The acrid smell of cigar smoke hung thick in the Daily Bugle's office like a suffocating fog, mingling with the sharp tang of fresh ink and the bitter aroma of cold coffee. Jameson's jaw clenched as he glared at Robbie across his cluttered desk, the leather of his chair creaking under his weight. His knuckles whitened around the thick Cuban cigar, ash threatening to scatter across the glossy photograph spread before him.
Robbie shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the fabric of his shirt rustling softly as he cleared his throat. His fingers drummed a nervous rhythm against his notepad, the quiet tapping barely audible over the distant hum of the printing presses below. "Well? What's the problem?" Jameson's voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and impatient.
The weight of expectation pressed down on Robbie's shoulders as he drew in a slow, measured breath, tasting the stale office air on his tongue. "They're big news, Jonah!" His voice carried a note of barely contained enthusiasm, though his eyes remained cautious, watching for Jameson's inevitable explosion. "They rescued three people from that fire, and one of them was a baby."
The words hung in the air for a heartbeat before Jameson's face flushed crimson, veins bulging at his temples. "Bah!" The exclamation erupted from his throat like a gunshot, making Miss Brant flinch at her nearby desk. He thrust the smoldering cigar toward the photograph with such violence that hot ash scattered across the glossy surface, leaving tiny gray smudges on the heroes' faces. "Maybe they set the fire themselves just for the publicity! Look at them, striking a pose! They're criminals, I tell you! Menaces!"
The typewriters around the office fell silent, their operators' hands frozen over the keys as they sensed the familiar storm brewing. Robbie's shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of countless similar arguments wearing on him like water on stone. "They are not criminals, Jonah," he said with the patient tone of a man who had fought this battle a thousand times before, each word measured and deliberate. "They are heroes."
Jameson's eyes blazed with the fervor of a man possessed, spittle flying from his lips as he jabbed the cigar through the smoky air like a weapon. "Then why the masks, huh?" His voice cracked with indignation, echoing off the glass-walled office. "What are they trying to hide?"
The sound that escaped Robbie's lips was less a sigh and more a deflation of his very soul, his chest falling as if all the air had been pressed from his lungs. His eyes closed briefly, a man gathering strength for what he knew would be the killing blow to Jameson's tirade. When he opened them, there was a glimmer of something almost like satisfaction. "The last four editions we ran with them on the cover all sold out."
The effect was instantaneous and profound. Jameson's entire body went rigid, the cigar frozen halfway to his mouth, smoke curling lazily upward in the sudden stillness. The color drained from his face, then rushed back in a wave of realization. "Sold out?" The words came out as barely a whisper, hoarse and disbelieving.
"Every last copy." Robbie's confirmation fell into the silence like a stone into still water, creating ripples of understanding that transformed Jameson's expression from rage to calculation in the span of a heartbeat.
The transformation was remarkable to witness. Jameson's scowl melted away like ice in sunlight, replaced by the predatory grin of a man who had just discovered gold in his backyard. He spun in his chair with surprising agility for his bulk, the leather squeaking in protest, and pointed his cigar at Hoffman with the precision of a general directing troops. "Kamen Rider and Spider-Man are on the front page tomorrow morning! And you make sure the photos are big and clear!"
His voice rose with each word, filling the office with renewed energy as he leaned back in his chair, arms spread wide like a conductor preparing for a grand finale. The wicked grin that spread across his weathered features would have made the Devil himself take notes. "The headline reads: 'Masked Menaces Start Fire for Photo Op?' No, wait..." His eyes rolled skyward as inspiration struck, his free hand gesturing dramatically through the smoke-laden air. "'Heroes or Hoax? The Shocking Truth Behind the City's New 'Vigilantes'!'"
He thrust his fist into the air with such triumph that his chair nearly toppled backward, his voice booming across the newsroom like thunder. "I will make them infamous!"
The office erupted back to life, the clacking of typewriters resuming with renewed urgency, but beneath the familiar cacophony, Robbie, Hoffman, and Miss Brant exchanged a look that spoke volumes. Their expressions were mirrors of pure, helpless exhaustion—the faces of people who had watched this same scene play out countless times, knowing they were powerless to stop the inevitable hurricane that was J. Jonah Jameson in pursuit of a story.
The next day dawned crisp and clear, with golden sunlight filtering through the canopy of Central Park's ancient oak trees. The air carried the fresh scent of morning dew on grass, mingled with the distant aroma of hot dogs and pretzels from nearby vendors. John and Gwen were enjoying their leisurely day out, the peaceful sounds of the city creating a gentle symphony around them—children's laughter echoing from the playground, the soft rustle of leaves in the warm breeze, and the rhythmic footfalls of joggers on the winding paths.
They had settled onto a weathered wooden bench that bore the smooth patina of countless previous occupants, its surface warm from the morning sun. Gwen's hair caught the light like spun gold as she leaned forward, her fingers closing around a discarded newspaper that someone had left folded beside the bench. The paper crinkled softly as she unfolded it, but the gentle sound was immediately overshadowed by her sharp intake of breath.
"John, look at this." Her voice carried a note of disbelief that made him turn from watching a family of ducks glide across the nearby pond.
The newspaper felt heavy in his hands as he took it from her, the ink still sharp and black against the cheap newsprint. It was the Daily Bugle, and the headlines seemed to leap off the page in bold, accusatory letters: "HEROES OR PUBLIC NUISANCE?" and "HAS THE NYPD LOST ITS MIND?" The main article's subheading cut even deeper: "Fire Rescue: A Publicity Stunt or Something More Sinister?"
A muscle in John's jaw twitched involuntarily—the only outward sign of his inner reaction. How did I get dragged into Jameson's crusade? The thought flickered through his mind like a bitter taste on his tongue. With deliberate calm, he crumpled the newspaper between his hands, the paper crackling and protesting as it compressed into a tight ball. The satisfying arc of his throw sent it sailing into a nearby trash bin with a hollow thump.
Gwen's blue eyes searched his face, confusion creasing her brow as she studied his almost indifferent expression. The morning light highlighted the concern etched in her delicate features. "Aren't you angry?"
He shrugged, the casual gesture at odds with the intensity still lingering in his dark eyes. "Uh, I don't really care about that stuff." The words came out easy, practiced, but she could hear something underneath—a carefully controlled tension that made her lean closer.
"How can you not be angry?" Her voice rose with genuine indignation, drawing curious glances from a couple walking past with their dog. The passion in her tone made the ducks look up from their peaceful swimming, as if even they could sense the emotion crackling in the air. "They're writing such outrageous lies! You're obviously doing good things, and they're just slandering you and Peter!"
John found himself studying her face as she spoke, taking in the way her cheeks flushed with righteous anger, how her hands gestured emphatically through the dappled sunlight. Her fury on his behalf was both endearing and amusing, and despite everything, he felt his lips curve into a genuine smile. "Let him write what he wants. Being scolded isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's easy to get lost when you're only ever hearing praise."
But her frown only deepened, her lower lip pushing out slightly in a pout that made her look younger than her years. The sight tugged at something in his chest, and he sighed softly, the sound carrying on the gentle breeze. Without thinking, he reached for her, his arms encircling her waist and drawing her against him. She fit perfectly there, her head tucking naturally under his chin as her body molded to his.
"Okay, okay. I'm the one they're writing about, and I'm not mad. So why are you?" His voice rumbled through his chest where her ear pressed against him, the vibration soothing and warm.
The tension in her shoulders gradually eased as she breathed in his familiar scent—clean soap mixed with something uniquely him that always made her feel safe. When she tilted her head back to look up at him, her voice was slightly muffled but determined. "Why don't I ask my dad to warn the Daily Bugle?"
The suggestion caught him off guard, and he had to bite back a laugh at the mental image of Captain Stacy storming into Jameson's office. The earnest determination in her voice told him she was completely serious, and the protectiveness behind the offer made his heart squeeze in a way that was both pleasant and terrifying. He pressed his lips to her cheek in a soft kiss, tasting the faint saltiness of her skin. "Don't be angry," he murmured against her temple, his breath stirring the fine hairs there. "There will always be people who talk. Just think of something happy."
Her pout gradually melted into reluctant acceptance as she snuggled deeper into his embrace, her arms wrapping around his waist. They remained like that for a long moment, two figures silhouetted against the morning light, before beginning to wander through the park's winding paths.
The afternoon sun climbed higher, painting everything in warm golden hues as they explored the city together. They walked through tree-lined streets where the shadows danced across the pavement, stopped to watch street musicians whose melodies floated on the air, and shared an ice cream that dripped sticky sweetness down their fingers. Gradually, the warmth of the day and the contentment of being together worked their magic on Gwen. Her steps grew slower, her head finding its way to his shoulder with increasing frequency.
By the time they made their way back toward Oscorp Tower, she was fighting to keep her eyes open, her body swaying slightly with each step. The city's sounds had softened to a distant hum, and the gentle rhythm of their walking had lulled her into a peaceful drowse. When she finally succumbed completely, her weight settling fully against his shoulder, John carefully adjusted his grip and lifted her into his arms.
She was warm and pliant in his embrace, her breathing deep and even as he carried her through the tower's gleaming lobby. The security guards nodded respectfully as he passed, their footsteps echoing softly off the marble floors. Her private lounge was a haven of soft lighting and comfortable furniture, and he eased her down onto the plush sofa with the careful movements of someone handling something precious. She barely stirred as he tucked a throw blanket around her shoulders, her face peaceful and untroubled in sleep.
The sound of approaching footsteps made him look up to find Harry walking toward him, another copy of the Daily Bugle clutched in his hand like evidence of a crime. Harry's usually perfectly styled hair was disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it in frustration, and his expensive shirt was wrinkled from what appeared to be hours of anxious fidgeting.
"John, have you seen this?" Harry's voice carried the barely contained energy of someone who had been waiting all day to discuss this crisis.
John's response was maddeningly calm, delivered with the same tone he might use to discuss the weather. "I've seen it. What's wrong?"
Harry's mouth fell open slightly, his green eyes widening with a mixture of disbelief and something approaching awe. "You've seen it and you're this calm?" He gestured wildly with the newspaper, the pages rustling like angry wings. "The Bugle has been selling like crazy all day with these articles."
"Let it sell." The two words dropped into the space between them with the finality of a judge's gavel.
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to get tangled in his throat, emerging as nothing more than a strangled sound. He let out a weak sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body, his free hand coming up to scratch his head in a gesture of complete bewilderment. "God... I really admire your composure."
He turned and began walking toward the lab, his posture that of a man who had given up trying to understand the universe. John fell into step beside him, their footsteps creating a rhythmic counterpoint in the corridor. "You should come see Peter," Harry continued, glancing sideways at his friend with an expression that was equal parts sympathy and morbid curiosity. "He's about to have an aneurysm."
The laboratory was a sanctuary of sterile white surfaces and quietly humming equipment, but today the usual calm had been shattered by the presence of one very agitated Spider-Man. Peter sat hunched over a lab table like a gargoyle brooding over ancient stone, the Daily Bugle spread before him like evidence of the world's cruelest joke. His usually bright eyes were rimmed with red, whether from anger, tears, or sheer exhaustion was impossible to tell.
The harsh fluorescent lights above cast stark shadows across his face, emphasizing the tight lines around his mouth and the furrow between his brows. His hands gripped the edges of the newspaper so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, and John could see the faint tremor in his fingers that spoke of barely controlled emotion.
Harry folded his arms and leaned against the wall with the casual grace of someone settling in for a show, his head nodding toward Peter in a gesture that clearly said, See for yourself.
John pulled up a chair with deliberate slowness, the metal legs scraping softly against the polished floor. As he settled into the seat, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—not cruel, but understanding in a way that might have surprised Peter if he'd been paying attention. This is good for him, John thought, his mind drifting to memories of another timeline, another Peter Parker who had endured so much more.
In that world, Peter had been forged in the crucible of tragedy—Uncle Ben's death, the constant juggling of school and work, all while being perpetually berated by Jameson's relentless campaign. His psychological endurance had been incredible, tempered by hardship into something nearly unbreakable. But this Peter had lived a charmed life by comparison, surrounded by friends and family, his path smoothed by John's intervention. It was healthy for him to feel the sting of unjust slander now, when he had the support system to process it. It would build character in ways that comfort never could.
Peter was acutely aware of their presence—the subtle shift in the lab's atmosphere, the soft sounds of their arrival—but he was terrified they would see the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. So he kept his head down, pretending to read the same inflammatory paragraph for the dozenth time, his vision blurring as he fought to maintain his composure.
The seconds stretched into minutes, marked only by the quiet hum of the ventilation system and the distant sounds of the city filtering through the windows. When he finally felt in control enough to look up, he expected to find John ready with words of comfort or perhaps a brilliant plan for dealing with their media crisis.
Instead, John sat in perfect stillness, one hand supporting his chin in a pose that might have been lifted from a statue of a philosopher. His dark eyes were distant, unfocused, as if he were contemplating the mysteries of the universe. The intensity of his concentration was almost palpable, and Peter felt a flutter of hope in his chest.
He's so serious, Peter thought, leaning forward slightly in anticipation. He must be coming up with a brilliant plan to deal with the Daily Bugle!
Peter waited with the patience of a devoted student, barely daring to breathe lest he interrupt whatever crucial thought process was taking place. The lab fell into the kind of profound silence that seemed to amplify every small sound—the whisper of air through the vents, the distant tick of a wall clock, the soft rustle of Harry's clothing as he shifted against the wall.
Time crawled by with agonizing slowness. Peter's neck began to ache from holding the same position, his eyes watering from staring so intently at John's motionless form. The anticipation was killing him, but still he waited, certain that at any moment John would snap out of his deep contemplation with the solution to all their problems.
Finally, when he couldn't stand it anymore, Peter leaned forward and whispered with the reverence of someone approaching an oracle, "John?"
"Ah? What happened?" John's response was that of someone being pulled from a pleasant dream, his voice slightly muzzy and confused as he blinked rapidly and refocused on his surroundings.
The transformation was so jarring that Peter felt his brain stutter, like a record player hitting a scratch. "Haven't you figured out what to do yet?" The words came out higher than he'd intended, carried by a note of rising panic.
John's expression was one of genuine confusion, his brows drawing together as if Peter had just asked him to explain quantum physics in interpretive dance. "What to do about what?"
"The Daily Bugle!" Peter's voice cracked like a teenager's, shooting up an octave as his composure finally shattered completely. "And them slandering us!"
Recognition dawned on John's face like sunrise breaking over a mountain peak, followed immediately by a nod of acknowledgment. "Oh, that," he said with the casual dismissal of someone remembering a minor grocery list item. "Yeah, I saw it. But no, I haven't figured out what to do about it."
The words hit Peter like a physical blow, and he felt something fundamental crack inside his brain. The gears of his mind, which had been spinning frantically in preparation for John's master plan, ground to a complete halt with an almost audible screech. "Then... what were you just doing?" His voice was barely above a whisper, heavy with the weight of impending doom. "You looked so focused."
John's response came with the matter-of-fact delivery of someone stating an obvious truth: "Zoning out."
The phrase hung in the air like a death knell. Time seemed to freeze around them, the very atoms in the lab holding their breath in sympathy for Peter's plight. Peter's entire body went rigid, every muscle locking in place as if he had been turned to stone by some cruel Medusa of disappointment. His mind, which moments before had been racing with possibilities, went completely blank—a television screen suddenly tuned to static.
He felt his soul crack into a million tiny pieces, each fragment carrying a different aspect of his shattered expectations. The sound it made in his head was like glass breaking in slow motion, a crystalline symphony of crushed hopes.
From his position against the wall, Harry witnessed the exact moment Peter's brain overloaded. The expression on Peter's face was so perfectly, tragically comedic that Harry couldn't help himself—laughter bubbled up from his chest in uncontrollable waves, his shoulders shaking with the effort to contain it. The sound echoed off the lab's sterile surfaces, adding insult to Peter's already considerable injury.
When Peter turned to fix him with a look of such profound betrayal that it could have melted steel, Harry immediately straightened up and began examining a nearby microscope with the intense concentration of someone who had definitely not been laughing at his friend's expense. He cleared his throat and adjusted the microscope's focus with unnecessary precision, his lips pressed together in a tight line to prevent any further inappropriate amusement.
Peter's gaze swung back to John, who had apparently decided that their conversation was the perfect opportunity for a nap. John was now stretching out across the lab table with the casual comfort of someone settling into his own bed, his arms folded behind his head and his eyes already drifting closed. The sight was so surreal, so perfectly emblematic of everything that had gone wrong with Peter's expectations, that he felt his spirit simply give up and float away.
The lab fell silent once more, but now it was the silence of a tomb rather than anticipation—a quiet punctuated only by the soft sound of John's breathing as he dozed and the distant echo of Peter's soul shattering into ever-smaller pieces.
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