By the time I wake up, birds are chirping outside, and sunlight is cutting through the blinds like a spotlight aimed straight at my face. I groan, roll over, and squint at the clock. Seven.
I think about going back to sleep. My brain's still wired for third shift, not high school. Being up this early feels like a mistake.
Eventually, I sit up and rub at my scalp, fingers dragging across skin that feels too smooth, too healthy. My body's not sore, which still throws me. Old habits are slow to die, and this one—this new one—doesn't feel like mine yet.
The air smells like bacon. Of course it does. And immediately, there's that tug of something half-forgotten—the comfort, the craving. I know that smell. I know how easy it is to lean into it.
But I also know where that road leads.
I can't go back to who I was before.
I didn't hate that version of me, not really. Sure, I could've eaten better. Moved more. Been a little less guarded, maybe a little kinder. But I wasn't miserable. Just… stuck.
Still, if I want to break the cycle—if I want to earn this second shot—I've got to make different choices. That starts with my body.
I need to eat better. Work out. Actually follow through this time.
Back in my old life, I'd hit the gym when I was in the right headspace. The trouble was, that headspace didn't visit often. Most days, I made excuses. Said I'd start Monday. Told myself one more cheat day wouldn't kill me.
And now here I am—new body, new life—and the smell of bacon is already whispering promises in the back of my skull.
Old habits die loud.
I head to the bathroom to get cleaned up. The tile's cold underfoot, the air thick with humidity from an earlier shower—May's, probably.
I splash water on my face, chasing away whatever sleep still clings to my eyes. The cold hits sharp, grounding me for a moment. I inhale slowly, trying to pretend it helps.
Then I look up.
And there he is.
The boy in the mirror stares back with Peter's face—almost.
It's familiar in the way a wax figure is familiar. The features are technically correct, mapped out just right. But something's off. It's like an AI took a dozen photos of Andrew Garfield, scrambled them for legal reasons, and fed them through a deepfake filter.
Uncanny. That's the word.
The hair, the bone structure, the slight curve of the mouth—it all should be right. But the longer I stare, the more it feels like I'm watching someone else wear a mask of someone I know.
Wiping my face with the hand towel, I catch it—just for a second.
My real face.
The one I left behind.
Bloodied. Bruised. The shirt torn, stained dark red. That high-vis orange vest hanging off me like melted plastic, shredded and soaked through.
It flickers in the glass like a jump scare—not loud, not sudden. Just… wrong.
And then it's gone.
But I saw it, and for one breathless moment, I feel like I'm haunting myself. Because I guess… in a way, I am.
I shake my head, placing the towel back on the rack and open the door. At the threshold, I pause.
One last look.
The mirror hasn't changed. It's still Peter staring back—head slightly tilted, expression caught somewhere between thoughtful and tired. I try to smile, just a little. Not for the reflection, but for me.
Like maybe if I fake it hard enough, Peter will smile back. Like he's saying Hey, we've got this.
It's stupid. Delusional, even. But for one small, silent second, it works. The knot in my chest eases, just a bit.
I step into the hall, shutting the bathroom door behind me.
Downstairs, the air smells like syrup and warm batter. Comfort food. The kind of smell that should be wrapped in flannel and played over a sitcom laugh track.
May's at the stove, flipping the last pancake onto a growing stack. The golden-brown tower lands on a plate in front of Ben, who's already seated at the table with a half-finished cup of coffee steaming quietly beside him.
He looks up and offers a small smile, soft around the eyes. May notices me a second later and lights up with the kind of warmth that makes you forget this is a house still weighed down by worry.
It's my first morning in the Parker household, and maybe it should feel strange—like I'm playing house in someone else's life.
But it doesn't.
Not as much as I thought it would.
There's an ease in the rhythm of it all. The clink of plates. The low hum of the radio playing something old and wordless. May wiping her hands on a towel, Ben buttering his pancakes like he's done it a thousand times.
It feels… normal.
And maybe that's the weirdest part.
"Morning, slugger." Ben greets me with a warm smile. "How'd you sleep?"
I don't answer right away. From what they know, I went to bed right after dinner—tired, recovering, still a little foggy from the coma.
What they don't know is that I spent a couple hours glued to Peter's laptop, combing through the digital breadcrumbs of his life—looking into some of Pete's most notable enemies and allies, trying to make sense of things.
Still, despite the late night mental gymnastics, I slept better than I have in… God, years. Even before the accident. No tossing. No panic dreams. Just… sleep.
"Pretty good," I say finally, sliding into the seat across from Ben. I glance toward May, then back to him. "I was kind of out of it when the doc was talking about school. Did she say when I'm going back?"
"After this weekend," May answers, setting down a plate in front of me like she's done it a hundred times before.
Her voice is light, but there's a trace of hesitation in it—like she's watching to see how I'll react. Like she's waiting for the real Peter to resurface, even in something as simple as how I handle breakfast and a Monday looming.
"Harry called," she says suddenly, earning my full attention. "He was hoping to stop by and see you now that you're home. I told him it depended on how you felt."
So, Harry was still friends with Peter then. Maybe they just didn't have the time to hang out as much as they were lately. I kind of want to see if I could ask Harry to help me out getting a new wardrobe, but the idea of asking for money has never been my forte. I like earning things myself.
As much as I wished I could lean on Peter's genius, I knew I didn't have his brain for that kind of tech wizardry. If I was going to pull off any of Peter's legendary feats—web shooters included—I'd have to put in the work and… I shudder at the thought, because God help me… I'm going to have to study.
"I'd like that," I replied. "D-did you tell him about my amnesia?"
"He's promised to take it easy around you so you're not pushed too hard."
That's a start.
I let my gaze drift to the window overlooking the street and stare at it a little too hard. Not because there's anything out there worth seeing—but because I don't know what else to do with myself. The silence from May and Ben stretches, soft but steady, and I lose track of time until the quiet scrape of ceramic on wood brings me back.
May's set a plate down in front of me. Pancakes covered in butter and syrup, with bacon and fried eggs on the side. It's practically your picture perfect meal.
"Everything alright, Peter?" she asks gently.
I nod, snapping back to the moment.
"Y-yeah, sorry. I was daydreaming."
There's a glint in her eye, but she doesn't say anything besides to eat up.
Ben takes a sip of his coffee and glances over at May, brow lifting.
"Anna called you already today?"
May doesn't look up from buttering her toast. "Yes. Is there a problem?"
Ben leans back a little, hands wrapping around his mug.
"No, it's just… it's not even eight yet. Seems like she's calling earlier every day."
"She was worried about Peter," May replies, arching a brow at him. "Wanted to see how he was doing."
"She couldn't call a couple hours later?" he mutters into his cup, like maybe the caffeine will shield him from further commentary.
I raise an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bacon. Anna?
Wait—Anna Watson?
The name rings a faint bell. Aunt to Mary Jane, if I'm remembering right. I think I saw her name pop up in one of those old email threads Peter never deleted. Strict, maybe. Churchy. Definitely the kind of person who bakes things when she's worried and calls people before the sun's fully clocked in.
"Is she okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual even as the bacon suddenly tastes a little more complicated.
"She's fine," May says with a small smile. "Just a worrier. She said her niece was asking about you too."
That stops me for a beat.
MJ.
Does she know Peter already? Or is it more like how it was with my grandpa—where he'd casually drop fifty names over the course of a single day, most of them strangers to me. But then one or two would stick, and somehow, without realizing it, I'd find myself asking about them like I'd known them forever.
Maybe it's something like that. Maybe MJ just knows May. Maybe she's never even met Peter, and her asking about me is more of a kindness than a connection.
Still… May didn't say her name outright. Just "her niece." That could mean I'm not supposed to know her yet. Or maybe I'm overthinking it, reading too much into a simple comment—seeing ghosts in throw pillows.
"Her niece?" I ask, and I see the twinkle in May's eyes as the words come out. Oh, she's already plotting isn't she? God, please let her just drop it. She's fourteen… fourteen. For fuck's sake I'm technically twenty-four. There's a ten year age gap even if I'm residing in a fourteen year old body.
My stomach lurches at the thought. Suddenly, the bacon doesn't taste as good as it should, and I have to put it down.
"She's a lovely girl. I think the two of you would get along." she replies sweetly. Too sweetly. I glance at Ben out of the corner of my eye. He's sipping his coffee like it's nothing, but his mouth twitches like he's trying not to laugh.
Oh boy… How much has May talked to Ben about this?
"Honey, give the kid a break…" Ben says, the corners of his mouth twitching as he sets his mug down.
"What?" May replies, all innocence, like she didn't just throw a grenade into my morning eggs. "Peter could use more friends."
Ben chuckles under his breath. "The kid's just trying to eat breakfast. He doesn't need to worry about meeting a girl before he's finished his bacon."
I sink a little lower in my seat, eyes flicking between them. This can't be a real conversation. This has to be a stress dream. A matchmaking breakfast stress dream.
"She's not—" I start, but my voice comes out thin. I clear my throat. "I'm not worried about meeting anyone. I just… I've got enough going on, y'know?"
Ben raises a brow like he's heard that exact same line before—probably something he'd said himself when he was around Peter's age.
May, meanwhile, is buttering toast with the serene patience of someone who's already picked out names for our hypothetical children.
"I mean…" I force down the last piece of bacon that's glued itself to the back of my throat. It goes down like a rock. "I can't remember anything. Meeting someone new like that probably isn't the best idea right now."
I say it as evenly as I can, but there's this tight coil just under my ribs, waiting for May to press anyway. God, please let that be the end of it. I'm barely managing my own name without sounding like I'm guessing on a pop quiz. The last thing I need is to add impressing a girl to the list.
"In my defense, dear—I never said anything about meeting her soon."
"You certainly weren't excluding the idea either," Ben retorts. "Give Peter some time to get back into the swing of things."
Heh. Back into the swing of things? That's a cosmic-level pun right there. I have to stifle the snort that nearly escapes.
"I really don't think now's the best time for me to be making friends," I say, half-hoping if I sound sheepish enough, May will take pity on me and change the subject.
May hums, unconvinced. She takes a slow bite of toast, eyes not leaving mine. I clear my throat and shift in my seat, trying not to look like I'm actively squirming.
Finally after a moment, she seemed to relent as she dabbed a napkin against her lips.
"Alright, alright. I won't push." Relief rushes in like a cool breeze. Thank God. "But I still think you two would hit it off," she adds casually.
Of course she does.
I open my mouth to protest—again—but then pivot like a quarterback bailing on a broken play.
"Speaking of people I actually remember," I say quickly, "Harry can stop by whenever. I'd like to see him."
That gets May to pause, toast halfway to her mouth. Her expression softens.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah." I nod, grateful for the lifeline. "You said he already called, right? I'd rather catch up with someone I at least kind of remember than crash into some girl's life like I'm auditioning for a rom-com reboot."
Ben snorts.
May leans back a little, looking reassured. "Alright. I'll let him know he can come by."
"Thanks." I pick up my fork again.
Ben gives me a nod of approval, the kind that says good dodge, kid, and goes back to sipping his coffee.
And just like that, the grenade's been defused. For now.
Surprisingly, the rest of breakfast goes by pretty quick. May doesn't really say much else on the subject—thank God—and the bits of conversation I actually catch between her and Ben are about stuff way out of my depth. Something about helping Jerry down the street with his busted radiator. May wants to head over to Anna's for their weekly tea, just to catch up. Honestly, hearing that she wants to go out and spend time with someone kind of catches me off guard.
I don't know why, but I always had this image in my head of May just… staying home. Like she lived in a state of quiet domestic limbo, frozen at the kitchen table with a crossword puzzle or folding towels with some sentimental jazz humming in the background.
It's weird. I mean, I know she's active. In some versions of Peter's life, she works at F.E.A.S.T., runs food drives, organizes fundraisers. She's kind. Involved. Present. I know that.
But still, the thought crossed my mind that maybe she just… didn't do much outside of this house. And realizing that—really sitting with it—makes me feel like a complete dick. She's an actual person. With her own life, her own thoughts, her own autonomy. So why the hell did I assume she had nothing better to do than bake wheat cakes and wait for me to come home?
Maybe that's one of the bigger problems I'm facing here: not being able to separate fiction from reality. These people, for years, were just images—faces on paper, dialogue in word balloons. Characters in stories. Seeing them now, in flesh and breath and motion, it's hard to shake that reflex to treat them like pieces of a plot instead of people with histories and lives I don't control.
Trying to see them as real... it's harder than I expected.
It really does feel like a dream. Even now, as I carry my plate to the sink, rinsing it under the warm water, I still catch myself half-expecting the edges of this world to blur. But no fade to black comes. No loading screen. Just Ben finishing his coffee and May wrapping up the last of her toast, the two of them chatting softly in the background like this is the most normal morning in the world.
Being here, with them, in this kitchen… it feels surreal. Almost too gentle to be real.
Normally I'd be dodging two of my dogs begging underfoot, one pawing at my leg and the other whining like I haven't fed them in a week. The absence of that chaos—the lack of familiar weight brushing against my shin—makes everything feel hollow in places I didn't expect.
I let out a breath I didn't even realize I'd been holding.
Ben says something to May about checking the water heater before it gets too hot out, and she hums in agreement as she starts to clear the table. I mumble a quiet thank-you and slip away before I can be roped into anything.
I didn't notice it at first, but I finally realized how soft my footsteps were as I was walking up the stairs. I guess I was too focused on the pictures as I was walking in yesterday to even notice, but my feet don't cause the stairs to creak. There's no strain on the wood as I'm going up it. I suppose I shouldn't focus on the fact that I'm half the weight I used to be, but when you spend 90% of your life a certain amount of weight and you wake up the next day with only a fraction of it, it's hard not to think about it.
But here's the thing, one in my position would end up thinking about this—I don't care who you are. When you go from living one life to another, you're going to think about this shit. Body dysmorphia is a thing. Overthinking is a thing. Sadly, I fit both of those bills right now. I do over think about the littlest thing.
Does my weight fall into that factor? Yes, it does. That's something I'm going to have to work on.
Finally back in Peter's—my—room, I make a slow pass to the bookshelf. There's no real plan as I'm looking through these books. I've seen enough of these to know that they're not really to my taste. After all, I'm not a science geek like Peter was, and I don't plan to be. Sure, I'm going to have to learn some things if I'm going to do half of the stuff Peter did.
Web swinging, for example, will require me to learn how to do equations on the fly. It makes sense, swinging on a pendulum trying to avoid hitting buildings would need precision—but how the hell am I expected to do that? Why do I know that? It was something brought up in the Insomniac games. While I don't know how true that is to the experience, I might as well try to be thorough on the matter.
Though, I suppose it only matters if I have powers. I've been home now for 2 days, and I still have no sign of any powers.
I thought, maybe, it had to do with the fact that I was in the hospital not doing anything. But, I figured I would have felt something different. Maybe my senses were a little bit heightened, faster reflexes, or something… The fact is I don't feel different at all, not in the way I think I should.
Did Peter ever really feel that different from a bite? I suppose I never really thought about that. In any case, I still have to get used to all of this.
Like I said, there wasn't really a plan in my head as I'm looking at these books. There's just this vague itch to do something normal. My fingers land on a worn out science book tucked between two paperbacks. The spine's cracked, the cover slightly curled at the edges, like it's been used enough that it'll go to the exact page it was left on.
When I flip it open, a mess of sticky notes fans out like leaves.
I glance over a few.
The handwriting is young. Clumsy, sharp cornered letters that press too hard into the paper. It's a kid trying to figure things out in real time, half math, half stream of consciousness rambling about force, motion, and electrons. I skim through a few of the pages, piecing together the mindset of a boy who was just starting to really love this stuff. It makes me realize just how much I hated science when I was younger. I can never focus enough to even enjoy it that much. My sophomore year teacher, Mr. O'Brecht, made it easier—actually kind of fun—but even then, I couldn't hold on to it. Not the way Peter clearly did.
O'Brecht was a good teacher. I should've tried harder.
It's undoubtedly Peter's handwriting. Probably from when he first started learning science in greater detail—when it went from a subject in school to something that lit a fire in him.
I'll admit, I'm a bit envious. I can't say a subject ever called out to me like this—aside from writing, I guess. Even then, creative writing class never really sat well with me. Poetry definitely wasn't my forte. Wasn't for lack of trying, either.
The only part I vividly remember was a prompt where we had to write horror based around food. I ended up crafting this unhinged scene where Donald Trump murdered Chester Cheetah and rebranded Cheetos as Trump-O's. I even drew this freaky, Meat Canyon-style picture of him, with more wrinkles than a retirement home and eyes like melted wax.
My teacher seemed genuinely unsure whether she should've been proud or concerned. I was proud—if only because it made the entire class lose it laughing.
And yes, I absolutely read his lines in the voice.
Anyway—back to the point. Peter clearly loved science. I don't. That fire just isn't in me. Normally, if I needed something, I'd just go out and buy it. But now? I'm fourteen again. No money, no job, no Amazon Prime.
Not thrilled by the development. But hey—beggars can't be choosers. Might as well try to learn something before I have to.
I close the book and tuck it into the crook of my arm, thumb still marking the page like I'm going to pretend I'll come back to it in five minutes. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. Either way, I head out toward the porch, feeling the quiet itch in my legs that's been there since I woke up in the hospital. The kind of itch that says: move, or rot.
The air outside's already warming up, sun filtering through the clouds like it's got somewhere better to be. I drop down onto the porch steps with a low groan—not because it hurts, just because I miss being able to do it with weight behind it. Everything I do now feels like it should come with a squeaky toy sound effect.
The book's heavier than I expect in my hands. Physics: Principles and Problems, by Paul W. Zitzewitz. Glencoe edition. Big red brick of a textbook with a cover that looks like someone thought lens flares and inertia were sexy.
I crack it open, flip past Peter's scrawled name on the inside cover, and settle into the first chapter.
To my surprise, some of it makes sense. Not a lot, but enough. The basic stuff clicks—the kind of stuff that feels like it's always been floating in the back of my head, just never important enough to grab onto. Newton's laws, motion, momentum. Honestly, Peter's notes are doing most of the heavy lifting. They're everywhere—wedged into the margins, stuck between chapters, sometimes scribbled over entire problem sets. And they help. He's not just taking notes—he's breaking things down like he's tutoring himself. Translating Zitzewitz into something someone like me could understand.
Which… is kind of awesome. Kind of infuriating, too.
I make it about twenty pages in before the words start swimming a bit. It's helpful stuff, no doubt, but I'm going to need more than scribbles and good intentions if I want to actually retain this. Videos. Forums. CrashCourse or Khan Academy or whatever YouTube rabbit hole Peter probably already fell down five times over. If I'm going to start web-swinging—or doing anything that involves not dying at high speeds—I need more than just guesswork and the ghost of someone else's study habits.
I'm just about to close the book when a low whistle slices through the still air.
"How'd I know that after three weeks in a coma, you'd be jumping right back into the textbooks?"
I glance up.
Harry.
He's leaning against the porch rail like he's been there a while, arms crossed, half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The photos in Peter's album don't do the kid justice. He's got that kind of effortless charm that looks curated but probably isn't—hair perfectly tousled in a way that screams casual, even though it probably took effort. He's dressed like someone who doesn't have to try, yet still looks like he walked out of a high-end ad campaign. Just the shirt, jeans, and jacket he's wearing probably cost more than my soul's worth on a good day.
And that smile—it's genuine. There's no smug edge or ulterior motive stitched into the corners.
If I didn't already know who Harry Osborn was, I'd think there wasn't a bad bone in his body. He's got the same soft look Peter had in those pre-bite, pre-tragedy days—except Harry's version comes with designer clothes and a trust fund.
I go to speak, but am unsure of what to say. May did say that Harry knew about my 'amnesia,' right? At the very least, I know Harry is meant to be Peter's best friend. Beyond that, I'm not exactly sure how to approach this.
"Y-ya got me." I chuckle, nervous and sheepish, setting the book down on the porch beside me. "How long have you been standing there?"
Harry shrugs and steps up onto the porch, boots soft against the wood. "Long enough to know you don't pay attention to your surroundings."
I force a crooked smile, trying to sell the role. "Yeah, well… guess I've been kind of in my own head lately."
He raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't press. Instead, he flops down onto the porch swing like he's done it a hundred times before—probably has. The chains creak slightly under his weight as he leans back, stretching out like a cat in the sun.
"May told me you were different, but I thought maybe she was overthinking again." he said, more casual than I anticipated. "Don't get me wrong, you're clearly still nerdy enough to be reading physics for fun, but… I dunno. You seem quieter."
I nod slowly, pretending to chew on that. "Yeah. Still piecing things together. Some stuff feels familiar, but most of it's... static."
Harry watches me for a second. There's something thoughtful in his expression, like he's trying to read between the lines.
"I get it," he says finally. "After what happened, it makes sense. You don't just bounce back from something like that." He nudges the book with the toe of his shoe. "Still, I didn't expect to find you nose-deep in Zitzewitz again. You hated this thing when you first got it."
I snort at that—probably the right reaction. "Guess I got desperate."
"Desperate enough to start enjoying it?"
"Let's not get crazy."
He laughs.
"Fair enough," he replied. After a pause, he let out a sigh. "I'm glad you're okay, Pete. I was really worried about you."
"Me too. I don't remember what happened, exactly… but I know Ben and May were worried sick."
"What do you remember?"
I try to think of any details regarding the day Peter went into the coma that I would know about, but beyond the fact he fell in front of his entire class, I come up blank. So, I just decided to give him a half-truth.
"Pain," I answer, the sensation of the seat belt crushing my ribs haunting me. "Then the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital."
Harry doesn't respond right away.
He just sits there, gaze shifting down the porch steps like he might find the right words carved into the wood. The wind threads through the trees beyond the fence, and for a second, the quiet feels loaded.
"Pain," I repeat, quieter this time, as if saying it again will make it more believable—or maybe just help me believe it.
Harry nods slowly. "Yeah… I guess that tracks. You collapsed so fast, it freaked everyone out. They said it was some kind of seizure at first. The paramedics didn't know what was going on. You just hit the floor in front of everyone and didn't get up."
He pauses again, jaw tightening. "It was like someone pulled the plug on you."
It's hard to explain how I'm feeling, trying to picture what happened. I don't know if I should be withdrawn or feeling something, but there's a bit of a fog there. I feel numb, and I don't like that.
"Lonnie was the one who caught you before you hit the ground," Harry continued. "I don't know how he even managed to see it first… you were trailing behind the group."
"I was?"
"Yeah. We were talking with Dr. Octavius. He took a liking to you, by the way."
Dr. Octavius.
That name sinks in weird—like tasting something sweet that's turned sour just under the surface. It's not the "mad scientist with metal arms" version my brain flashes to, but the context still sticks sideways in my ribs. Hearing it like that, casually dropped into conversation, makes the world tilt just a little.
Harry keeps talking. "You two were tossing around all this jargon, and I was just standing there pretending like I understood any of it. At one point I think you said something about neural relays and feedback latency and Doc just lit up. Like, full 'Eureka!' mode."
I blink. "That… sounds kind of awesome, actually."
"It was," Harry agrees with a grin. "I mean, you were nerding out so hard I thought your glasses were gonna fog up, but it was cool. You were actually passionate about it."
There's that word again—you.
It stings a little. Not because Harry means anything by it, but because I don't know how to live up to this ghost I'm wearing.
I offer him a crooked smile, trying to keep the mask from slipping. "Well… I'm glad I left a good impression. Even if I can't remember making it."
He softens. "It'll come back. Probably when you least expect it. That's how memory works, right? It's like… flashes. Smells. Sounds. Something'll trigger it eventually."
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Eventually."
"Anyway," he says, noticing the tension on my face as I said it. "By the time you two were wrapping things up, I went to go catch up with the group. Mr. Larson already doesn't like me as it is, so I didn't want to give him another reason."
Harry says it casually, but I catch the edge beneath his voice—a note of practiced indifference, like someone who's gotten too good at pretending other people's opinions don't bother him. Mr. Larson must be one of those teachers who smiles with their teeth and grades with a chainsaw.
I nod like I get it, because maybe Peter did.
"Is he always that bad?"
Harry snorts.
"Worse. He's had it out for me since the first day of the year. Thinks I'm just some spoiled rich kid coasting through science because I can afford a private tutor. Joke's on him—I don't have a tutor, I just cheat off you."
I laugh—genuine this time, caught off guard. That's going to change quickly. I was lucky to get above a C on my tests, and that was with the little bit of studying I could muster.
Harry grins, leaning back into the porch swing again with a creak of the chains.
"You haven't been caught yet?"
"Of course not! I know how to be discreet, Pete. I mean, I'm not like Flash, but I'm also not at your level either. I only really cheat on the hard questions."
"That doesn't fill me with confidence, Harry." I smile. It's weird. He's trying to make me feel at ease, and for the most part, it's working. But there's still that quiet undercurrent humming beneath everything—because I'm not Peter.
"That's alright, I've got enough for the both of us." He glances sideways at me, then shrugs. "Anyway… I doubled back to find you, and that's when everything went to hell. You were still talking to Doc, but then you went pale. Like—hospital-sheet white. Eyes rolling back. You stumbled back a step and just dropped. Scared the hell out of Octavius."
The image hits me out of nowhere. Not because I remember it—but because I don't. I try to picture what Harry saw. Try to imagine Peter's body suddenly folding in on itself, lights going out behind his eyes. A short-circuit. A reset.
Harry's voice drops, quieter now.
"You would have cracked your head on the tile if it wasn't for Lonnie. He caught you in time. That's our star quarterback for ya."
Lonnie's the quarterback? I figured Flash would have been. He was always the most popular jock in Pete's grade. Though, I suppose that doesn't translate into athleticism. It reminds me of my buddy Gavin and not being able to keep up with a sixty-year-old man in work boots. The old man said it himself, if Gavin was our best player, then it was no wonder our school's team barely won.
I unconsciously sigh. I miss Gavin, he'd enjoy being in my shoes right now.
"What about Flash? Isn't he on the team?"
"He's recovering from a broken wrist. Let me tell ya, he was not thrilled about missing the first few games of the year."
"I can only imagine…"
"So, you remember Flash then?"
"Vaguely," I say. "It's mostly just his name and a picture I saw on my computer." It's not a lie. When I was scanning through the photo albums, I came across a few photos of the football team and various other groups. Peter must have belonged to the yearbook club as their acting photographer.
Harry gives a short laugh at that, more amused than surprised. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Flash has never met a camera he didn't think was already in love with him."
I crack a grin. "I think he's got a permanent smirk in every photo."
"Exactly!" Harry leans forward, animated now. "It's like he's trying to seduce the yearbook. 'Hey there, future readers. Miss me?'"
The impression is surprisingly spot-on, and it pulls a chuckle out of me—one that lingers longer than I expect. I think I needed that.
Harry leans back again, content. "I'm telling you, the guy's an absolute tool half the time, but he's weirdly loyal once you're on his good side."
That honestly sounds about right for Flash during his high school years. Once he graduated, he became easier to deal with, but that's four years away.
Harry kicks at a leaf near his boot.
"Anyway, after you collapsed, the school freaked out. Ambulance came in, sirens and everything. They cleared the building. Larson was shaking like a leaf. I think he actually felt bad for once."
I glance up at that. "That serious?"
"You weren't breathing for a while," he says, voice softening. "Octavius was the one who started CPR. Larson couldn't even move."
"Otto Octavius gave me CPR." The words feel foreign in my mouth. Like hearing that Dracula volunteers at a blood drive.
That part makes my stomach twist. Not the idea of dying—I already did that once, kind of—but the image of a man like Otto Octavius, calm and brilliant and in a lab coat, kneeling down on cold tile to keep a kid alive. It feels… off. Like a villain playing hero out of order.
"He saved my life," I murmur.
Harry nods. "Yeah. He really did. I think that's part of why he keeps checking in. He's been emailing May, asking how you're doing. Said he'd still like to mentor you, if you're up for it."
I pause. It's tempting. Not just because of the opportunity—though, let's be real, having a scientific genius in your corner isn't exactly a bad thing—but because there's a thread there. A connection to the old Peter. Something solid I might be able to use to stitch this whole illusion together.
"I'll think about it," I say eventually, careful with the words.
Harry doesn't push. "Cool. No pressure."
We sit a while longer, talking about little things. He's catching me up with what's been going on at school, and for the most part it's nothing I'm too concerned about. A couple of tests that I'd have to make up, relationship drama, and talk about a new project in History. Speaking of history, I'm actually looking forward to that class seeing as there's a brand new world for me to learn. Seeing how things are different here actually feels tantalizing, and that's probably the weirdest part for me.
Like does Elon Musk exist here? Did 9/11 still happen? How were things different in WW2 with Captain America involved? Was Hydra still a threat that popped up in the headlines through the Cold War? Does Wakanda have an embassy in the US yet, or are they still a remote hidden country at this point?
Shit, mutant rights are another thing I'd love to know about. Is Magneto still a 'villain' or is he actually one of the legitimate good guys now? Hell, if I'm asking that, is Charles Xavier the leader of the Brotherhood now? That'd be a twist. Making a villainous telepath is too easy, though.
"Hey, are you able to leave the house or is May keeping you on lockdown for the time being?" he asked finally, rising to his feet.
"I think I can convince her to let me off the leash for a bit. Why, what's up?"
"I was thinking we could swing by my place. Dad's been wanting to see you." his voice drops, becoming almost melancholy.
I'm quiet for a beat longer than I wanted to be, but it was like getting hit with a flash grenade.
Norman Osborn wanted to see me.