Gwen POV:
For the first time in what felt like years even if it's just been a few days, me and Peter weren't running.
No portals. No villains. No cosmic tapestries unraveling. Just New York City, our New York City where Google isn't Backrub.
We stood in Times Square, the neon blinding and alive, as steam rose from a hot dog vendor's cart. I laughed when Peter dropped mustard on his T-shirt and Peter grinned through his mock protests when I dabbed at the stain with a napkin that only made it worse. For once, the world didn't care who we were. We were just two lovers eating hot dogs under a thousand screens.
The days blurred into something rare and precious.
---
We started at the Statue of Liberty. I leaned against the railing of the ferry, hair whipping in the wind.
"Kind of wild isn't it. How many movies use this place as a backdrop for some invasion or disaster. And here we are just… sightseeing." I asked.
Peter nudged my shoulder. "Let's not jinx it. If an alien armada pops out of the Hudson I'm blaming you."
"Please. You'd just want to borrow one of their ships." I say while rolling my eyes.
"Depends. If it comes with cupholders I'm in." Peter replied with a grin.
Aunt May snapped a picture of us mid-banter. I groaned. "She's going to frame that, isn't she."
Peter grinned wider. "Yup. And I'm going to let her."
---
At Central Park, Uncle Ben insisted on a family walk. The four of us strolled beneath golden leaves, fallen leaves crunching underfoot. Peter and I drifted ahead, my hand slipping easily into his.
"You know." I said softly, "I used to watch couples do this. Just… hold hands. Walk. Like it was nothing. And I thought it'd never be me."
Peter squeezed her fingers. "You don't have to just watch anymore."
I smiled, leaning my head briefly against his shoulder.
---
Later, I convinced Peter to try rollerblading. He lasted five minutes before sprawling on the pavement.
"Graceful." I smirked, circling him like a ballerina shark.
"I was distracted. There was a crack in the concrete." Said Peter as he dusted his pants.
"Uh-huh. Sure. Definitely wasn't you tripping over air." I say with a raised eyebrow.
"Don't act smug. I could still out math you any day." Peter boasts.
"Keyword: could. But you won't as you love me too much." I replied.
Uncle Ben pretended not to hear us, though the amused twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.
---
That evening we found outselves on a carousel in Brooklyn. I picked the most ridiculous painted horse I could find. Peter mounted the one beside me, rolling his eyes.
"This thing is like a relic. You really wanted to ride this?"
"Yes. And you're riding with me so stop pretending you're not enjoying it."
As the ride began, Peter leaned across, his voice low so only I could hear. "Guess I just like it better when you're stuck next to me."
My grin was brighter than the lights strung overhead.
---
One night, the two of us stood on the edge of the Empire State Building, wind tearing through our hair. The city sprawled infinitely beneath us, glittering like veins of light. I leaned into him, my hand finding his and our lips brushed in a kiss that was both shy and certain. For Peter, it felt less like falling and more like finally landing.
---
Days later, he sat cross-legged in the corner of a dingy rehearsal studio, headphones around his neck as me and The Mary Janes thundered through a song. I caught his eyes between riffs, I kept sticking out my tongue out mid-solo just to make him laugh. When the set ended, he clapped louder than anyone, earning a chorus of groans from the bandmates.
"Don't quit your day job, fanboy." I smirked, toweling off sweat.
"Not a chance. I'm already the president of your fan club." Peter shot back, handing me a water bottle.
---
The nights in the neighborhood were quiet. The two of us sprawled across Peter's bedroom floor, laptops glowing, papers scattered as we fumbled through assignments. I nudged his ankle under the desk, mock-annoyed whenever he tapped his pencil against his teeth. He retaliated by leaning on my shoulder, reading me notes in an exaggerated announcer's voice until I shoved him to the side.
And sometimes, when the world outside went still, I would look up to see him immersed in something far bigger.
Blueprints sprawled across the desk, holographic projections of unknown alloys flickering in the dim light. Peter muttered to himself, fingers flying over code as he cross-referenced the EXO-45 Patriot Exosuit with the F-302 fighter interceptor schematics. The system had given him only fragments. Samples of tech without the instructions to build them. It would take time, patience and sleepless nights to piece together the future.
I watched silently, chin resting on my knees. To me, it wasn't the suit or the fighter that mattered. It was the look in his eyes: determination softened by warmth, the drive to build not just for himself, but for the people he loved.
For the first time since everything began, I believed they could have both. A life both ordinary and extraordinary.
?????
A blizzard howled across the Siberian wilderness.
Inside a weather-beaten shack, a single lantern burned, its light barely touching the frostbitten walls. A man in a heavy coat sat hunched at a wooden table, vodka sloshing in his glass. Beside him lay the skeletal remains of another, so old the skin was like parchment.
The corpse's lips were cracked, frozen mid-whisper. The last words lingered in Russian, etched into the silence like a curse.
"I leave my inheritance to you."
The younger man raised his glass, eyes glinting with something darker than firelight. He drank deep as the storm raged on.
Read 47 chapters ahead on P.A.T.R.E.O.N
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