up.”
“This is wrong.” Tony snapped on his helmet, and all his systems flashed to life. “This is—I’m going to speak to the president about this.” He turned and strode toward the hatch.
“Stark.”
Something in Hill’s tone made him stop.
“We’re on the same side here,” she said.
He reached for the hatch, activated the airlock. The inner door hissed open.
“I know,” he replied.
And off he flew, into the night.
AUNT May’s house was very quiet. Old books, chotchkes; souvenirs from vacations taken back when air travel was far less casual. Framed pictures everywhere: Peter, Uncle Ben, and Peter’s long-dead parents, posed proudly in their military uniforms. Sepia-toned photos from the early 20th century, maybe even the 19th. Smell of mothballs, of disinfectants manufactured decades ago.
Peter Parker sat on his bed, smoothed down the old checkered bedspread. Like everything else in the room, it had been here for decades. His old, clunky microscope; the analog-film camera he’d taken his first photos with. The science trophy with the dent in it, where Flash Thompson had knocked it to the ground back in high school.
All of it the same. Preserved, he realized, but not obsessively. Proudly. There’s a difference.
So much of him, of Peter Parker, was here in this room. And yet a big slice, a big thread in the skein of his life, was missing.
He went to the closet, pulled back a loose board. Felt around for a moment, and closed a hand around his very first, cloth Spider-Man mask. It stared at him with oversized, white eyes, slightly discolored with age.
“Peter?”
At the sound of May’s voice, he suddenly remembered why he’d come. A surge of panic ran through him. He wadded up the mask, stuffed it into his back pocket.
“In here, Aunt May.”
Every time Peter came to visit, Aunt May made him wheatcakes, no matter what time of day or night. Fortunately, he was hungry.
“Goodness, Peter, you’re awake early. The sun isn’t even up yet.”
She stood in the doorway. Wobbling a little, he noticed, but smiling for her nephew. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun; her face showed a few more lines every year. Her hands were blue-veined, but steady.
Only one thing was odd: The tray in her hands held chocolate chip cookies, not wheatcakes.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Peter smiled hesitantly at the tray. “Cookies, Aunt May?”
She looked at the tray, as if seeing it for the first time. For a moment, she looked confused. Peter felt another stab of panic, of worry.
Then she shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. Today seemed different.”
“I’m not complaining.” He took one, bit into it. Still hot. The chips melted onto his tongue, a pleasant, homey feeling.
May smiled and set down the tray. Peter finished his cookie, studying her in silence.
“How do you feel, Aunt May?”
“I’m fine, Peter. I’m always fine.” She waved her hand, a dismissive motion. “But I worry about you .”
“Me?”
She perched on the bed, motioning him to sit next to her. “Your luck with girls is…well, it’s not stellar, dear. I’m sorry to have to say it.”
“Aunt May—”
“I still think it’s a shame about Anna Watson’s niece. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Stop changing the subject, pretty girl. Are you taking your pills?”
“Who’s changing the subject now?” She reached out, touched his knee. “Really, Peter, there’s nothing wrong.”
“Yes there is, Aunt May. There’s plenty wrong.” Then, at the fearful look on her face: “Oh no, not here. Not with you. It’s just…there’s a lot of stuff going on out in the world.”
She nodded gravely. “The Stamford business.”
“Yeah. People are really afraid right now.”
“That is bad.” She stood up, and a faraway look entered her eyes. “I was a little girl when Joseph McCarthy launched his big campaign against Communism. He managed to scare people into thinking there were Communists everywhere: in the
“This is wrong.” Tony snapped on his helmet, and all his systems flashed to life. “This is—I’m going to speak to the president about this.” He turned and strode toward the hatch.
“Stark.”
Something in Hill’s tone made him stop.
“We’re on the same side here,” she said.
He reached for the hatch, activated the airlock. The inner door hissed open.
“I know,” he replied.
And off he flew, into the night.
AUNT May’s house was very quiet. Old books, chotchkes; souvenirs from vacations taken back when air travel was far less casual. Framed pictures everywhere: Peter, Uncle Ben, and Peter’s long-dead parents, posed proudly in their military uniforms. Sepia-toned photos from the early 20th century, maybe even the 19th. Smell of mothballs, of disinfectants manufactured decades ago.
Peter Parker sat on his bed, smoothed down the old checkered bedspread. Like everything else in the room, it had been here for decades. His old, clunky microscope; the analog-film camera he’d taken his first photos with. The science trophy with the dent in it, where Flash Thompson had knocked it to the ground back in high school.
All of it the same. Preserved, he realized, but not obsessively. Proudly. There’s a difference.
So much of him, of Peter Parker, was here in this room. And yet a big slice, a big thread in the skein of his life, was missing.
He went to the closet, pulled back a loose board. Felt around for a moment, and closed a hand around his very first, cloth Spider-Man mask. It stared at him with oversized, white eyes, slightly discolored with age.
“Peter?”
At the sound of May’s voice, he suddenly remembered why he’d come. A surge of panic ran through him. He wadded up the mask, stuffed it into his back pocket.
“In here, Aunt May.”
Every time Peter came to visit, Aunt May made him wheatcakes, no matter what time of day or night. Fortunately, he was hungry.
“Goodness, Peter, you’re awake early. The sun isn’t even up yet.”
She stood in the doorway. Wobbling a little, he noticed, but smiling for her nephew. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun; her face showed a few more lines every year. Her hands were blue-veined, but steady.
Only one thing was odd: The tray in her hands held chocolate chip cookies, not wheatcakes.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Peter smiled hesitantly at the tray. “Cookies, Aunt May?”
She looked at the tray, as if seeing it for the first time. For a moment, she looked confused. Peter felt another stab of panic, of worry.
Then she shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. Today seemed different.”
“I’m not complaining.” He took one, bit into it. Still hot. The chips melted onto his tongue, a pleasant, homey feeling.
May smiled and set down the tray. Peter finished his cookie, studying her in silence.
“How do you feel, Aunt May?”
“I’m fine, Peter. I’m always fine.” She waved her hand, a dismissive motion. “But I worry about you .”
“Me?”
She perched on the bed, motioning him to sit next to her. “Your luck with girls is…well, it’s not stellar, dear. I’m sorry to have to say it.”
“Aunt May—”
“I still think it’s a shame about Anna Watson’s niece. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Stop changing the subject, pretty girl. Are you taking your pills?”
“Who’s changing the subject now?” She reached out, touched his knee. “Really, Peter, there’s nothing wrong.”
“Yes there is, Aunt May. There’s plenty wrong.” Then, at the fearful look on her face: “Oh no, not here. Not with you. It’s just…there’s a lot of stuff going on out in the world.”
She nodded gravely. “The Stamford business.”
“Yeah. People are really afraid right now.”
“That is bad.” She stood up, and a faraway look entered her eyes. “I was a little girl when Joseph McCarthy launched his big campaign against Communism. He managed to scare people into thinking there were Communists everywhere: in the
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