it he could feel the tension of the past hour vanishing, dulled away into something miniscule as his shoulders sagged in relief while his new (living) costume took a deep breath for him.
Peter smiled, happy for the response. This one had been shorter, but it hadn’t ended quite as abruptly as the first one had, so the quiet that followed it wasn’t as apparent. It was nonetheless strange, how despite having bonded there was yet to be a clear connection between them. Perhaps their bond was too fresh for that so they’d be stuck communicating through feelings and speech for the time being, as opposed to sharing thoughts. But hey, Peter wouldn’t pretend to be an expert on the subject.
He still wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that he'd willingly bonded with Lovecraft's and Carpenter's lovechild. “Disturbed” seemed to fit what he was looking for. Though, to be fair, barring his initial reaction, the bonding process could’ve been much worse. He’d gotten off easy, and it hadn’t been totally unpleasant; moreso unnerving in that horrors-beyond-your-comprehension sort of way, but not bad. He just hadn't gotten used to it.
Here was hoping he wouldn’t continue to embarrass himself like he’d done when they’d become roomies….
/ \
\_\()/_/
_//^\\_
\ /
Peter dropped into the darkened testing chamber, landing carefully so as to not alert the guards outside. He didn’t know how long he had before the backup generators would boot up and the alarm would be raised, and he’d already spent several minutes crawling to reach this lab. The vents had been way too tight of a fit, but they’d provided a clear path to his destination devoid of any countermeasures. Likely because most intruders weren’t expected to crawl through them to reach the breaker room and shut down power to an entire section of the building. A good thing then that most intruders weren’t Spider-Man.
Just don’t turn it into a habit, Pete. Unless it keeps being to Mr. O and Willie, then it’s perfectly reasonable.
As much as it pained him, he didn’t waste time checking out the cutting edge equipment, going straight for the containment tube at the center of the room. A small glass container with metal covers on opposite ends, hooked up to countless wires and other pieces of machinery. Inside of it, the extraterrestrial being humanity had made first contact with.
In spite of its lack of visible eyes, it had noticed him as soon as he’d descended from the ceiling, all but recoiling at the sight of him.
Something told Peter he’d been judged harshly for his fashion sense. Well, everyone was a critic these days. Shaking his head, he approached with measured steps, not wanting to scare it further. For its part, it kept still, retreating from the glass only when he got close enough to touch it. Against his better judgment he took a moment to appreciate the way it moved. In a matter of seconds, it went from a black puddle to a mass of interwoven tendrils to a blob of goo, before settling on something in-between. A half-solid spine that sprouted a bunch of support structures, each with their own membranes to help it slither about, much like a cephalopod swimming through water.
…He wasn’t certain what to make of it. Was it trying to be intimidating, was it panicking, excited to see someone that wasn’t dressed in a lab coat? He had no idea. It wasn’t lashing out at him, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. What he did know, however, was that animosity wouldn’t help either of them in this situation.
Steadily, taking care to telegraph his actions so he wouldn’t provoke an aggressive response, Peter reached for one of the circular hatches on its cylinder.
The Symbiote went liquid, staining the glass a deep, oily black before vanishing from view. No warning hiss of hostility, no nothing. Just a quick use of a defense mechanism. It occurred so fast that he couldn’t help but wonder what had been done to the poor thing.
Or what hasn’t, given who the head honcho is ‘round here.
Somehow he just knew Normie had been salivating to get his hands on the Symbiote.
Peter closed his eyes, refocusing on the task at hand.
The illusion was so perfect that there were no signs of distortion in the air where its body had been mere moments ago, not even to his enhanced vision. Impressed but still wary, he took a crouching position in an attempt to appear as harmless as possible. His hand did not move from its place on the hatch, and he kept his other one at his side.
In a low voice, he said, “I realize you can’t really understand what I’m saying, but I’m not here to hurt you. Believe me, that’s the last thing I want to do.” Intellectually, he knew the chances of someone having bonded with the alien prior to his arrival—and it learning English as a result—were practically zero, but he was hoping he’d be able to convey his peaceful intentions if he spoke to it in a calm manner. “And I don’t want to spook you or anything but I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
A faint shimmer passed through the space where the Symbiote had camouflaged itself.
Good, that’s progress.
“I also know you don’t have much of a reason to trust me, or humans in general, which is fair, but your chances won’t improve if you stay here either.” Another shimmer was reflected in the air. “The guy that runs this joint, hoo boy, let me tell you, he is not the kind of bozo you’d want to hang out with.”
And a third, longer shimmer this time, which made Peter even more determined to get the Symbiote out of its tube.
“You’re…scared and…probably confused, or close to it anyway, and that’s, um, reasonable! Yeah! I’d be too if I was in your shoes…. But you don’t have to be. I….” He was at a loss for words. Nothing could’ve prepared him for how to approach this. “I just want to help you.” He admitted softly. “I think we can help each other. You don’t have to be alone and…I don’t have to go at this alone.” His voice was barely above a whisper as he said that. The usual bravado he put on was gone, as was the wit. It didn’t come easy to him to admit that he needed help (Johnny would’ve never let him live it down had he been there to hear it), but he hoped the Symbiote could at least sense, in some capacity, that he was being honest.
With what seemed like great reluctance the inside of the cylinder rippled and stretched, turning back into a visible mass of tendrils. Like waves, they emerged and melted back into the main body over and over, yet unlike before it was a slower process, more calculated and almost cautious. In the midst of the constant shifting, a thin strand materialized and pressed against the glass towards Peter. He bit his lip and brought a finger to it, tapping once to see what would happen. To his surprise, the alien mimicked him a couple of times before withdrawing the appendage and pulling itself closer together.
Then, similar to his Spider-Sense tingling, Peter felt his hair stand on edge, as if he was being watched by thousands of eyes that weren’t there. On instinct he turned around, resisting the urge to backflip away. He half-expected someone to be pointing a gun at his head, but there was no one there, just the dark, barren interior of the lab. When he looked back to the alien, he found it spread out into a puddle. The eerie feeling had ceased.
“Okay…. I’ll go out on a limb here and assume that was you.”
Maybe it was his imagination, but Peter could swear he felt a shred of relief being transmitted from the Symbiote. A reassuring confirmation that he had passed some sort of test and it was pleased to let him know, somehow. He chuckled, a humble spark of pride having lit up inside of him. The acknowledgement that he meant well—if that was the case—was enough to put him at ease for what he was about to do, which he was thankful for.
He leaned closer to examine the cover, but found no obvious release buttons or levers, meaning it was probably operated from one of the terminals throughout the lab. Too bad he’d had to shut down the power. He would’ve enjoyed hacking into one of them to free the Symbiote, but he’d have to do this the old fashioned way. While he got to work crushing the lid, he noted how the alien gathered into a more rounded shape and rolled over to the right end of the tube, awaiting to be let out.
“Alright. I’mma get this open for you…. Nice and easy. Just don’t freak out, okay?” The airtight seal let out a hiss as it broke under his fingers, and Peter gently placed the cover atop the tube so he wouldn’t pull off the wires connected to it. “There we go.” His soon-to-be-roommate shuddered at the oxygen flooding into its chambers and immediately liquified, letting itself spill onto the sterile floor.
“Weird that they’d be keeping you in a vacuum, unless that was part of a test? But like, you already came from outer space so there’s no reason to see how you handle low pressure/temperature environments. And it’s not like air harms you so why deprive you of it? I mean, they must’ve seen you attached to the side of John’s ship. Were they worried you'd be carrying alien bacteria and wanted to stop you from spreading 'em, or...were they worried Earth pathogens would infect you?" He scanned the lab once again, searching for any evidence that would prove his hypothesis. "This doesn't really look like a cleanroom though, if that were the case. Who knows, maybe it was just protocol….”
Peter lowered his hand in front of the alien, but did not move it further. Letting it initiate the bonding at its leisure was better, no? He was not getting cold feet at the last minute.
Nope, not in the slightest.
A single string, tinier than any he’d seen from it thus far, formed out of the small puddle and raised its tip to look up at him. It was almost cute how its head tilted to the side, like it was aiming to appear innocent. But something about its attitude gave Peter the impression that it was asking for his consent, questioning whether he’d considered this thoroughly and realized that there was no going back once they bonded…. Well, yes, he had.
He was well aware that this would be a permanent endeavor if things went smoothly between the two of them, and that allowing their bond to fail would spell disaster for him, everyone in his life and likely the whole city. He knew the risks and he accepted them. There was far too much to lose if he didn’t, or if he did nothing, and he wouldn’t be Spider-Man if he chose either of those options. No, Peter had a responsibility to do this, or at least try, because everyone could benefit from it. Sometimes, the possibility of helping had to be enough. If he could save more people while bonded to the Symbiote, if he could offer it a home on this violent, dangerous world, if he could spare the city Venom, it would have to be enough.
Nodding to himself, Peter moved his hand closer…
…only for the tendril to shy away.
“Hey, I get it. I’ve been having second thoughts about this all day, but I still think it’s worth a shot…. C’mon, don't leave me hanging here, what do you say?”
When the tendril retracted once more, he couldn’t stop the disappointment from crashing down on him. Stupid. He'd been stupid to think this would work, to dare to hope that maybe he could change this for the better. Nothing ever changed, because Peter didn't change, because he always let his hang ups get the better of him and put him in mindsets that screwed him over! Because he—
—the alien pounced. It lunged for his outstretched hand with its entire body and covered his palm and fingers in the span of a second.
No amount of shocking from Electro could’ve prepared him for the sheer current that had shot up his arm the instant they made contact. It was no wonder Peter fell on his ass, going rigid as he watched the alien scramble to encase his costume and seep into his skin. Convulsions made him collapse to the floor as he felt it travel through his veins, between muscle fibers and over bones, spreading throughout his body. It didn’t disgust him so much as it felt uncomfortable, and in the panic to calm himself he tried to gasp for air only to choke on the fluid suddenly filling his lungs. His vision went dark soon after, signaling the Symbiote having reached his mask.
For what felt like hours he lost touch of the outside world, floating somewhere deep underwater where he could not see or hear anything, but was still gasping for breath. It was thanks to his Spider-Sense not going off that Peter forced himself to try to keep calm and not claw at his mask, but that didn’t make waiting for the bond to finalize any less difficult.
Only when the suit started matching the movements of his ribcage and pumped oxygen directly into his bloodstream did he relax, no longer feeling his lungs on fire. The Symbiote shifted some more inside of him before finally settling in his chest and adding its weight to his own. It connected to his spine and nervous system with a jolt and directed his body to stand up, invigorating him like never before.
Dazed, Peter slipped to his knees in spite of the abrupt burst of energy, catching a glimpse of his reflection on the floor. Where his lenses should’ve been he saw two white teardrop shapes emerging from the darkness and making the lab seem like it was fully brightened. He shivered despite no longer feeling the cool interior of the room and looked down at his costume.
Both the red and blue spandex had been dyed a pure black that captured light incredibly well, looking smooth but not organic or oily and having little texture to it otherwise. His web pattern had changed as well, from its messy, clustered design to something more streamlined and freed up. Instead of taking up too much space the webs were evenly spaced across the former red areas of his suit, with each individual brick made out of raised silvery lines. The spider emblem remained mostly the same aside from the color shift and slightly longer legs.
His web wings hadn’t changed too much either, only losing their shine for a dull gray. As for the seams and wrinkles of his suit? They were present even with the Symbiote covering him so Peter was not sealed beneath a layer of space-goo. He very much still resembled his old self, just with a fresh coat of paint.
Once he rose to his feet he was startled by the profound feeling of togetherness that enveloped him, but smiled as his suit gradually tightened around him in an all-encompassing hug. It was safe to say that he’d still be having second thoughts about this for days to come, but in that moment he knew without a shadow of a doubt that this had been the right choice.
Judging by its ping of agreement, the Symbiote seemed to share his feelings on the matter, understanding despite not uttering a single word. If Peter had to describe it, he would’ve called it liberating. He felt exposed, naked even, like every facet of himself; all that he was and ever would be was put on display for all to see…but there was no judgment from the other side. Instead, a glimmer of reassurance, pulsing brightly with intent, flew from Symbiote to Host and vice versa.
When the link was at last severed, the alien no doubt mulling over what had happened the same as Peter, it rendered him speechless for a good while.
/ \
\_\()/_/
_//^\\_
\ /
…Admittedly, he could’ve handled the whole situation better, but Ock’s machine had shown the bonding as being completely innocuous across all variants!...
Well, that’s what I get for relying on untested technology, Peter supposed.
His musing was interrupted by the sudden chime of his ringtone.
Shit. He was in trouble, wasn’t he?
Quickly reaching for his belt, Peter stopped midswing on the side of a building and pulled out his cellphone.
The caller ID made the Amazing Spider-Man look on in horror.
“Here we go. Ahem…. Hi, Aunt May!”
"Peter, where on Earth are you, young man?! Do you know what time it is?”
“Er, about that, well, you know how it is. I took a cab after finishing at the gym but the traffic, uh, y’know….” He trailed off, hoping that was convincing enough. “I probably won’t be home for another half hour, so don't wait up for me.”
Hearing her disappointed sigh made him wince.
“If it’s that bad you should’ve taken the subway.” She paused for a moment. “It’s not because of one of those horrid supervillain attacks, is it? Mr. Jameson already has you following that vigilante, Spider-Man," he cringed at the hidden distaste with which she’d spoken his name, “I don’t want you getting caught in some random battle.”
“Um, n-no, no. Nuh uh. Nothing like that, Aunt May. Everything’s fine, honest! No supervillain attacks around here.”
“…That’s good to hear. Alright. You get home safe, dear, you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. Loud and clear.”
“Good. But, Peter, you should really think about finding a gym that’s closer to home. Someplace that doesn’t require you to waste two hours just going back and forth. You’re a growing boy, you need to rest properly, not come home at twelve AM and sleep in ‘till noon.” Even with the chastising tone, some fondness still managed to slip through to the other side.
The “I don’t want what happened to Ben to happen to you,” remained unsaid, but Peter didn’t need to hear it to understand her worries.
“I…promise I’ll think about it, don’t worry! You just focus on taking it easy until then, Aunt May. See you in the morning. Love you, g’night!”
“I love you too, dear. Good night.”
With that she hung up.
Peter let out a breath and slumped up against the wall. Another bullet dodged.
Getting a gym membership had been a good way of justifying where the money for web fluid and spandex went, while also being the perfect excuse for how he’d gone from scrawny teen to buff athlete more or less overnight. Problem was he had no clue how many more lies he could squeeze out of it. For one, Peter Benjamin Parker was in no way a gym bro, and he was already on thin ice due to “lying for months” about hitting the gym in secret.
A nasty grounding was the last thing he needed when his Big Bads could break out at any moment. Spider-Man and hard curfews did not mesh well together, especially when New York’s criminal underbelly was run mostly at night. That said, he should be in the clear given that as far as May was concerned the gym had been the reason for his initial and continued physical improvement. Unless she actually thought he wasn’t going there at all, but that could very easily be his paranoia talking. If that were the case, knowing May, she’d likely suspect he was hanging out with a bad crowd and confront him about it.
Hmm…. Nah, she has no reason to think so. She knows my social life’s practically non-existent outside Johnny and the Bugle. She’d be the first to figure out if that were to change, and if she does end up thinking otherwise, that’ll be a problem for future Spidey to deal with.
Satisfied with himself, Peter clapped his hands.
Before he could get swinging again however, the building shook beneath his feet. An earthquake? In Manhattan? But then he knelt down and pressed his hands to the wall, scanning the roads below. Another tremor shook the block, stronger than before, causing some street lamps to flicker. No, that wasn’t right; earthquakes were brief but continuous, not short pulses of vibration that seemed to be getting closer with each second. The farther away you were from an earthquake's epicenter the weaker it felt.
A car alarm went off somewhere down the road.
“Impact tremors,” Peter realized. Was the Shocker out and about terrorizing people? That wasn’t his style. Herman Schultz was many things. A thief, the Rhino’s best friend, a fishnet-wearing goober, a way more serious threat now that Peter and the Symbiote were bonded, but a maniacal murderer he was not. He wasn’t the type of bad guy that went out of his way to pick fights or go on rampages. He stuck to doing odd jobs that were oftentimes illegal, and if he was caught committing a robbery he was more likely to run than stand there and duke it out. No, this was someone or something else.
Then Peter heard that familiar, distinct whine of servos/hydraulics as they smashed through concrete and it finally clicked. Ock.
Otto Octavius was here, in the city, as opposed to rescuing the rest of the Six in Rikers. Trying to draw Spider-Man out, as opposed to playing it smart by staying in hiding. Oh, it must’ve royally pissed off the good doctor to find out the arachnid hadn’t drowned in his busted lair. So much for the Master Planner, who had all of his plans foiled and then couldn’t even finish the job when he had had Spidey at his mercy.
The accident caused by their earlier scuffle, May falling into a coma after the blood transfusion, tracking down Otto to his base, the Forward-Probability-Calculator, the battle, getting trapped under three hundred tons of rubble, the ocean pouring on top of him Ock leaving him for dead….
Peter grit his teeth at the memories, overcome by a sudden rush of anger. It honestly surprised him that his cellphone hadn’t exploded from how hard he was holding it.
The Symbiote tightened around him, and Peter forced himself to calm down for both of their sakes. Lashing out would do them no good.
But if Otto wanted a fight, he would happily oblige.
He held his phone near his belt and waited, smiling when some tendrils reached out to wrap around it and sink it into whatever pocket dimension they had access to. Not a second later, he launched himself off the wall and swung down the street, ready to send Otto off to jail where he belonged for good.
Dammit. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so sad; that Peter had been so afraid of being influenced negatively by the Symbiote yet here he was, influencing Symby with his anger at the mere thought of Ock showing his face.
“I’m sorry. I promise you this wasn’t what I had planned for us. I know how impressionable your kind can be and I never wanted our meeting to go like this, but I-I…Ock’s just—he’s a sore spot, but I can’t ignore him if he’s here to cause trouble….”
He hoped it understood. Bonding was a mutual deal. They’d affect each other and poisoning the well so soon with negative emotions couldn’t be smart, but neither could Peter allow Ock to hurt civilians in order to make him show up.
Which was why he was glad for Symby offering him a buzz of Confusion, followed by Indifference and Acceptance, as if to say: “What’s the problem? It doesn’t matter. I’m okay with you taking him down” .
“Thank you,” he said simply, because what else could he reply with?
Two more swings had him closing in on the source of the tremors. Really, Otto should’ve known better than to face Peter alone. Doc Ock was—unfortunately—a good leader. If he’d broken out his teammates he could’ve coordinated with them and that would’ve evened the odds, but revenge by his lonesome must’ve been too good to pass up. Well, so long as it made his job easier Peter couldn’t complain. He rounded the corner and…
“Why is my life like this?”
…came face to face with the silver visage of Wilbur Day, better known as the Stilt-Man, stomping around in his giant extendable legs.
Ock was nowhere in sight.
Peter bowed his head and landed on the edge of a rooftop, a few yards away from the approaching Stilt-Man. He swore; someone was doing this on purpose, going out of their way to play tricks on him.
A flood of Amusement came forth from the Symbiote, much to his chagrin.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” But he couldn’t exactly stay mad, could he? After all, it was Stilt-Man! He’d much rather take him on than Doc Ock, even on his best of days. “Well then, guess we should count our blessings, huh?”
Bemused, Peter looked at the villain, watching on in silence as he walked right past him without sparing a glance. Something about his posture screamed "on edge".
“...There’s no trace of a Mike Murdock anywhere I’ve looked. What am I gonna do now? I’m no bloodhound, so how do you find one man in a city of millions? Think Will, think! What would the Marauder say?... He’d say ‘Make him come to you, Wilbur!’. Yeah, that’s right! I can do that. All I need is to find a jewelry store and if Daredevil’s in the neighborhood he’ll come to me,” the man muttered, seemingly proud of himself. Peter decided he’d heard enough and leaped onto his shoulder, spooking him to a halt. “Spider-Man!?”
“Nice night for a walk, eh? So how ‘bout you save us the usual fighting routine and give up now while you’re ahead?” That made the villain pause, but he quickly regained his composure and squared up.
“Why should I listen to you? You’re not Spider-Man,” he shouted, gesturing to Peter’s suit. That gave him an idea.
“You’re right, I’m not." He leaned in, forcing Stilt-Man to back up into a nearby alley. “I’m Spider-Man’s darker cousin, the Deadly Neighborhood Man-Spider," he whispered, totally serious, “and unlike my cousin? I can summon spiders! Hundreds, thousands of spiders, all of them at my comma—”
Peter jumped, dodging the armored fist that would’ve collided with his head and letting Stilt-Man hit himself in the face.
“ARGH!” the man fell to the ground, cracking the metal plates surrounding his upper torso.
“Aww, Wilbur! You gotta let me finish my jokes, man. This one would’ve been hilarious." Peter dropped on top of him, webbing his elongated arms to his sides. He did the same for his stilted legs, not allowing them time to retract so the man could reposition himself. Wilbur struggled for a bit before it became clear that he wouldn't be overcoming his restraints, so he opted to express his frustrations verbally.
“N-NO! Urgh, w-what is this?! The Mighty Stilt-Man defeated so easily? Preposterous!!"
Peter chuckled at his antics and crouched down, tapping the old man on the helmet. “Look, dude, you gotta work on your mid-battle banter if you wanna go anywhere.”
“R-Really? I used to be a Dungeon Master way back when; I thought that would help set me apart from the other costumed folks running around these days….”
“Roleplaying’s a good start, but you’ve to find something that makes you unique if you want to stand out. Mysterio’s got that theater act goin’ on, Rhino has the Russian accent. None of that ‘Die, Spider-Man!’ the rest of you are so fond of using. ‘Cause, like, after a while it gets so boring the villains who say it just kind of blur together. I couldn’t tell you if it’s Electro who says stuff like that or the Vulture.”
“...Huh. I never thought of it like that. Thanks.” Peter grinned, throwing him a thumbs up.
“You’re welcome, Wilbur. Now, mind telling me who you were looking for?”
Clearly, he did mind, but seeing as how he wasn’t leaving anytime soon, the man gave in.
“Ah, well…fine. Mike Murdock is his name. I’ve heard rumors about him being Daredevil and decided to take my chances. Thought I could lure him out and finally beat him once and for all, but I guess that’s not going to be today….”
“We’re still a ways away from Hell’s Kitchen though. You…do know that’s where DD operates most of the time, right?”
“Of course I know, he’s my arch nemesis! And I was getting there before you stopped me.”
“Hey, you know how it is. Don’t do crime if you can’t do the time or don’t like getting punched in the face. You ever considered that with great power comes great—”
“—Fortune! And fame! And once I defeat Daredevil, I’ll have all of those things and more.”
“Riiight. Gotchu. Whatever you say.” Peter shook his head and hopped down, webbing Stilt-Man some more for good measure. “But seriously, you could get all those things if you used your brain instead of putting on a costume,” he opened a compartment on his belt and took out one of his Courtesy of Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man cards, “like, if you patented your technology, helped outfit construction workers and the police with versions of your armor, that kind of thing. Although, maybe ditch the stilts when it comes to the cops." He stuck the card to Wilbur’s chestplate. “Might take more effort, but wouldn’t it be more rewarding as opposed to doing…. This?
“With my rap sheet? It can’t be that easy…or exciting.”
“You’d be surprised. It’s not like you’re the Punisher, Wilbur. There’s still time to turn your life around. Give it some thought, will ya?”
“...Alright,” he said quietly, avoiding Peter’s gaze.
Anything else he may’ve wanted to tell him was interrupted by the police cruisers that suddenly parked outside the alleyway.
“Aaand that’s my cue to leave. Stay safe out there, Stilt-Man. Be seeing you!”
A two-fingered salute and he was off.
…There was something to be said about the state of the world when brilliant men like Wilbur Day felt the need to turn to crime instead of using their gifts for smarter, more beneficial goals. Even if they wouldn’t do it to help others, surely applying their skills to more practical endeavors was more profitable and safer than getting shot at by cops, spending their freetime in jail and getting trounced on by other superpowered people. Why did the brilliant man have to rob banks to feel like he was worth something?
Peter liked to imagine that he was part of the solution to that kind of question, but the problem was so much grander than he could ever hope to solve that it often felt like he wasn’t making any difference at all. He could keep beating criminals and sending them to jail, but he couldn’t change people. It was up to them to change themselves. He could offer advice, help whenever he could, lend an ear to those who wanted to be heard, but at the end of the day how much was that actually changing things? When Sandman escaped prison for the umpteenth time, when innocent people kept being endangered, how much did it matter that Peter kept giving his foes the time of day?...
Of course, that didn’t mean going to the other extreme; becoming a violent psychopath who murdered anyone who so much as stole a purse, but it begged the question: What was the solution? How could he make a permanent change in the way things went?
Maybe a permanent change was impossible, a pipedream he should stop deluding himself with. Maybe he’d be destined to keep going in circles until he couldn’t, or wouldn’t be Spider-Man anymore, but could he ever accept that?
That one has an obvious answer, Pete.
Maybe problems like these were too complicated to even consider. That, he could somewhat accept. Sticking to what he knew made a difference; fighting so other people wouldn’t lose their Uncle Bens—that felt right.
But still.
“See, it’s this stuff that gives me the most headaches. There’s no superhero academy or manual or guide to show you how it’s done. It’s always just so….”
Uncertainty, entered his mind, more like an idea than a spoken word. A feeling that defined the word through the emotion it evoked rather than describe it.
“Yeah, that’s one way to put it, Symby.” Wait a second. “Hey, is it cool if I call you that? I can’t think of any other nickname for you that wouldn’t be a reference.”
Confirmation, then Gratitude. Both were relayed in an instant.
“Haha, Symby it is then. Glad to know at least someone’s a fan. Most people can’t seem to appreciate my nicknaming talents, be they friend or foe. Picklepuss, Magoo, Matchstick, Sparkles, Vibrator, Sandy, Lizy…. I mean, Spidey’s a good one, right? They don’t see me complaining when they call me Webhead, Webslinger, or the Wall-Crawler, but they always hate it when I name ‘em something. I wonder why that is?”
Others. Scorn. Irrelevant.
Self. Appreciation!
“Thanks, bud…. Hey! Looks like we’re getting the hang of this talking thing. So what do you say we make our way home before we tempt Aunt May’s wrath?”
Home…
Selves. Together.
Home.
Always.
…
Agreement.
“Let’s go, then.”