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***
[4 hours later]
After spending months riding home on top of the train — the wind hitting his face, the night sky stretching endlessly above him, the Queens skyline gradually drawing closer — being squeezed inside a subway car now felt almost like a punishment.
The dirty window glass couldn't compare to the vastness of the open sky, and the metallic sway over the tracks had nothing of the freedom he had learned to associate with those clandestine trips on the roof. In here, surrounded by tired people, fluorescent lights, and the mixed smell of sweat and cheap perfume, Peter felt… small. Contained. As if he had been put back inside a box after experiencing the world without limits.
Thankfully, that would end soon.
His new suit was almost finished, lacking only the completion of the mask. The fight with the Green Goblin had been so violent that the previous costume simply couldn't be repaired — irreparable tears, burns from explosions, bloodstains that not even the best wash would remove. Peter had been forced to start from scratch, sewing every detail with a precision that would make any professional stylist blush with shame.
That had also taken his entire Bugle salary, something that would probably cause Jameson to have a heart attack if he found out what his money was being used for.
In any case, his injuries were almost healed and his suit nearly ready. It was only a matter of time before Spider-Man returned to action.
The loudspeakers announced the next station with a distorted robotic voice — that artificial intonation that seemed to exist in every train in the world since the invention of the subway. Peter stood up from the seat, balancing effortlessly with the natural grace his powers granted him, and walked toward the doors. When they opened with a pneumatic hiss, he stepped out onto the nearly deserted platform.
The sky was completely overcast now, covered by dark, heavy clouds that promised to turn the threat of rain into reality at any moment. The wind blew stronger than before, carrying that characteristic scent that precedes storms.
Peter shoved his hands into his pockets and quickened his pace toward his house, not at all excited about the idea of getting soaked.
The streets were quiet at that hour — a few cars passing occasionally, one or two people walking quickly, probably trying to get home before the sky gave way. The streetlights cast long shadows on the asphalt, creating a play of light and darkness that Peter followed with a distracted gaze.
That was when a newspaper, carried by a gust of wind, flew off the sidewalk and collided with his chest.
Peter grabbed the paper automatically and pulled it away from his body, ready to crumple it up and toss it into the nearest trash can. It wasn't uncommon to find old newspapers flying through the streets of New York; the city seemed like an inexhaustible source of that kind of trash.
But then he saw the headline.
"Spider-Man: Judge, Jury and Executioner"
The Daily Bugle logo stamped across the top. Signed by J. Jonah Jameson, of course.
Peter grimaced, his lips pressing into a thin line. His eyes quickly scanned the first lines of the article, which obviously described the recent events once again in the accusatory and inflammatory tone that was Jameson's specialty. The piece suggested, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, that the masked vigilante was now someone who decided on his own who deserved to live or die — a punisher, an executioner disguised as a hero.
Judge, jury and executioner.
The words echoed in Peter's mind, finding an uncomfortable home in the darkest corners of his consciousness.
Despite the many mistakes he had made as Spider-Man over the past months, nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the impact his fight with the Green Goblin had on his image.
The revelation that Norman Osborn was the Green Goblin had been a shock to the country. The respected CEO, the man who appeared on television talking about innovation and the future… was in fact the masked psychopath who had terrorized New York. But the following news — that Spider-Man was directly involved in Norman's death, that he had essentially executed the villain — that story spread faster than wildfire.
It didn't take twenty-four hours for every news channel, every newspaper, every even remotely relevant website to be discussing the case. Ethics experts were called in to debate whether a vigilante had the right to kill. Lawyers appeared on morning shows to explain the legal implications. People on the streets were interviewed, with opinions revolving mainly around the idea that Spider-Man was now a criminal as well.
Added to that the extensive damage the city suffered because of the pumpkin bomb explosions — damaged buildings, destroyed cars, injured civilians — it was no surprise that his image had gone down the drain within hours.
And of course Jameson was the one who enjoyed it the most. At eight in the morning the day after the fight, he had already launched the first bomb: "Spider-Man: The Killer!" printed on the front page, with a grainy photo of Spider-Man that seemed to have been chosen specifically to make him look threatening.
The next day: "Spider-Man, Unrepentant Killer Still at Large!"
Now this. Judge, Jury and Executioner.
Peter had no illusion whatsoever that this would end anytime soon. Jameson had found the perfect fuel for his campaign against Spider-Man, and he wasn't going to let go of the bone until he saw him behind bars.
But the real problem wasn't that. It was that before, when the Daily Bugle or any other newspaper published headlines like those, defamatory and exaggerated about Spider-Man, readers hardly believed them. To them, it was just another attempt to sell papers with cheap controversy. After all, Peter, or rather Spider-Man, had proven more than once, through concrete actions, how some of the articles about him were completely wrong.
However, now, with so many having directly witnessed his fight against the Green Goblin, especially how it ended, people had started to look at those headlines with new eyes.
Maybe the Daily Bugle had been right all along. Maybe Spider-Man had always been a threat. Maybe he had never truly been a hero, just someone with enough power to impose his own version of justice. Maybe it had all been a farce that had finally been exposed.
'Well... they're not completely wrong. I'm a murderer now.' Peter crumpled the newspaper and threw it into a trash can, resuming his walk toward home. 'It's only a matter of time before the police give in to public pressure and issue an arrest warrant.'
But there was something very wrong with all of this.
Not in the obvious sense — of course everything was wrong, his life was a walking disaster — but in a more specific way. There was something strange about how the media coverage was unfolding.
This flood of articles, his name practically never disappearing from the news and radio for more than a few hours. It was almost as if someone was paying to make sure the narratives against Spider-Man never stopped.
Peter had even seen flyers. Flyers! With Spider-Man's face printed on them circulating around the city, pasted on poles and walls, handed out at busy corners. "VIGILANTE OR MURDERER?" — "HE DECIDES WHO LIVES" — "PROTECT YOUR FAMILY, REPORT SPIDER-MAN."
And it hadn't even been three days since Norman's death!
That was... very strange, wasn't it?
***
After a few more minutes of walking beneath the sky's growing threat, Peter finally arrived home. The timing could not have been more precise, because at the exact moment his feet touched the front step, the first heavy drops began to fall. He hurriedly pulled his keys from his pocket and slipped inside before the rain poured down.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, he was greeted by something that stood in complete contrast to the cold night outside: the soft hum of a record player in the living room and, drifting from the kitchen, May's voice following the melody, off-key in a few places, yet full of life.
His aunt stood in front of the stove, completely unaware of his arrival. He remained still in the hallway for a few seconds, watching her without her noticing. May stirred something in the pot, her body swaying lightly to the rhythm of the music.
A small smile appeared on Peter's lips. After learning about the cardiac arrest and seeing her in a hospital bed hooked up to machines that wouldn't stop beeping for a single second, along with the feeling that he could lose her at any moment… seeing her there now, singing carefree while she cooked was like... Peter didn't even know how to put it into words.
"I'm home, May!" he announced.
"Peter!" The reaction was immediate. May turned quickly, her face lighting up with a warm smile as she wiped her hands on a dish towel hanging near the stove. In a few steps, she crossed the small kitchen and went to him.
"I'm so glad you're here. I was worried you'd get caught in the rain." Before he could answer, she wrapped him in a tight embrace, the kind that truly squeezes, as if she needed to confirm with her own touch that he was whole.
"Whoa—" Peter exclaimed,surprised by the intensity of her embrace, but he quickly returned it, pulling her closer. "I got lucky. It's just starting to rain."
May pulled back slightly but kept her hands on his shoulders, her eyes scanning his face carefully. "I told you to take an umbrella before you left," she said with a light tone of reprimand.
"I'll listen to you next time," he promised with a half smile.
May shook her head with a smile on her lips, then looked him over again — but not in the usual casual way. It was a different look, deeper and more attentive. She observed him from head to toe, checking every inch of him for... Peter didn't know exactly what.
But he noticed. And he also noticed that this behavior had started after that night. Come to think of it, the following morning had unfolded very differently from what he had expected, to say the least.
By a stroke of luck, or survival instinct, he had woken before May went to his room to check whether he had returned the night before. And even still dazed, with his body protesting at every movement, he managed to remove what was left of his suit and clean most of the injuries across his body. After that, Peter put on his usual clothes and left through the window.
Since his face had already fully healed thanks to his powers, the plan was simple: wait outside for a few minutes until the time May usually woke up, then "come home" as if he had spent the night out because of the chaos involving Spider-Man and the Green Goblin. Peter would say he got stuck in the middle of it all, could not catch the train, and had to sleep at a friend's house.
It was not perfect, but It would ease his aunt's worry—and maybe her anger. At least that was what Peter thought.
So imagine his surprise when he "arrived" home that morning, with his excuses rehearsed on the tip of his tongue, ready to face an interrogation or at least a look of disapproval... and all he received from May was a hug.
A tight, lingering hug that lasted several minutes. And a single question: "Are you okay, sweetheart?"
She did not ask where he had been. She did not want to know why he had not called. She demanded no explanations and did not raise her voice. She simply held him as if she needed to confirm he was real, that he was there, whole.
Since then, May had been treating him as if he were made of glass, something that could shatter at any moment. She asked how he was several times a day, watched him while he ate, and always, always, when he came home, there was that evaluating look.
Peter chalked it up to fear. May must have been terrified when she saw the Green Goblin's attack on television, imagining he was in the middle of it all. It made sense, after all, everyone believed he was always on the spider's trail trying to get pictures. May must have realized, for the first time, just how close to danger he lived.
It was entirely understandable for May to become more protective after that.
"Are you okay? How was the funeral?" May asked now, bringing him back to the present.
"Yeah. Just tired." The answer came automatically. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to appear casual. "About the funeral… well. It was awful. Harry is suffering a lot."
May sighed, placing a hand over her chest for a moment. "Poor boy. Losing his father that way…" She shook her head. "I can't imagine."
Peter swallowed hard. He could.
"Did you stay with him after the ceremony?" May asked, looking at him again. "Harry needs friends right now."
"I stayed for a while. But… Gwen is with him."
"Oh, Peter." May hugged him again. "You… her?..."
He closed his eyes for a second, feeling the knot in his throat tighten. "I don't want to talk about it, May."
"Right, right, right." She nodded immediately, respecting the boundary without insisting. "Come on, dinner's ready."
She guided him to the table with a light touch on his back, just as she used to when he was a child. Peter settled into the chair, watching as she served the plates. The rain poured heavily outside now, and occasional gusts of wind made it lash against the windows.
"Any plans for next week?" May asked suddenly, referring to the Midwinter Recess, which would begin next Monday. "Or are you just going to rest a little? You deserve it."
Peter stared at his hands for a moment before answering. "Yes, I have some plans," he finally said, lifting his gaze.
"Oh? Something fun, I hope."
"Yeah… very fun."
***
Disclaimer: This story and its characters belong to Sony Pictures and Marvel Comics (Disney). This is merely a fanfiction written by a fan, with no intention of infringement.