189. Snow, Static and Unwanted Company. (Patreon)

Peter POV:

Tony and I both turned at the same time.

The kid standing there looked like winter itself had decided to put on a hoodie. Oversized coat, knit cap pulled low, hands jammed into his pockets like the cold owed him money.

I recognized him instantly.

Harley Keener.

In another life, one I’d burned down with my own hands out of spite and exhaustion his name had been swallowed by marketing decisions and corporate noise. A quiet backlash, loud enough to matter, quiet enough to be ignored. A boy who should’ve mattered more.

While my mind spiraled, Tony was already doing what Tony did best.

“Okay,” Tony said, palms glowing faintly as the repulsors armed. “Who are you, kid? Why are you here? And before you answer, are you a pint-sized A.I.M agent? Because I hate surprises.”

Harley’s eyes went wide. Like really wide.

“Tony,” I said calmly, stepping forward. “Relax.”

Tony didn’t lower his hands.

“He could be booby-trapped,” Tony muttered. “Or glowing. Or explodey. I’ve had a week.”

“That,” I said, glancing at Harley, “is a run-of-the-mill adolescent human boy. No Extremis. No nanobombs. No evil laugh queued up.”

I walked past Harley and gave him a reassuring nod.

Tony hesitated… then powered down his repulsors with a sharp exhale.

Harley stared between us, jaw slowly dropping.

“That was..” He started then squeaked, “...that was so cool.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Great. We’ve impressed the youth. That’s my good deed for the year.”

I glanced up at the snow-dusted town.

“Well,” I said casually, “looks like you’re sharing a tent with Tony tonight. Rose Hill doesn’t exactly have motels. Or Airbnbs. Or...”

Tony groaned. “Of course it doesn’t.”

Harley blinked. “Uh… you guys could crash at our garage? It’s heated. Dad used to keep his tools there before he left and… I’ve got snacks?”

I smiled. “Deal.”

I pulled a thick wad of cash from my pocket and pressed a few hundred-dollar bills into Harley’s stunned hands.

“Get us sugary drinks and salty snacks with one of those,” I said. “The rest is our boarding fee.”

Harley stared at the money like it might bite him.

“Yes, sir!” He blurted, then immediately winced. “I mean uh cool... guy! I’ll be back!”

He rattled off directions at warp speed and sprinted toward the convenience store, boots crunching against the snow.

Tony watched him go, arms crossed.

“You never trust anyone that fast,” Tony said. “What changed?”

I shrugged, stuffing my hands into my coat pockets as we started walking.

“A wounded soul,” I said quietly, “recognizes another.”

Tony stared at me for a long second.

“…I’m just going to pretend I understood that,” He said. “Because otherwise it sounds like a fortune cookie.”

I snorted at his assessment of my philosophical depth.

Snow drifted down around us, soft and slow.

For a moment, the world felt almost normal which for me is a bad omen.

Gwen POV:

The automated doors of Parker Tower slid open the instant my biosignature registered.

The Iron Spider Mk. II peeled away from me in seamless layers, retreating into the housing dock like it was tired too. Underneath, I was left in the neutral-connectivity undersuit. Black, flexible and deceptively simple.

Spandex to the untrained eye.

A small nation’s GDP in biosynthetic meta-materials to anyone who knew Peter.

I stepped into the shower and twisted off the eyebrow piercing on my right brow, dropping the titanium jewelry into a cleaning solution. Steam rose as warm water cascaded over me.

Peter’s suits cleaned themselves.

But a shower was still a shower.

I let the water hit my shoulders, close my eyes, and breathe.

Max. Frank Davis. Lightning. Fear.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged wrapped in a towel, another one twisted around my damp hair. I flopped onto the couch, exhaustion settling into my bones.

I missed him.

My husband was out there in the snow with Tony Stark, chasing ghosts and fire trails, while I was here thinking about electricity and guilt and what-ifs. Yup, a normal Christmas.

“Mrs. Parker,” Clanker chimed gently, “there is a Mr. Osborn and Miss Hardy here to see you. They insist it is important.”

I groaned softly into the towel.

“Of course they are.”

I pushed myself up. “Let them in, Clanker. I’ll be right down.”

I headed toward the bedroom, pulling on soft clothes. Peter’s hoodie, worn thin and warm in all the right places.

“I hate complicated things.” I muttered to myself which is ironic considering the fact that I literally am the reason for my complicated lifestyle.

But apparently trouble loved me.