Chapter 4
The silence in the Queens apartment had a physical quality, dense and oppressive like tar. It wasn't the absence of sound—the distant hum of traffic was audible, the persistent drip from the kitchen faucet—but the absence of communication.
"Hey, Web-Head," Johnny murmured, finding Peter hiding in the kitchen, feigning a sudden fascination with the inside of the empty refrigerator. "This is unbearable. You have to talk to her."
"And what the hell do I say, Johnny? 'Sorry I snooped and saw the scars that are clearly a reminder of a life I can't even imagine'? No, thanks. I'd rather she just kicked me in the head again. That was more direct." Peter's voice was rough, laden with a frustration that went deeper than the incident.
"But you can't live like this! This place feels like a tomb!" Johnny exhaled, running a hand through his blond hair. "Look, women... sometimes they need space. Or sometimes they need you to show you care with a special gesture. I'd buy her flowers. Or take her flying over the city. There's nothing like a little speed and a great view to smooth things over."
Peter shut the refrigerator door harder than necessary. "She's not one of your flings, Johnny. She's not Sky, or Crystal, or... what was the name of the Skrull you married without knowing last year?"
"Lyja," Johnny said, with a hint of bitterness he rarely showed. "And you don't need to remind me. This little brother is about to explode from boredom." His attempt at a joke fell flat.
"Well, go to Avengers Tower. Or the Raft. We won't stop you." Peter's retort was sharp.
Johnny looked at him, and for a moment, saw something more than the jerk. "Sue sent me here for a reason, Parker. Even if you're about as fun as a funeral. Besides, someone's got to make sure you two don't end up strangling each other."
The apartment buzzer rang, shrill and unexpected. All three of them froze for an instant. Peter, with his spider-sense, knew who it was before he opened the door. It was, of course, Sue Storm.
"I hope you're decent," she said as she entered. Her gaze swept the room, landing on Cassandra's hunched figure on the sofa and then on Peter's tense posture. "Looks like I've arrived at an interesting moment."
"Sue, a pleasure, as always," Johnny said, instantly slipping back into his Casanova facade. "We were just having a little... group therapy session."
Sue didn't even blink. "Johnny, your presence is required at the Baxter Building. Reed's detected a negative energy anomaly in the outer solar system. Looks like a job for the Fantastic Four."
Johnny blinked. "Now? But... we're in the middle of... something." He made a vague gesture towards Peter and Cassandra.
"That's an order, Johnny, not a suggestion," Sue said in that big-sister voice that brooked no argument. "Go pack. The Fantasti-Car will pick you up in ten minutes."
Johnny shot Peter a "sorry" look that looked more like "good luck with this." With an exaggerated sigh, he headed to his room.
Sue approached Peter. "Peter," she said quietly, "what's going on?"
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "It's... complicated, Sue."
Sue followed his gaze to Cassandra. "Just... don't underestimate her." She put a hand on his shoulder. "I know you. You're a good guy."
Before Peter could respond, Johnny reappeared with a backpack. "Well, I'm off to save the solar system from... something!" he said, rubbing his hands together. "Don't kill each other while I'm gone. And, Spidey..." He turned to Peter with a teasing grin. "...try not to make her cry. Though with your luck, it'll probably be the other way around." He winked at Cassandra, who didn't react at all.
"Johnny," Sue warned.
"I'm going, I'm going! Call me if a Kree mothership decides to land in Times Square!" And with one last flash of his famous superhero smile, he was gone, leaving the apartment plunged into an even deeper silence.
Sue left shortly after, not without giving Peter one last meaningful look.
Peter took a deep breath. He looked at Cassandra, still statue-like on the sofa. He had to go to the Daily Bugle. Robbie had given him an ultimatum: photos of Spider-Man stopping an armored truck robbery, or his freelance contract was toast. He couldn't afford to lose that income. And maybe, just maybe, getting her out of that environment, showing her a part of his world, could break the ice.
He approached her cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal.
"Cass," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. She didn't move, but he noticed a slight shift in her posture, a slight tilt of her head that indicated she was listening. "I have to... go to work. And... I'd like you to come with me."
Her eyes, empty and fixed on the window, slowly turned towards him.
"It's... a loud place. Full of people. But it's part of my life. Of... this city." He swallowed. "You can't stay locked up in here forever."
She watched him for what felt like an eternity, reading the language of his body: the tension in his shoulders, the sincerity in his gaze, the absence of the pity she so despised. Finally, she nodded. Once.
It was a tacit, fragile agreement. Peter felt a wave of slight relief. "Good. Good. It's... the Daily Bugle. A newspaper."
Twenty minutes later, they were walking through the bustling streets of Manhattan. Cassandra moved beside him, the black hood of her oversized grey sweatshirt up, hands buried in its pockets.
Arriving at the imposing entrance of the Daily Bugle, Peter stopped. "Hey, uh... Jameson, my boss, is... quite a character." He frowned. "It's better if you stay out of his sight. He can be... intense."
Cassandra nodded again, understanding. 'Intensity' was a language she understood.
The newsroom was chaos, just as Peter remembered. The sound of teletypes, the murmur of conversations, the smell of ink and stale coffee. Peter headed straight for Robbie Robertson's desk, feeling Cassandra's gaze fixed on his back, absorbing everything.
Robbie, ever the serene professional, looked up. "Parker. I was about to give up on you. You got the photos?"
"Yeah, yeah, they're here." Peter pulled the photo disk from his pocket. As he inserted it into his terminal, Robbie's gaze fixed on Cassandra, who had stayed by a column, observing. "And who's your... friend?"
"Uh... This is Cass. A... cousin. From out of town. She's visiting." Lying didn't suit him, but Robbie, with his wisdom, simply nodded.
"Alright. Tell her to sit if she wants." His attention returned to the screen, where images of Spider-Man webbing up some thieves sprang to life. "Good work, Parker. This is front page. Jameson will have his 'Menace' headline ready in five minutes."
It was at that moment the dreaded voice boomed across the newsroom.
"PARKER!"
J. Jonah Jameson stormed out of his office, mustache quivering, face red as a tomato. "Where the hell have you been?! I need those pictures of that masked vigilante for the evening edition!" His furious gaze landed on Peter... and then on the dark, hooded figure by the column. "And who's that? You bring a groupie into my newsroom, Parker?"
Peter instinctively stepped in front of her. "Chief, this is my cousin Cass. She's just visiting."
Jameson marched closer, ignoring Peter, his eyes boring into the space under Cassandra's hood. "So what brings you here, huh? You here to take pictures of that wall-crawling useless too?"
Cassandra didn't flinch. She simply stood there, looking around. She just met his gaze, her silence more eloquent than any retort. It felt uncomfortable... Peter could feel her discomfort, her desire to vanish.
Jameson scoffed, frustrated by the lack of reaction. "Well?! A journalist needs answers! You got a tongue, girl?"
Peter noticed the shift. A slight movement of her foot, an adjustment in her balance.
"Chief, please," Peter interjected quickly, stepping more squarely between them. "She doesn't like crowds."
Jameson looked at Peter with disdain, but it was Robbie who saved the situation.
"Jonah, the photos are ready. And they're good. Very good. Why don't you review them in your office? We can discuss the headline."
The promise of an anti-Spider-Man headline diverted Jameson's attention like a magnet. "FINE!!! But I want it big, Robertson! I want that web-slinger to know he can't parade around MY city!" And with that, he turned and stormed back into his office, muttering about "masked vigilantes."
Peter let out a sigh of relief. He turned to Cassandra. Her eyes, barely visible under the hood, were looking at him with... understanding.
"Sorry," Peter murmured. "I told you. He's... Jonah."
She said nothing. Just looked down at her hands, still buried in her sweatshirt pockets.
Robbie approached with an understanding smile. "Don't worry about it, Peter. Jonah's a force of nature today. Your cousin seems... unflappable." He handed Peter an envelope. "Your payment. And a word of advice... next time, maybe take her somewhere a little less... explosive."
Peter nodded gratefully. "Yeah. Thanks, Robbie."
Jameson had scoffed, frustrated by the lack of reaction. "Well?! A journalist needs answers! You got a tongue, girl?"
Peter had noticed the change in her, she seemed to want to say something… It was then that a low voice, rough from disuse, broke the silence between them like fine glass.
"Why... do you work for him?"
Peter stopped dead, the simple act of walking suddenly becoming impossible. It was the first time she had initiated a conversation, actively sought to understand something about his world.
"Jameson?" Peter rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture so habitual he could almost feel the groove years of frustration had worn there. "It's... complicated." The word felt insufficient, a weak euphemism for the daily storm that was Jonah Jameson.
Cassandra watched him, her gaze a high-precision scanner, picking up every micro-expression, every muscle tension. She could see the discomfort building in his shoulders, the shadow of annoyance crossing his face. She tilted her head slightly, a bird-like gesture analyzing an intriguing, contradictory creature.
"He... despises you." The statement was simple, but not ill-intentioned. There was no emotion in it, just the perceived raw reality. "His body... is... angry and it's normal for him." She paused briefly, her gaze distant for a moment, as if reviewing the catalog of aggressive movements she had witnessed. "He yells at you. His posture... is an attack. Always."
Peter opened his mouth to give one of his usual excuses, the one about how "he's not so bad deep down," but the words died on his lips.
"Why... do you stay?" she finally asked, and in that simple, direct question was reflected the logic of a lifetime of survival.
Peter sighed, defeated by the question's raw honesty. "I need the money, Cass. It's... that simple." He shrugged, a gesture of helplessness. "And it's one of the few places, the only place, really, that buys my pictures of... well..." He made a face, a twisted expression of shame and resignation. "Of myself."
Cassandra blinked, processing the information. She frowned slightly. The pieces were starting to fit, but the picture they formed was even more confusing.
Peter, seeing her confusion, continued with a tone of bitter humor. "Yeah. I sell him photos of Spider-Man. And then he prints them on the front page with headlines calling me a menace, a criminal, a villain." He jerked his head towards the building they'd just left. "He pays well for them. Well enough to... well, to help pay my aunt's mortgage and her medical bills."
Cassandra stared at him, and Peter saw the exact moment the final piece of understanding clicked into place.
"He... pays you," she said slowly, measuring each word, "to... yell at you. To slander you." She paused, searching for the right term in her limited vocabulary. "To... harm you. With your own... actions. It is... insane."
Peter went still, the truth of that statement hitting him. He had always framed it as a necessary transaction, a quirk of his life. But Cassandra, with her perspective free from the layers of self-deception he'd built, saw it for what it was: a form of financial and emotional self-mutilation.
"Yeah," Peter admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I guess it is."
Cassandra watched Peter's face, perceiving the shame, frustration, and accumulated weariness there.
"That... is not logical," she declared finally, her tone one of pure statement. For a mind trained for efficiency and survival, it was the most obvious conclusion.
A bitter laugh escaped Peter's lips. "No. It's not." He ran a hand through his hair. "But it's the hand I was dealt, Cass. With rent, bills, tuition... sometimes you can't afford logic. Just survival."
Cassandra looked back at the Daily Bugle building, then at Peter. In her eyes, the initial bewilderment had given way to something more complex: a spark of understanding, perhaps even of... compassion. Not the condescending pity Peter despised, but the compassion born from recognizing a trap one cannot escape.
"Your... boss," she said, choosing the word carefully, "is a... man who wants you. But his power... is borrowed. From your... suffering."
Peter looked at her, surprised by the insight of her observation. Cassandra hadn't just interpreted the dynamic; she had identified its corrupt core.
"Maybe you're right," he murmured.
She nodded once, a short, decisive motion. Then, she looked forward again, indicating the conversation was over. But the silence that fell between them was no longer as heavy.
The question, so direct and stripped of all social subtlety, hit Peter with unexpected force. Why did he, really? It wasn't the first time he'd asked himself, but hearing it from someone who had just witnessed the dynamic in its purest form made the absurdity of it all even more glaring.
"I guess..." Peter began, his tone more thoughtful, "...sometimes you have to endure bad things for a greater good. Or for a lesser good, in this case: paying the rent." He attempted a weak smile. "Besides, deep down, I think Jonah even... appreciates me. In his own, twisted way."
Cassandra didn't seem convinced. Her expression was pure skepticism. For someone who read truth in body language, the dissonance between Jameson's actions and Peter's excuse must have been painfully obvious.
They walked in silence for a block; the city's noise filled the space between them.
Encouraged by this small progress, Peter decided to stick to his original plan. "Well, I have to stop by the university. Just to pick up some books from the library. Do you mind...?"
She shook her head once. It was enough.
The ESU campus was a different world from the Daily Bugle. Less chaotic, more full of youthful life. Groups of students laughed on the steps, rushed to classes, or simply enjoyed the sun. Peter noticed how Cassandra's gaze became, if possible, even more alert. So many faces, so many movements. For her, it was like trying to read a thousand books at once.
As Peter rummaged in his locker, a couple of students walked by, laughing. One of them, not looking, almost bumped into Cassandra.
"Whoa! Sorry..." the student began, but trailed off when she sidestepped with the quick, fluid grace of a shadow, avoiding contact effortlessly. Her gaze, fixed and empty under the hood, made the student clear his throat and hurry away with his friend.
Peter sighed inwardly. "Hey, sorry about that. People here sometimes don't watch where they're going."
Cassandra shrugged, a nearly imperceptible movement. "It's... fine." Her voice was a whisper. Then, after a moment, she added: "It's... calmer. Than the other place."
Leaving the campus, the afternoon sun filtered between the skyscrapers. They passed an ice cream parlor, and the colorful display of flavors caught Peter's eye. It was a cliché, but clichés existed for a reason.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, pointing to the shop. "It's not pizza, but... ice cream usually helps."
Cassandra observed the vibrant shades of strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla. For the first time, Peter saw something beyond alertness or coolness in her eyes: a faint, very faint curiosity. She nodded.
They ordered two plain vanilla cones. When Peter handed hers over, Cassandra studied it with the same intensity she'd give an unknown object. She took a small bite, then another. Her eyes opened a little wider, and she smiled, like a child.
"It's... very good," she said. It was the longest word she'd spoken so far.
Peter smiled, a genuine, tired smile. "Yeah. Good."
As they ate on a nearby bench, the afternoon began to turn orange. The silence was comfortable. Peter fiddled with his cone, the conversation at the Bugle still fresh in his mind. He looked at Cassandra, who was watching people pass by with a calm she hadn't possessed before. She seemed more relaxed, almost happy.
"Hey, Cass..." he began quietly. "About last night... in the bedroom. I'm sorry. Really. I shouldn't have... looked."
She stopped watching the people and turned her attention to him. This time, there was no flash of anger, she just looked him in the eyes.
"Don't... don't worry about it," she said, her voice still rough, but without its previous edge. She looked at her ice cream. "Wasn't... worried about... the scars." She paused, concentrating. "Was worried... about having no place to return to. Again."
It was a confession, clumsy and simple, that gave Peter a painful clarity. It wasn't about wounded pride, but the primal fear of being left here, alone. He had violated that sanctuary, even unintentionally.
"I understand," said Peter, and this time his words held no pity, only a solemn respect. "It won't happen again. You have a place here, Cass. With... with us." The "us" sounded strange, considering Johnny, but in that moment, it felt true.
Their next stop was FEAST, the homeless shelter where his Aunt May spen
t most of her time. The atmosphere there was different from everything else; it was organized chaos, steeped in a weary warmth. The aroma of comfort food filled the air.
"Peter, honey!" May Parker emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron and a radiant smile that softened with curiosity upon seeing Cassandra. "And you've brought a friend."
"Aunt May, this is Cass. Cass, my Aunt May."
May, with her unerring instinct, smiled at Cassandra with an ice-melting warmth. "It's lovely to meet you, dear. Are you hungry? There's always something in the kitchen."
Cassandra looked at May, and Peter saw her defensive posture, for the first time since he'd known her, soften almost completely, smiling at Aunt May.
"Come on, then." May gently guided her towards the kitchen, speaking in a calm, steady voice.
Peter pitched in, handing out blankets and helping serve food. Cassandra, after eating a sandwich in a quiet corner, began to watch him. Cass saw how he acted with the people, with a patience and kindness that starkly contrasted Spider-Man's acrobatic agility.
It was then that the peace broke.
Two men, with the nervous, aggressive aura of people looking for trouble, started harassing one of the elderly volunteers, demanding more food in a threatening manner.
"Hey, I already gave you your portion, friend," the volunteer said, trying to stand his ground.
"Not enough! I think you're keeping the good stuff for yourself!" One of the thugs shoved the volunteer, who stumbled against a stack of chairs.
Peter was already moving, ready to intervene without revealing his powers, but Cassandra was faster.
She was a blur of dark motion. There was no spectacular strike or sound. She simply appeared between the thug and the volunteer. Her hand closed around the wrist of the man who had pushed. The man yelled, his arm going numb, locked in an awkward position. His friend lunged, and with a fluid motion that seemed more like a dance than an attack, Cassandra used the man's own momentum against him, sending him stumbling softly against a padded wall, where he lay gasping, disoriented.
It had all happened in less than five seconds. The two thugs stared at her, at this slender girl in a baggy sweatshirt, with growing terror in their eyes. Without a word, she turned her head towards the door. They scrambled out, rubbing their wrists and necks.
The silence in the FEAST dining hall was palpable. The two thugs lay on the floor, stunned by the precision with which Cassandra had neutralized their threat with almost no apparent effort.
Peter approached her, his heart still pounding. "Cass... are you okay?"
She nodded, breathing normally. She watched the men leaving and then looked at Peter.
May approached then and placed a soft but firm hand on Cassandra's shoulder. The contact made her flinch slightly, but she didn't pull away.
"Thank you, dear," May said, her voice trembling but firm. "That was... very brave."
Cassandra looked at May's hand on her shoulder and then directed her gaze towards the grateful faces of those she had protected, feeling warm inside.
"Come, dear," said May in that maternal voice that could make her feel warm, like Barbara did. "Help me carry these plates to the kitchen. We can talk for a bit."
Cassandra shot a quick glance at Peter, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. She followed May towards the kitchen, moving with her characteristic feline grace, but with less tension in her shoulders now.
The kitchen at FEAST had... The heat from the stoves, the smell of chicken broth and freshly baked bread created an atmosphere that wrapped around you like a blanket. May pointed to a stool in a quiet corner, away from the bustle of the cleaning volunteers.
"Sit down, dear. You must be exhausted." May offered her a glass of water, which Cassandra accepted with slightly trembling hands.
May sat opposite her, studying her face with a non-judgmental gaze, while Cassandra looked down at the glass in her hands. Words were hard to find, but the calm emanating from May instilled a strange warmth in her heart. "I'm... sorry."
"Don't you worry about that, dear," May murmured, nodding understandingly. "Peter's like that, apologizing for things that turn out to be other people's fault."
Cassandra nodded slowly. "Yes."
Cassandra was trembling slightly, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The look of terror in her eyes broke May's heart.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." May slowly extended her hand, allowing Cassandra to see every movement. "May I?"
"It's alright, dear," May said in a comforting whisper. "It's perfectly alright..."
Cassandra bit her lip, looking at May with a mixture of disbelief and longing. "Why...? Do you treat me like this...? You... don't know me."
"I know you well enough," May replied softly. "I see you."
"Dear," she said gently, "may I see your arm? I think you hurt it stopping those men."
Cassandra shook her head, pulling away. "It's... fine. Doesn't hurt."
"Please," May insisted, her tone calm but firm. "I know when someone is hurting. Let me help."
Just then, Peter entered the kitchen, his face full of concern. "Is everything okay in here? I heard a noise and—"
"Peter, just in time," May said without taking her eyes off Cassandra. "Cassandra hurt her arm. I'm taking her to the clinic to get it checked."
"You're hurt? What happened? Are you okay, Cass?" Peter moved closer quickly.
May stood up. "Peter, take care of the mess those fools made. Make sure they don't cause any more trouble. And please check if the volunteers need any medical attention too. It's not the first time those two have caused a fight here."
"But Cass—"
"I will take care of Cassandra," May said with an indisputable firmness. "She trusts me. Don't you, dear?"
Caught between Peter's worry and May's serene determination, Cassandra finally nodded. Something told her she could trust this woman.
May carefully took Cassandra's uninjured arm. "Come with me, dear. We have a small first aid kit. There's nothing we can't handle."
She guided Cassandra down a side hallway to a small room that served as FEAST's basic clinic. It was a simple but clean space, with a cot, a well-stocked first aid kit, and a small refrigerator for medicines.
"Sit here, please," May instructed, pointing to the cot. Cassandra obeyed, scanning the room cautiously.
May washed her hands meticulously before approaching with the first aid kit. "May I see your arm?"
Cassandra hesitated a moment longer, then, with slow movements, took off the grey sweatshirt, revealing a black sleeveless shirt underneath. May caught her breath at the full picture.
Cassandra's left arm was covered in blossoming bruises, but that was the least of it. What truly concerned May were the multiple scars crisscrossing her skin: some thin and white, others thick and dark, and several that were clearly poorly stitched blade wounds. The most prominent was a long scar running from her elbow almost to her wrist, irregular and deeply embedded in the flesh.
"Oh, my dear," May whispered, her heart clenching with pain. "Are you sure you don't want me to call a doctor?"
Cassandra shook her head vehemently. "No. Doctors... no."
"Alright," May nodded, understanding there was a deeper fear at play. "Alright. Just me."
"I don't like seeing such a lovely girl like this..."
With the expert hands that had patched up Peter after countless "accidents," May began examining the arm. "Here," she said quietly, pointing to a particularly swollen area near the elbow. "You have quite a nasty bruise forming..."
As she worked, applying an anti-inflammatory ointment and skillfully wrapping the wrist, May couldn't stop looking at the scars. Each one told a story of pain, of survival. This girl—because in May's eyes, Cassandra was just a girl—had lived a life May couldn't even imagine.
"You must be very careful with these old injuries," May said, trying to maintain a professional tone. "Areas that are already damaged are more susceptible to new injuries."
Cassandra remained silent, watching May's hands work with efficiency and care. It was a touch completely different from what she was used to. It wasn't the rough touch of a combat instructor checking for wounds that might affect her effectiveness, nor the painful touch of an enemy. This touch was... healing and warm, like Barbara's.
"Does this hurt?" May asked while gently pressing a particularly bruised area.
Cassandra shook her head, but May noticed how she held her breath.
"You're very brave, you know," May said as she finished the bandaging. "But you don't always have to be. It's okay to show pain. It's okay to ask for help."
Cassandra looked at the neatly bandaged arm. "Few... almost no one... did this. For me."
The simple statement nearly broke May. She sat down facing Cassandra, taking her hands gently. "Listen to me, Cassandra. Wherever you come from, whatever you've been through... that's in the past. You have people who care about you now. You have Peter, and you have me, and people who care about you have you too."
Cassandra's eyes welled up with tears, but she held them back with iron will. "Why? I don't... deserve..."
"Everyone deserves care, dear," May said, her voice trembling with emotion. "Everyone deserves compassion. And if no one has told you before, let me be the first: you deserve to be cared for. You deserve protection. You deserve a safe place."
For the first time since she arrived, a single tear escaped and rolled down Cassandra's cheek. She wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand, looking ashamed, like a child who didn't know why.
May said nothing, simply offered her a paper towel and waited. After a few moments, Cassandra looked May directly in the eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. And in that simple word, May could hear everything Cassandra couldn't say.
"You're welcome, dear," May replied, smiling through her own tears. "You're welcome."
As they left the clinic, Peter was waiting anxiously. "Is everything okay? Is she okay?"
"She's fine," May assured him. "Just some bruising and a mild sprain. But she should rest."
Peter looked at Cassandra, her arm now professionally bandaged. "Thanks, Aunt May."
"You're welcome, dear." May looked at them both fondly. "Now take her home. And Cassandra..." The young woman turned to her. "...remember what I told you. Always."
Cassandra nodded, and before she could think better of it, she surprised May with a hug.
A while later, on the train ride back to the apartment, Peter noticed Cassandra seemed more pensive than usual, staring fixedly at her hand...
"You okay? About before, with those guys... and the noise..."
"Your... aunt," Cassandra began, searching for the words. "She is... kind."
Peter smiled. "Yeah. May is... May. She has a built-in radar for when someone's hurting."
"She... is incredible. Loving." Cassandra said this as if May reminded her of someone.
"Well, it's what she does." Peter adjusted his backpack. "Hey, about the apartment... May asked, and I told her you're a new... tenant. That you moved in with Johnny and me. It's easier than explaining interdimensional portals before dinner."
Cassandra nodded, understanding the need for a cover. "Johnny... ??"
"Fantastic Four mission. He'll be back, probably burning something." Peter paused. "Is it okay if it's our... home, for now?"
Cassandra looked out the window at the passing buildings. "Home... is a... big word."
"I know," Peter sighed. "But it has a roof, food, and... I won't turn you over to SHIELD. That counts, right?"
For the first time, Peter thought he saw something like a smile on Cassandra's lips. "Yes. It does…"
Arriving at the door, Peter unlocked it with relief. The place was quiet, safe from prying eyes and sudden noises.
"Welcome home," Peter said, dropping his stuff on the sofa with a relieved sigh. The sound of the door closing behind them seemed to seal a tacit pact of safety, at least for this night.
Cassandra stopped on the threshold, observing the space with the intensity of someone deciphering the map of an unknown territory. Her eyes, always alert, scrutinized every corner of the living room, from the stacks of messy textbooks and comics to the rumpled blanket on the sofa. "Home," she repeated with a barely audible sigh, testing the word in her mouth like a food with a strange but not unpleasant taste, even though for her, all of this was worrying, being in another world.
Peter noticed her hesitation. "It's not much, I know. And with Johnny here, it's usually more... chaotic. But it's got a roof, hot water, and the Wi-Fi is decent." He tried to joke, but his tone was soft, understanding.
Finally, she took a step inside. Her movements were silent, as if she feared disturbing the fragile equilibrium of the place. She approached a shelf where a photo of Peter with a smiling May held a central place. Her finger, marked by fine white scars, rested with surprising delicacy on the frame, staring fixedly at the younger image of the woman who had been kind to her moments before.
"May... is the best," Cassandra murmured, looking at the picture.
"The best," Peter affirmed with genuine pride. "She's... my anchor." He sat on the arm of the sofa, watching her. "Hey, do you want anything? Water, maybe... or that stuff Johnny calls 'fruit juice,' but it's probably pure sugar."
Cassandra shook her head, turning away from the photo.
"My... home," she began to say, with difficulty, like stones being moved from a dry riverbed. "Was not... like this."
Peter stayed still, not wanting to interrupt.
"It was... taller. Old stones. But... I knew every shadow. The warmth of the people important to me." She paused, breathing with a controlled whisper. "The smell... of damp earth. Of metal. Of... old books, but also... care."
"Books?" Peter asked, surprised.
An almost imperceptible nod. "Barbara... liked them. She read... fast. Her fingers on the pages... a soft sound." There was a glimmer of warmth in her eyes, a memory that didn't hurt. "Stephanie... was... loud. Bright colors. Loud... laughter. Like... a bird singing in a storm."
Peter smiled. "Sounds... lively."
"Yes. Sometimes... too much." The hint of a smile touched her lips but faded quickly. "Dick... moved... like you. But... more graceful. Less... clumsy."
"Hey!" Peter protested, unoffended, chuckling. "I'm not clumsy. I'm... agile and energetic."
Cassandra looked at him, and laughed seeing him. "He... didn't bump into tables."
"Details." Peter waved a dismissive hand, encouraged by this glimpse of normalcy. "Someone important? Maybe your father?"
That word fell between them like a slab of stone. All the slight relaxation in Cassandra's body vanished, replaced by a familiar rigidity. Her fists clenched involuntarily, thinking of her real father, but she had long ago chosen who her father is.
"Bruce... that was my father... the one I always wanted," she repeated, and the word sounded of iron and guilt. "My real father was... silence. Expectation. A... standard." Her gaze turned inward, toward landscapes of pain Peter could only imagine. "The price... was high with him. Always... high."
She rubbed her forearm, where under the sweatshirt sleeve the marks of her training lay. "He... did not like mistakes. And I... failed. Sometimes... on purpose."
The afternoon faded into a quiet evening. Peter, feeling they needed a distraction from the day's heaviness, proposed what seemed like a brilliant idea.
"Hey, how about we go out for a bit? I know a place nearby. It's... fun."
Cassandra looked at him skeptically, but curiosity won out. She nodded.
The place turned out to be a retro arcade, a space filled with blinking arcade machines, the sound of coins, and 8-bit melodies. The atmosphere was loud, but different from the street; it was a contained, expected chaos.
Peter puffed out his chest with pride. "Welcome to my kingdom. Prepare to witness a legend."
He went straight to a Street Fighter machine. He inserted a coin and offered another to Cassandra. "Do you know how to play?"
She shook her head, watching him handle the joysticks.
"Well, don't worry. I'll show you how it's done." Peter rubbed his hands together, confident. He selected Ryu and started the match. "I'm pretty good at this, you know? The undisputed champion."
Cassandra stood beside him, watching not the screen, but Peter. She saw the concentration on his face, the way his fingers danced over the buttons, the micro-movements of his body that betrayed every intention. He played several matches, winning through a combination of experience and superhuman reflexes that, although muted, gave him a slight edge.
"See! Unstoppable." Peter smiled, satisfied. "Want to give it a try?"
Cassandra hesitated, then resolutely took the other joystick. Peter selected a character for her: Chun-Li.
"Okay, these buttons are for kicks and punches. The joystick to move. It's simple."
The match began. Peter, confident, launched his attack. And was defeated. Quickly, silently, and humiliatingly.
Cassandra didn't seem to be doing anything special, she looked at the joysticks with smugness. She seemed to anticipate Peter's every move as if reading an open book.
"Uh, lucky shot," said Peter, frowning. "Again."
The result was the same. And the next one. And the next.
Peter, the "undisputed champion," was defeated again and again. Cassandra didn't even seem to be trying, and each time she looked at him, she seemed prouder. She simply watched the screen with intense concentration, moving her fingers with lethal efficiency, and then had that mischievous look on her face.
After the fifth consecutive defeat, Peter stared at the "KO" screen in disbelief. "But... how...?"
Cassandra let go of the joystick and looked at him. A clear, mischievous smile spread across her lips. It was small, timid, but undoubtedly a smile. Her eyes shone with a glint of amusement.
"You said you were... the best."
"Well, yeah! Until now!" Peter laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, okay. The truth is... I haven't played much lately. I've been too busy with... you know." He made a vague gesture, referring to his life as Spider-Man.
Cassandra looked at him, and her smile softened. "You are... good. But... I am better. You are... how to say it... predictable."
"Hey, my moves are not predictable," Peter protested, but he was smiling. It was hard to feel defeated when he had made her smile.
They walked back to the apartment; the night was cool and quiet. Arriving, Peter stopped in front of Cassandra's bedroom door.
"Hey, Cass... again, I'm sorry. About last night. And... thank you. For today. At FEAST, and... for not laughing too much at my epic defeat."
She looked at him, her expression soft. "It's not... a problem." She paused, searching for the words. "You... gave me a place. It's fair that I help."
"Well, still. Thank you," Peter said with a smile. "And... I'll come home. No matter what. Always... well, almost always. It's one of the rules."
Cassandra nodded. "Come home." For someone who had felt so lost, they were powerful words.
Just as she was about to close the door, she stopped. She looked at Peter and, with a speed only she possessed, reached out and touched his forehead with one finger—a quick, gentle gesture, almost like a knight's ritual sword tap.
Peter stands there looking at the closed door for a moment, with a silly smile. Then he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.