Eugene Thompson (better known by his nickname "Flash") stood on a corner of Eighth Avenue on the West Side. He wore a thick black sweatshirt with the hood up, hands pushed into the kangaroo pocket. He chewed the inside of his cheek, nervous with anticipation. His whole body shook, though he remained in place, staring inside the glass storefront window before him.

He was contemplating buying a gun.

Aquamarine clouds blotted the sky, trading the sun's harsh rays for a torrential downpour. It was the sort of weather which carried with it a small amount of cognitive dissonance. It looked like a fall evening bordering on winter, only it was 3:00 in the afternoon in the middle of spring and the rain was hot. Hurricane season wasn't far off; it was a time of the year where New York's heroes always had something to keep them busy. Bad weather begat disasters, begat people acting out of turn. Dangerous as it was, kids loved to be out and about during those wet, balmy months, eager to see upwards of four super sightings in one day. It was something Flash used to enjoy partaking in. These days, he didn't much care. He didn't plan on sticking around long enough to see the droves of costumed crime fighters come out to play this year.

Just do it. What's stopping you?

He removed a hand from his pocket and scratched at his five o'clock shadow. The greasy blonde hair framing his face hadn't been washed in quite a while. The rain was actually doing him a favor in that department. For once, he appeared to be nothing more than a waterlogged twenty-something, as opposed to the homeless thirty-something he actually was. With a hand still in his pocket, he fondled the crumpled wad of bills gradually accruing moisture.

Three-hundred big ones. Not enough to pay rent and keep from getting booted from his dingy studio apartment, but enough to make it not matter anymore.

What're you waiting for?

He took a step. Froze. He wondered how much he really wanted this. If it was truly his only way out. Then he thought about it, dissected the situation rationally, despite such critical thinking not being his forte.

He was jobless, virtually penniless, fresh on the streets. Liz wouldn't take his calls; parents' line was disconnected. He didn't have any minutes left on his pay-as-you-go phone to try anyone else, were there anyone else to try. He was hungover, hungry, and out of options. Most of all, he was tired.

He didn't want sleep. He felt the sort of exhaustion one feels when the marrow in their bones aches, causing the muscle surrounding to feel like dead weight. Said feeling intertwined with an exhaustion of his spirit. Everything seemed wrong, he felt he could do nothing right, and every minute of every day was an exercise in biding time. Ticking minutes off a clock. Waiting for something, anything to show him a sign, to tell him things worked out even in a person's darkest hour. He waited and waited, but no lifeline was given to him. No kind soul to reach out and tell him everything was going to be okay. No means by which to dig out of the hole he'd buried himself in.

No man in red tights to catch him in freefall.

Flash took another step. He thought he was finally ready. He was already a licensed gun owner, though sold his piece last month to stay a few more precious inches away from destitution. None of it seemed to matter now. His meager choices came down to spending the last of his funds on his old vices and waiting for the harsh reality of street-living to take him, or go out with some dignity. He preferred the latter. Doing more of what got him into this predicament seemed counterintuitive. As if the wait for absolution would become that much more tortured and elongated as a consequence. Buying a new gun, finding a secluded place and ending it all was cleaner. He could always go to the top of one of NYC's myriad skyscrapers and get it done that way, but he secretly feared his boyhood fantasy of being rescued by his hero would come true if he did.

Thinking about it made him wonder what he was more afraid of—that Spider-Man might save him, or that he might not.

Get it over with already.

Soon as his mind was made up, he strode forward, directly into another pedestrian. Flash was malnourished, yet that did little to change his linebacker's physique. The man he unintentionally body-checked was six inches shorter than him and rebounded off like a billiard getting shot across a table. Miraculously, the guy managed a sort of pirouette to avoid slamming into the gun shop's windowpane or tumbling onto the ground.

"Jesus! Sorry, man," Flash apologized. The old Flash would've told the bystander to watch where they were going. It was a loud, brash sort of response typical of most New Yorkers. Losing everything with no one to blame but oneself tended to have a sobering effect on a person. It turned Flash into a more polite, meek individual, instead of your average "I'm walkin' here!" type.

"It's cool, no worries," said the distinctly familiar voice of the shouldered individual.

The man had curly brown hair that was almost black with piercing blue eyes, full lips, and a hint of scruff on his chin and cheeks. He was slender, yet obviously strong. A swimmer's build. He wore a long wool coat and jeans. He was drenched from the deluge around them. While Flash looked akin to a stray dog, this guy seemed to be in his element.

Flash's stomach lurched. His throat grew tight with the realization of who was standing in front of him.

Really, God? You gotta throw this in my face one more time?

"Flash? Hey, man! Long time no see. How you been?"

"H-hey, Parker," Flash stammered. This was the last person he wanted to see. It was bad enough being here, at this moment, ready for it all to end. Now he had his greatest collection of cruelties, missed opportunities, and squandered potential scrutinizing his every move.

Peter Parker used to be one of Flash's peers at Midtown High. Fifteen years ago, Flash made it his sole mission in life to make Pete's a living Hell. Daily beatings behind the bleachers. A constant flow of stolen lunch money. Incessant trash-talking and public mockery. He didn't even let up after the poor kid's uncle died. He encouraged his jock friends to get in on the action, too. He was frankly surprised the little nerd never snapped and brought a weapon to school. He never even stood up for himself. Maybe it was his way of being the bigger man. In any case, as Flash reflected on the torture and abuse in recent years, it only served to deepen his cavernous well of depression. Because although Peter was his favorite object of ceaseless torment, he was far from the only. Such tendencies caused Flash to turn on his own friends, and the bridges supporting his life started burning, crumbling into naught but cinders.

"What's up? What brings you here?" Peter asked as he tilted his head.

He could tell something was wrong. Flash didn't have a great poker face, wasn't exactly hiding his caginess well. He tried his best not to let his eyes dart back and forth from the ground to the gleaming Beretta on display in the store window.

"I'm. I'm on a walk," he replied awkwardly. He knew the retort didn't fly.

There was an odd amount of concern on Peter's face, considering Flash did nothing except belittle and berate him for years. He hated feeling pitied. He wished he got his nuts up and went straight into the store when he arrived. Then he could've avoided this whole encounter.

"I'm, uh," Pete began. He paused, turned his head, formulated his words carefully. He seemed like he was preparing to do something painful. Something he might regret. "I'm kinda avoiding going home. TMI, right? You couldn't care less. But, umm…I was gonna head over to this bar I know, few blocks away. Josie's? Ever been?"

"Nah," Flash lied. There wasn't a bar in the five boroughs he hadn't been kicked out of half a dozen times.

"Oh. Well, how bout we go grab a drink or three? My treat? It's been, what, ten years since we last saw each other, right? Always nice seeing a friendly face, do some catching up."

Flash didn't know how to react. Not only was this whole thing mortifying, he was completely unprepared for such a generous offer. Even if it was forced.

Blindsided, the word "sure" was out of his mouth before he was able to consider saying no.

Josie's was the definition of a hole in the wall. Cheap, watered-down booze, dim lighting, cramped as all Hell. Everything from the glassware to the countertops to the chipped tiles on the floor was in less than pristine condition. The bartenders were also more than a little surly, to put it diplomatically. What set this place apart from most any other dive bar in Clinton was the discretion of its employees and patrons. Most everyone followed the rules of the establishment—an unspoken credo to let you do you, to leave grudges and petty squabbles at the door. That didn't mean the place wasn't without its occasional brawl, as no business dedicated to peddling spirits is immune to such things. Fights certainly broke out less when resident Defender Luke Cage manned the taps. Such was the other big, noteworthy thing about Josie's. Unbeknownst to Flash, it was neutral ground for many on either side of the ongoing superheroic conflicts in New York City. Heroes, villains, street-level badasses, and petty thieves alike came to the little-known tavern in Hell's Kitchen to tie one off. Thus, the rules. It was the only way the place would be able to stay in business, let alone keep from having to be repaired on a weekly basis.

"So, you and Liz still together?" Peter asked between hearty sips off his pint glass.

Flash stared into his mug. He was three pints deep. Inebriation was taking hold. It was a familiar sensation, one usually accompanied by a fight destined to alienate another of his few and far between loved ones. Precisely the sort of thing he wished to avoid by chowing on some lead, as opposed to his favorite magnet for abuse enabling and sponsoring the bad behavior. Perhaps it was a weird, cosmological sort of retribution.

He was surprised Peter was keeping up with him, comparatively small as he was. He figured him for a lightweight. In fact, the dude was keeping it together far better than he was, all things considered.

"Nah. She dumped me a while ago," Flash let out. Peter frowned.

"Sorry to hear it. Always thought you guys were good together," said Peter, his voice laden with hops and sarcasm.

"We were. In the end, I wasn't good enough for her."

Peter narrowed his eyes and took a heaping gulp. He wondered when they would get to this part. Flash Thompson and his ego trips. Hence why he debated asking him to go drinking with him in the first place. The idea of spending more time around the meathead than absolutely necessary was borderline nauseating. Eventually, his conscience won out, seeing as there was something clearly wrong with the guy. Besides, grabbing some suds with an old acquaintance—

Generous wording, there.

—seemed a whole lot better on paper than lying to his pregnant wife he'd be home from work late so he could go out partying.

"Guessing she was kinda hard to please?" Peter mused. He never much cared for Liz Allen, seeing as she was a fiery ball of Latina rage and vindictiveness seemingly willed into existence by the screenwriter of Mean Girls. She was always right there alongside Flash and his cronies, doling out punishment and ridicule to anyone different than them at Midtown. In spite of it all, Peter often wondered how much of it was her and how much was Flash rubbing off on her. The notion the dumb jock was surely about to give an unironic, woe-is-me speech about what an ungrateful bitch she was turned Peter's stomach, confirmed for him she probably wasn't all bad.

"No, it's not like that. She deserves better than me," Flash spoke solemnly. He let his words hang in the air for a moment before draining the rest of his glass.

Peter was stunned. He never in his life expected to hear something so introspective, so selfless come out of Eugene Thompson's mouth. Now he was convinced there was something up, or at least out of the ordinary.

"What happened?" Peter asked, surprising himself with how curious he was.

"Same thing's happened with everyone," Flash replied, a slur creeping up in his tone. "I pushed 'em all away. Shut everyone out. S'what I do."

Peter set his mug on the table. He watched Flash for a long time, tried to discern what was going on in his head. Normally, he was excellent at reading people. He was thrown off by how very un-Flash this all sounded.

"I mean, you don't have to, right? C'mon, talk to me. What's going on with you?" Pete said, the initial concern he harbored when he first met Flash on the street returning. His instincts were kicking in, the ones he guessed were somehow tied to his innate sixth sense for sussing out danger. An extra degree of perception, dedicated to knowing when someone was in trouble. When they needed help. Maybe there was no real science behind it, no tangential relation to any superpower to explain it. Nevertheless, whatever gut feeling he possessed that told him when to really pay attention to someone or something was going off like crazy.

Flash removed his hood and ran a hand through his hair. More of his features were in better light, now. Peter could instantly tell how pale he was, how underfed he appeared. To say something was amiss would've been the understatement of the year.

"Yo, Josie? Can we get some wings over here? Buffalo-style, with some fries?" Pete called over in the direction of the bar with two fingers extended.

"What're you doing?" Flash questioned. The expression on his face was one of a stray cat backed into a corner, suspicious of the person approaching it, regardless of their intentions.

"Feeding you. Bet you could use it."

"I don't want a handout," Flash mumbled. Peter waved it off.

"Don't think of it as charity. Think of it as being friendly. Neighborly."

Flash didn't say anything. He threaded his fingers on the table and twiddled his thumbs, feeling awkward and out of place. No matter the setting, no matter the company, no matter the amount of alcohol flowing through his bloodstream, he couldn't help but feel judged wherever he went. As if everyone in New York knew his past, knew his darkest secrets, knew all his horrible misdeeds.

"I'm, uh. Lemme tell ya. Being a real shitty husband right now," Peter admitted, self-deprecating. He meant to say it in a lighthearted way. He didn't mean to identify with the statement so much.

Flash peeked his head up.

"You're married, Parker?"

"Yup. Three years, now."

"To Betty? The chick from the Bugle?"

"No," Pete chuckled, "to MJ. Mary Jane Watson. You remember her from high school, right? She was a senior while we were juniors."

"Yeah. I remember," Flash said as he hung his head again. Of course he remembered MJ. He and Liz popularized the "Make Midtown Slutty Again" taunt that dogged the poor girl until college.

"Anyway, we're expecting. Awesome, huh? Can't wait. I'm also scared outta my mind. I've never been one to shirk responsibility. Having a baby, though? It stirs up things. Money problems, marital problems, you name it. We've been fighting a lot, recently. S'why I didn't wanna go home just yet."

"Congrats on the kid. Least you've got someone to go home to," Flash murmured. He spent considerable effort to keep himself from saying "a home to go to".

Peter was about to say something in response, yet couldn't find the sense in debating the point. After all, Flash was right. He never imagined he'd live to see that thought cross his mind.

The food arrived in front of them. Josie deposited a green basket of twelve glistening, steaming drums and flats arranged on a length of wax paper. Next to it was a tin cup filled with a bouquet of golden brown French fries, salty and greasy in equal measure. The food was unhealthy as could be.

Flash's mouth watered. He stared at the piping morsels of meat, the seasoned sticks of potato. His stomach folded on itself, spasming painfully. He inhaled the sickening, intoxicating aroma of batter and oil. It took all his strength, all his willpower to stay still, to not lunge at the appetizers.

"Go ahead. Eat up," Pete said.

Flash hooked his gaze at him, a mixture of guilt and gratitude commingled on his face.

"It's yours," the jock replied, sheepish.

"Nope. Got 'em for you."

"You said you've got money troubles," Flash insisted, wanting nothing more in the world than to give in.

"I can afford to feed a guy down on his luck. It's all you, man."

Flash wanted to keep arguing, to protest, to maintain some sense of dignity. His hunger won out. He bent forward and shoveled clawed handfuls of fries into his mouth, only stopping infrequently to strip a wing clean of its meat in one bite.

He ate like he was in prison, like he hadn't had a good meal in weeks. Peter stared, mesmerized by the voraciousness of it. He motioned nonverbally for Josie to bring another round.

Once Flash cleared the area in front of him and half of the next serving, he stopped. He wiped his sauce-covered mouth with the back of his fist, belched, and washed it down with more beer.

"Full?" Pete asked. He couldn't stifle the laugh bookending the question.

Flash put his empty mug on the table and shrunk. He'd gotten carried away, lost himself. His cheeks flushed red, shame becoming him.

"Yeah. Thanks. Sorry. Thanks," he fumbled, unsure what was the more appropriate thing to say.

A long silence filled the air.

"So, tell me what's up," spoke Peter. Flash averted eye contact.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"Uh-huh. What brought you all the way to Hell's Kitchen? You've always struck me as a Brooklyn guy."

"I told you. I was on a walk."

"I don't buy it," Pete said, growing annoyed. He didn't mind Flash hiding some sort of bombshell, in fact understood that. The irritating part was how bad he was at hiding it.

"Listen. We've never been close. We've never been friends. I just ran into you on the street. I get it, you have no reason to trust me. All I'm saying is…you should. I'm not stupid. None of this," Peter said, gesticulating at Flash's visage, "is right. You get to know someone pretty well when they torture you for long periods of your life. We've been here an hour, and already you're a completely different person. One-eighty from the Flash I've always known. Either you've changed, or you're in a bad way. Or both. What've you got to lose by talking to me?"

Flash was taken aback. His mouth hung open. He tried to fight it, though couldn't stifle the tears welling up in his eyes.

"What do you care? I treated you like shit, Parker!" Flash growled. He jabbed his index finger in Peter's direction. "Why do you give a damn about me?"

Peter waited patiently. Waited until Flash regained his breath, his composure.

"Because I was raised not to kick someone when they're down. I was taught—when a person needs your help, you help them. No matter how much you might not like them."

"That a dig?" Flash balked, his voice getting higher, each vowel hitching in his throat on its way out. "I get it, I'm a dirtbag. News to everybody, right? I'm not like you. I don't pick people up. I'm the one who puts them on the ground!"

Flash lost it. He buried his face in his folded arms on the table. He began to sob. Peter placed a hand on his shoulder. He shuddered away from the gesture, flinched at the sympathy he felt he didn't deserve.

"You w-wanna know what's going on with me, P-Parker? I'm homeless, all right!? I'm one of those assholes who p-peaked in high school. I was prom king, the big shot on campus. I beat the shit outta everyone, took what I wanted, told teachers where to ssstick it. And where'd it get me? I fell in with the wrong crowd, started doping, b-blew my fffootball scholarship. Now my parents won't talk to me, none of my friends want anything to do with me 'cuz I hate them and they hate me. And they should! You should! I'm garbage, man. I'm w-worthless!"

Peter's heart ached. He never witnessed anyone cry like this. Not Harry when he lost his dad. Not May the night Ben died. He had no idea. No clue things were this far south. He knew Flash sort of fell off the face of the Earth once they all parted ways from Midtown. He never dreamed things got this bad for him. He couldn't tell if he hit the precise right buttons to bring it all out, or if drunkenness was to blame. In all fairness, it was likely a combination of the two.

"I've lost every j-job I've ever gotten. When I couldn't make rent this month, they booted me out. I c-couldn't take the thought of shooting up on the street and waiting to die. So, I was on my way to buy a gun. That's when I ran into you," he wept.

Peter stopped hesitating. He reached across the slab of wood between them and embraced his old nemesis. He patted him on the back and let him sob into his chest.

"Hey, hey. It's okay, man. Everything's gonna be okay. I got you. You're okay."

"Stop saying that!" Flash shouted. The yell was muffled by Peter's now tear-soaked shirt. "How's it all gonna be fine, Parker? How in the world am I gonna be okay?"

Peter held Flash tighter. He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his head, scratched lightly at his scalp through his hair. It was a thing Aunt May used to do to settle him when he was upset. Gradually, it started working.

"I don't know," Peter confessed, "but I'm gonna help you. You've made a lot of terrible decisions, bud. You've paid for 'em. You don't have to go it alone anymore. I'm here. We'll get through this."

Flash didn't know why this was happening, why the man he tormented for so long was being so kind to him. He wasn't worthy of it. Nonetheless, he wanted to believe him. Wanted to surrender his pride and accept the lifeline dangling in front of him. The last one he was sure he'd ever receive.

The man in red tights holding out a hand in freefall.