217. Ashes That Refuse to Stay Buried. (Patreon)

Peter Parker POV:

We woke up tangled together.

Literally.

At some point during the night we had rotated into a configuration that would have impressed professional contortionists. Gwen’s leg was draped over my hip, one arm wrapped firmly around my waist and her cheek was pressed against my chest like she had claimed the position permanently.

Her skin was warm.

I stayed still for a few seconds just… feeling it.

For someone who had built hyperspace engines, vacuum energy siphons and a warship that could flatten cities, this was still my favorite kind of physics.

Skin on skin.

Heartbeat against heartbeat.

The theorem of ultimate comfort.

It’s funny how the simplest things are the hardest to replicate with technology.

Eventually the morning light creeping through the penthouse windows reminded me that time exists.

I carefully lifted my upper body, trying not to disturb her.

Gwen tightened her grip around my waist immediately.

Her nose scrunched up and she groaned. “Five more minutes.”

Her voice was muffled against my ribs. I smiled softly and I leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Take all the time you need, beautiful.”

She hummed sleepily and then I added quietly, “But it’s that day.”

Her eyes snapped open immediately.

The sleep evaporated like someone flipped a switch. “That day, huh?”

She sighed and buried her face against my chest again.

December 26th.

I remember it vividly... too vividly. Photographic memory is great like that because you never lose the details unfortunately.

I was six and it had been exactly one year since my parents dropped me off at Uncle Ben and Aunt May’s house.

Truth be told… They weren’t very good parents. Absent is the most polite word to describe them while ghosts might be more accurate.

I remember sitting in the living room playing with a cheap plastic dinosaur when George knocked on the door.

He wasn’t Captain Stacy yet. Just a young detective with tired eyes and a heavy voice.

He sat down with Aunt May and Uncle Ben while I pretended not to listen.

They said my parents’ plane had gone down somewhere over the outskirts of the Amazon rainforest.

The wreckage was burned while the bodies were charred and unidentifiable while their belongings were scattered in the debris.

No dental records survived because the teeth had been shattered by the extreme heat.

I didn’t question the details back then but I do now. It's also ironic considering I erased every Parker medical record from every global database when I founded Parker Industries and even then my parents had no record.

Memory is a funny thing because you remember strange pieces.

The way Aunt May held my shoulders, the smell of coffee, the sound of Uncle Ben sighing while flipping through the Daily Bugle.

I don’t remember crying. Which probably says a lot about what my relationship with my birth parents were.

I slipped out of bed carefully.

Gwen followed me a moment later, wrapping her arms around my waist from behind like she didn’t want gravity pulling me too far away.

We brushed our teeth together and then moved to the kitchen.

Breakfast was… aggressive to say the least.

Several boxes of Cocoa Puffs were demolished by us because Spider-enhanced metabolism is a blessing and a curse. Not that my metabolism is anything normal.

Gwen poured milk into two mixing bowl that could probably feed a small family. One for her and one for me.

“Pete,” she said softly while reaching across the counter and clasping my hand. “How are you feeling?”

I squeezed her hand back. “Fine. Really.”

She didn’t say anything instead she just watched me.

“It’s been sixteen years, Gwen,” I continued while pouring orange juice into a pitcher. “The pain fades. Not that I was hurt to begin with.”

I drank half the pitcher in one go and then poured her another pitcher.

“I mean, I had and still have everything they never gave me.” I counted off on my fingers. “Friends, time and a meaningful relationship with actual parental figures.”

I leaned against the counter. “So honestly? I’m good.”

Gwen studied me carefully.

“Let’s just visit the graves and be done with it,” I grabbed another handful of cereal. “Then I’m getting a Caesar salad wrap with chicken cutlet.”

Gwen blinked. “You’re planning lunch already?”

“Yup.”

“While visiting your parents’ graves?”

“Emotional coping strategies are diverse.”

“Wear something black.” I added. “It doesn’t need to be formal. Just… black.”

Then I headed to the bathroom.

Because sometimes routine is the only way to keep your brain from wandering into uncomfortable territory.

Gwen Stacy-Parker POV:

Peter was hurting. Anyone else might have missed it but I'm not anyone, I'm Peter's wife.

He sounded calm. Even a little cheerful but I know him.

For years he hated his parents. Not the childish kind of hate. The kind that comes from abandonment, the kind that hardens into something cold and permanent.

The subway lab video I found sometime ago helped.

It showed that Richard and Mary Parker had at least tried to do something meaningful. Something heroic even but it didn’t make Peter love them.

At best?

It made him neutral. Which is honestly the best outcome anyone could hope for.

Peter doesn’t grieve them or complains about them. He doesn't even mention them and somehow that hurts more.

The morning blurred at the edges because everything felt slow.

The elevator ride down from the penthouse was silent and Peter held my hand the entire time not tightly or desperately.

Just… Holding it like he needed the contact.

I squeezed back every time his fingers tightened slightly.

A silent conversation through motion. It basically said I’m here, I know and you’re not alone.

The lobby doors opened and they were already waiting.

My dad, Vice Captain Jean DeWolff, Uncle Ben and Aunt May. They weren’t dressed overly formally.

Just black coats with black scarves and white gloves.

Aunt May held two bouquets of roses with slightly trembling hands. “They were Mary’s favorite.” She said softly.

Peter nodded once.

---

Queens Cemetery was far from Manhattan but Peter has a teleporter now. So, distance is more of a suggestion than a limitation.

The air was cold, snow covered the ground and thin mist hovered just above the graves, swirling around ankles as we walked.

It gave the entire place a somber atmosphere.

We walked several minutes before Aunt May stopped. “There."

Two gravestones stood side by side. The snow had been cleared recently which means someone maintained them regularly.

Probably the gravekeeper. Peter stepped forward. The engraving read:

Richard Laurence Parker

1968–2005

Beloved Father

Caring Husband

A Good Brother

Next to it:

Mary Teresa Parker

1970–2005

Beloved Mother

Loving Wife

A Good Baker

Aunt May always said Mary was an incredible baker.

Peter knelt. He placed the roses carefully and then stood up while he brushed imaginary dust from his hands.

“Well,” he said lightly. “Now that that’s wrapped up.” He glanced toward the street. “I’m craving a Caesar salad wrap with chicken cutlet.”

Everyone stared.

Jean DeWolff cleared her throat awkwardly. “Uh… Peter?”

He looked at her. “Yes?”

“Shouldn’t you… say a few words?”

Peter smiled politely.

“Sorry, I don’t lie in front of the deceased.”

Her eyes widened. The meaning of that sentence landed like a grenade.

My dad quickly patted her shoulder.

His eyes said clearly: I’ll explain later.

Peter had already turned to leave and that’s when we heard it.

Crunching of leaves mixed with sounds of footsteps.

We turned and a man stood at the edge of the mist with an unkempt beard, Grey hair tangled and wild and glasses crooked on his face.

His eyes were bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

Peter's hands clenched.

I heard the faint metallic hiss of nanobots leaking from his palms. He was squeezing so hard he was cutting his own skin.

Uncle Ben and Aunt May gasped while ad and DeWolff looked confused but I knew.

It took a moment but I knew.

Because the face matched the old photographs in the Parker family albums.

He was Richard Laurence Parker. Peter’s dad.

The man stepped forward shakily and his voice cracked.

“Peter…” He stumbled. “Your mother… and your sister…” Everyone went still. “…are in danger.”

And then he collapsed into the snow.

My brain stalled. Before I could stop myself, I muttered, “From the oven to the forest fire.”

My hand flew over my mouth instantly. “Oh my god, I didn't...”

Peter didn’t look at me. He stared at the unconscious man in the snow and his jaw clenched so hard I heard teeth grind.

“Amen to that, Gwen.” He said it through gritted teeth and I suddenly realized...

This day was about to get much worse.