Marvel Prime: 001

Everyone knows how Captain America came to be. The army, knowing that Germany had madmen like Arnim Zola, bio-geneticist and general loony-bin escapee, working on creating a "perfect soldier," a killing machine that would be able to fight like any five men, ten men, or even twenty, started looking for someone who could make a "super soldier" for the United States. They found Dr. Abraham Erskine, one of Arnim Zola's teachers, and a man who had fled Nazi Germany in 1940, just ahead of Hitler's SS. Erskine was more than willing to help America create something that might be able to counter Arnim Zola's rumored "killing machines."

Erskine succeeded, which is ironic, because Arnim Zola never did. Doctor Erskine found a scrawny, chronically ill 4F kid who had tried his damnedest to join up after Pearl Harbor Day, been rejected out of hand, then immediately started working for the draft board as a clerk when refused— because he was that determined to help his country. Erskine took this nineteen year old walking poster boy for 4F men everywhere, and, towards the end of 1942 he turned him into the ultimate American fighting machine— Captain America.

Unfortunately, Dr. Erskine was killed immediately after turning that still-unknown kid into a super-soldier, assassinated by a Nazi agent. The first thing Captain America did as Captain America (even if he hadn't been called that yet) was capture the assassin (who managed to suicide before interrogation).

After that, Cap went to the front lines of the war, and he fought like an entire platoon's worth of men. He inspired American troops just by existing, and he saved countless lives by showing up at a critical moment and beating some Nazis down, giving American soldiers a chance— and a huge, huge boost in morale.

Everyone knows all of that, and usually, they get the essentials right. It's how he died that people almost always get wrong, despite the truth being known.

Captain America didn't die stopping some Nazi rocket armed with an atomic warhead. So far as history knows, the loss of Albert Einstein— kidnapped by Hitler within days of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, rescued by Captain America in early 1943— prevented the Nazis from ever making a working atomic bomb.

No, Cap stopped something almost as bad, maybe just as bad— maybe even worse, so far as American morale was concerned. Hitler's pet physicist, or quantum physicist, or para-physicist, or just plain old "mad scientist," a guy named Baron Heinrich Zemo, came up with a way to open some sort of spatial gateway between his castle (a serious castle, like only the Germans ever built on serious mountains like this one sat on) on Zugspitze, in the Wetterstein Mountains just north of Austria— and a warehouse on the docks of the Hudson River in New York City.

Army Intelligence found out about this, somehow— the reporter who found all this out and made it public around the time that the Vietnam "police action" was dying down either never found out how they knew, or kept it to himself— and they sent Captain America to stop it, supported by a company of infantry troops and a whole lot of paratroops.

Captain America got there very shortly after Zemo opened his "para-spatial warp," and he attacked Zemo at the controls of the device— situated outside to better allow troops to be readied to move through it— just after the madman opened it.

Captain and Baron fought for most of a minute, and the American troops engaged the Germans, distracted them, pounded on them so that they wouldn't think about going through the gateway.

The fight lasted maybe a minute— then Baron Zemo managed to knock Captain America down, pulled an energy-rifle of some sort from beside the controls to his "para-spatial warp," and shot Cap at almost point blank range.

But Captain America dodged the shot— and the energy beam hit the "para-spatial warp" dead center.

The resultant explosion killed Zemo and the sixty or so Nazi troops closest to the gate. It also closed the gate, and only a handful of Nazi soldiers went through (and were caught by the FBI, who had been alerted by Army intelligence, and were waiting for them).

No one ever found a sign of Captain America, not his body, not even his supposedly indestructible shield.

No rocket. No atomic bomb. Just a method of putting Nazi troops on American soil, and some ten thousand Nazi troops ready to go. New York City would've been a disaster at best, but Captain America stopped it… at the cost of his life.

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"So, what do you think, MJ?" Peter Parker asked his best friend as she closed his Powerpoint presentation on Captain America, done for American History II. "I present it Tuesday."

"It's pretty tight," Mary Jane Watson admitted, looking up. "You got redundant with Cap and Zemo fighting for about a minute, said it twice, you should kill one or rephrase it. Also, you might go into a little more detail about the years between Cap appearing and dying, if you can without going over Mr. Peck's time limit."

"I've got maybe two minutes, I'll see if I can pad it out." Peter grinned. "Thanks, Mary. Best friend, best editor— priceless."

"You only say that because it's true," MJ said breezily. "You stoked for Monday's field trip?"

"I guess," Peter said, shrugging a little. "Roxxon Biochemical is pretty cutting edge, sure, but biochemistry isn't my first love. Besides, since I started interning for Mr. Stark, my definition of 'cutting edge' has gotten pretty snobby."

"Braggart!" MJ groused, and stood from Peter's desk. "If you weren't a better physics student than me, that would've been my internship!"

"You blow me out of the water at biology, MJ," Peter said, trying not to look smug. "I have to be better than you at something."

"That," MJ said as they left Peter's room and went downstairs, "is strictly a matter of opinion, Mr. Parker."

After stopping to say goodbye to Peter's Uncle Ben and Aunt May (who had raised Peter for the last eleven years or so), Mary Jane went to her own home next door, leaving Peter to deal with something between light teasing and serious prompting from his Aunt and Uncle.

"Peter, why, exactly, have you not asked that girl out?" Ben Parker asked his nephew. "She's perfect for you— as smart as you are, crazy about science, and she's as cute as a speckled puppy in a little red wagon."

"Ben leave the boy alone," Peter's Aunt May said— then gave her nephew a wicked grin and said, "Even if you are right. Peter, isn't homecoming in a couple of weeks?"

"Yes," Peter mumbled, blushing. "But seriously, I don't want to mess things up. If I ask her out and she says no, we might not be able to stay besties."

"She won't say no," May Parker said, her voice firm. She flipped her white-blonde bangs out of her eyes— she'd gotten a new hair style recently, and wasn't used to the bangs yet— and smirked. "Good lord, you're as incapable of spotting signals as your uncle.

"Peter, she likes you— as in 'wants to date you' likes you."

"Excuse me, but 'incapable of spotting signals as your uncle?' May I remind you who asked whom out twenty-two years ago, May Riley-Parker?" Ben said, looking up from his book— a Stephen King novel, Peter saw without surprise, his uncle loved the weird stuff. "I do believe it was me asking you, wasn't it?"

"It was," May agreed, smiling wickedly. "And I'm sure that you also recall that your brother encouraged you to do so. What you may not know— or remember— is that, at the time, Richard was dating Kelly Samuels, the younger sister of Tammy Samuels who was—"

"Your best friend." Ben covered his eyes for a moment, then set aside his book, stood up and said, "I've been had.

"Peter, I'm going to spank your aunt. You might want to leave the room."

"If you're gonna get kinky, I want to leave the house!" Peter said, and ducked under a playful jab from his uncle as he headed for the stairs. "I've got a little polishing to do on my report— think I'll do it tonight. I'll come down and say goodnight before I crash."

"Make some noise first," May called as Peter started up the stairs. She tugged on the back of her husband's red-with-flecks-of-white hair as Peter turned and nearly fled. "Give us warning, so we can get dressed and put the whips and handcuffs away!"

"Lalalalalala I can't hear you!" Peter groan-laughed as he went up the stairs.

In his room, he tried not to think about Mary Jane and the idea of asking her to homecoming as he put the finishing touches on his report about Captain America. Then, when he heard his aunt let out a little shriek, followed immediately by a laugh from both of his parents-in-all-but-fact, he tried not to think about the fact that they probably still had sex— Uncle Ben was only forty-one, Aunt May wasn't even forty yet, so they probably still did— or about how Flash Thompson had, on seeing May Parker when she came by the school to drop Peter off one day when he'd missed the bus, had said, "Damn, Parker, your mom's a hottie!"

"That's just not right," he muttered as he added some stuff about the two years between Captain America's first appearance in costume in late 1942 and his death a few days after Thanksgiving of 1944 to his presentation. "Flash Thompson thinking… no! Not going there."

Peter finished his report— even remembered to edit the redundancy that MJ had spotted— then decided to check his email before going down to say goodnight to his aunt and uncle.

He had mail from Tony Stark, his erstwhile employer— he actually paid Peter, a good wage, even, for the work Peter did as his intern, though he didn't have to, either legally or because Peter would have asked. Peter had learned more about physics, electronics, computers and engineering in the three weeks since he'd been chosen as Tony Stark's intern that he'd learned about those subject in the prior fifteen years of his life. He'd expected to work for free, and considered it a privilege.

He read the email, agreed easily with staying later than usual on Wednesday, to help with some "engineering work that will take four hands," popped off a reply to that effect— exchanging emails with Tony freaking Stark still gave him a little thrill— then went on downstairs, scuffing his feet and thumping his way down the staircase, just in case Aunt May hadn't been kidding.

It was safe— Uncle Ben was lost in his King book again, Aunt May was watching an early news program— and Peter plopped down in his favorite chair and waited to be noticed. At the next commercial, his aunt looked up.

"Get your report done, Peter?" she asked, and his uncle closed his book around a finger as Peter replied.

"Yeah, I did. MJ spotted a couple things that I got fixed." Peter saw his aunt open her mouth, her eyes gleaming with mischief, and hurried on to forestall more teasing on the subject of MJ. "Also, Mr. Stark emailed me— he asked if I could stay 'til nine, Wednesday. He's getting some parts in for his latest project, and installing them is a four-handed job. He said he'll feed me again— I hope he calls the same place as last time, that was the best pizza ever— and have his chauffer drive me home. Is that okay?"

"Certainly," May said, after a glance at her husband and a nod from him. "Peter, I'm still— well, wowed, over you getting that internship. And the amount he pays you, my god! You could never make that much working fast food, or a theater, probably not at any job, with being only fifteen and all." Suddenly, May Parker's eyes gleamed with mischief again, and she said, "Perhaps you should ask him about how to ask Mary Jane out, Peter. He's certainly successful enough with the ladies, I'm sure he could give you some good advice."

Peter groaned and covered his eyes with one hand, and his uncle chuckled and said, "You know, your aunt has a point, Peter. After all, he's dated three actresses and a supermodel just this year."

"If I looked like him, I could probably do that, too," Peter said. "Or was the richest American alive according to Forbes magazine— three years running."

Much more gently, Ben Parker said, "Peter, if you don't say something, she's going to end up dating someone else. Is that really what you want?"

For a moment, Peter simply sat and stared at his hands. Finally, without looking up, he said, "No. No, I don't want that. But… seriously, Uncle Ben, if I ask and she says no, it won't… we won't be the same."

"Idiot child of my brother's loins," Ben said affectionately, "she won't say no. You're aunt, while capable of being wrong, despite her opinion on her infallibility—"

"You'll pay for that, Benjamin Michael Parker," May interrupted mildly.

"—is not wrong about this." Ben gave his wife a mock-glare, then turned back to Peter. "About this, May's absolutely one-hundred percent correct.

"Mary Jane would say yes in an instant— if you'd just work up the nerve to ask her out."

"Okay, well… I'll try," Peter said. He sighed, then stood up. "Maybe… maybe to something not so… you know, so huge as homecoming, first. Just, you know, a movie, or something. I'll bet we could find something at that Flicks and Fries place that we'd both like."

"That," May Parker said approvingly, "is the smartest thing to come out of your mouth in a while, Peter Benjamin Parker, and you say smart things pretty often.

"Something less important than homecoming first is a great idea. Then, when that works— well, I'll help you pick out your suit for homecoming."

With a shake of his head, Peter stood up. "Okay. Okay, I'll ask her out. Soon. Tomorrow, maybe, it's Sunday, she'll be over at some point. Okay?

"But if she says no, I expect cookies as a consolation prize. Chocolate chip. With almond slivers!"

"Deal," Ben— the baker in the family— said immediately.

"Okay." Peter stood up and stretched. "Think I'm gonna go watch an episode of Supernatural on Netflix— can't watch that with MJ, she spends too much time talking about how hot the main characters are— then crash."

"Such a wild man on the weekends," Ben said, rolling his eyes. "Saturday night with Netflix on the computer? You'll come to a bad end, Peter Parker, if you don't mend your wicked ways!"

Peter laughed, said his goodnights, and headed upstairs. He watched an episode of Supernatural, wished for the umpteenth time that he had the Winchesters' car, then closed his computer down and got ready for bed.

He'd just gotten into the sweats and sleeveless t-shirt he wore to sleep in when someone started knocking— heck, pounding— on the front door downstairs. Peter had heard his Aunt May and Uncle Ben come up while he was brushing his teeth, and now he heard Ben Parker starting down the stairs. He went out in the hall, found his aunt at the top of the stairs.

"What's going on, Aunt May?" he asked, even as the pounding stopped— his uncle had reached the door and opened it apparently.

"I don't know, P—"

"May!" Ben called sharply. "I need your help— bring the first aid kit!"

As his aunt ran down the hall to the master bathroom to get the first aid kit, Peter, knowing he might get in trouble for it but not caring, ran down the stairs and into the living room.

Mary Jane, dressed in a knee-length t-shirt and slippers, was sitting on the couch next to her mother, and Mrs. Watson… she was bleeding, her lower face covered in blood, and one eye swollen shut.

"The hell?" Peter said, shocked beyond his own ability to understand. "Mary Jane? Mrs. Watson? What… who…?"

MJ didn't answer, just pulled her knees up to her forehead, wrapped her arms around them— and started crying. For just a moment, as she shifted position, Peter saw that she had a big bruise on the right side of her face, big and dark, and it hadn't been there when she was here… what, two hours before?

"My husband," Mrs. Watson sobbed. "He… did this."

"Peter, get some ice and a few towels, please," Ben said from where he knelt in front of MJ's mom. "And Peter… lock the front door first, please."

Peter gulped, said, "Yes, sir," and went to do as he was told. He met his aunt at the bottom of the stairs, and as he locked the door, she got her first look into the living room— and said, very quietly, "Oh, god."

Peter got ice and towels, his head spinning over the shape MJ and her mom were in— and the idea that Mr. Watson had done it. By the time he got back into the living room, Peter found himself trapped between horrified that he hadn't known something like this was happening, fury that MJ and Mrs. Watson were hurt, and a dull, sick feeling of helplessness.

He was trying to figure out what to do— Aunt May had taken over trying to take care of Mrs. Watson, Uncle Ben was on the phone (presumably with the police) and MJ was still sitting with her knees up to her head and crying.

Peter knelt in front of MJ, took one of the dishtowels and put some ice in it, wrapped the towel and held it until he could feel cold and damp, then said softly, "Mary Jane? Here, put this on your face, okay? It'll help."

For a moment, Peter didn't think MJ was going to move— then she lifted her head, not looking at Peter, took the towel-wrapped ice, and held it to her face. Her other arm she kept around her knees, and she looked down at her feet— but Peter called it a small victory.

He was reaching up to cover her hand with his when the front door burst open and slammed into the wall so hard that Peter heard the glass pane in the upper half break.

There had been no knocking, no sound of the doorbell, nothing— just BAM, and Tom Watson— a big, muscular man with dark blond hair and an expression of fury on his face— was striding into the living room, snarling, "Trish, you BITCH! I told you to—"

Then Uncle Ben was between Tom Watson and the couch where Mrs. Watson and her daughter were now cringing, Mrs. Watson trying to get between her daughter and her husband.

"Get out of here, Tom." Uncle Ben wasn't a small man, and he stayed in shape, but Tom Watson had four inches and probably fifty pounds of muscle on him. "Now."

"Parker, if you don't get out of my way, I'm going to beat the shit out of you," Mr. Watson said, his voice calm and level, "before I drag that bitch and her little whore-in-training out of here and back to my place, where I will finish dealing with them."

"Tom, I'm not asking," Ben said, looking calmly up at the older man. "You just broke into my house. If you don't get out, I'm going to put you out— and it's going to hurt when I do it."

Tom Watson snarled and reached for Ben Parker's shoulders, presumably to throw him aside— then staggered backwards as Ben punched him twice, rapid and hard, in the stomach.

"Get out, Tom," Ben Parker said, still sounding calm. "Because if you try to touch me again, or say another word about your wife or daughter, I'm going to put you in the hospital."

"THAT BITCH IS MY WIFE!" Watson screamed suddenly. "THAT IS MY LITTLE TRAMP OF A DAUGHTER! I WILL DISCIPLINE THEM H—"

This time, Ben hit Tom Watson in the face, a fast, flickering punch to the nose, then a hard right to the jaw that sent the bigger man staggering back and away again— and Peter cheered silently to see it.

But Tom righted himself quickly, and came back for more. He blocked Ben's first punch, threw a wild punch of his own, clipped Ben Parker across the mouth— then went backwards again as Ben threw a series of rapid body blows at his stomach, then followed them with a punch to the jaw that Peter saw his uncle put his whole body into, starting with shifting his feet, then stepping in, turning into the blow, his upper body twisting, driving his fist out like a piston.

Tom Watson flew back several steps, tripped over the edge of the rumpled hall rug— and landed on his back at the feet of a policeman, who had his gun out of its holster, but held up by his head.

"Nobody move!" the cop called, and when Mr. Watson snarled and started to climb (unsteadily) to his feet, the cop stepped back and leveled his gun at Tom Watson's head. "I said don't move!"

Wisely, Mr. Watson froze.

"Who's the homeowner?" the cop asked as his partner edged in past him.

"I am," Peter's uncle said, his voice steadier than Peter could believe— he sounded like beating the heck out of a much bigger man who happened to be a psychopath was the sort of thing that happened all the time. "I'm Ben Parker. I called you because of the things that man did to his wife and child. Then he broke into my house and tried to attack them again, and I… dealt with him."

The partner got a look at Mrs. Watson, whistled, and reached for his radio. "Ma'am, you need to go to the hospital, I'm gonna call an ambulance."

"No, I'm ah righ'," Trish Watson said, her voice slurred. "I don' need—"

"Mom, please!" MJ said, her voice desperate. "Please, don't! Don't— you need an ambulance, and you need it because of what that BASTARD did to you!

"Please, Mom! Please!"

For a long moment, no one spoke, no one even moved— then Trish Watson sobbed once and said, "Yes. Please, I need… a doc'or."

MJ burst into tears hugged her mom, and things got nuts for a while.

Peter tried to just… get out of the way, make things easier for everyone that way, but Aunt May, once the EMTs arrived and had started looking over Mrs. Watson (Tom Watson was handcuffed and on his way to the nearest precinct house in another squad car by then) had shoved Peter firmly over to sit beside Mary Jane— who, to Peter's surprise, took his hand and held it tightly, though she kept her eyes on her mom, and didn't say anything.

Peter didn't say a word— just squeezed back and held on until MJ had to let go so that she could go with her mom to the hospital

Aunt May went as well, drove along behind so that she could bring MJ back after they were sure her mom was going to be okay— Ben agreed that May should go, as the two probably didn't need a man cluttering up their personal space about now.

Once they were all gone, Peter wordlessly went out to the garage and looked around, found a piece of plywood of sufficient size while his uncle measured the space where the window in the front door used to be. Together they cut a piece of wood down to the right size and secured it over the place where the window had been, then nailed the broken jamb back together as best they could, then closed and locked the door with the deadbolt— Peter had only locked the knob earlier, so they could lock the deadbolt.

Once the work was done, Peter finally spoke.

"Aunt May told me once that you boxed in college," Peter said, his voice serious. "I'm really, really glad you remember how, Uncle Ben.

"Mister Watson… I don't get it. I don't, he's always been… I don't know, nice enough, to me. How does… how does someone do that to their— I don't get it!"

"Ssh, Peter, it's okay," Ben said, and gathered his nephew into a tight hug. "It's over, son, and you handled it—"

"It's not okay!" Peter cried, and he realized, as he clung to his uncle, that he was shivering, almost shuddering. "How does stuff like that happen and… and we don't know it? That's not okay! We should have— have known, and stopped it!"

"Peter, we don't know how long it's been happening," Ben said. "Also… Peter did you ever see any bruises or marks on Mary?"

Peter thought about it, really thought about it, then said, "No, sir."

"Okay." Ben took a deep breath and held Peter at arms' length, looked him in the face. "Did she ever say anything— anything at all— that might have led you to believe that her father was abusing her and her mother?"

Again, Peter thought about it before saying, "No, sir."

"Okay— then how about you stop beating yourself up, son?"

Peter took a long, shaky breath, then said, "Yes, Uncle Ben. Sorry."

"No need for sorry," Ben said, squeezing Peter's shoulder. "Son, I'm glad this makes you mad— says that you're a good man, that your aunt and I have done right by you."

"Yeah, well," Peter said, and managed a smile. "You kinda did.

"Hey… boxing lessons? In case I ever, you know, need to clobber a bully like that?"

"We'll start next weekend," Ben said, grinning. "Too soon to think about it right now— in fact, I'm gonna ice down my hands for a bit, as well as my lip, or they'll all be swollen. Shouldn't have hit him in the face bare-knuckled, but… dammit, I was mad."

"So somebody raised you right, too," Peter said, and headed for the kitchen. "I'll get the ice, you sit."

Forty minutes later, Peter hugged his uncle, and they went off to bed, though Ben didn't even try to sleep, just sat awake and read while he waited for May to either call or come home.

In his own room, Peter lay awake for half an hour or so, his mind going back over every single interaction he'd had with either Mary Jane or her mom that he could remember, looking for any signs of abuse from before tonight. He fell asleep eventually, and slept— though not without dreams, which were no kind of pleasant.

He woke late Sunday morning— he'd been up until after two, so sleeping until almost ten was allowed, he guessed. He showered and dressed, then left his room (wondering, as he did so, how many teenaged girls would kill to have his room and the private bathroom off of it) and went down to the kitchen. He noticed the closed guestroom door as he went, and figured that MJ was here, but didn't knock— she should sleep, she probably needed it.

He found his aunt in the kitchen, making waffle batter— he could smell the vanilla from the doorway. As he came in, she turned and saw him, put down the batter, came over and hugged him tightly.

"I'm proud of you, Peter Benjamin Parker," May said when she let go. "You handled yourself very well last night, didn't panic, didn't hinder anyone doing what need to be done— and your uncle told me about the talk you two had.

"You could get us awards for parenting, Peter."

"You did all the work," Peter said, blushing— but grinning. "I just listened and did like you said. Mostly, anyway."

"Well, I'm glad you did," May said, laying bacon out on a rack in a pan— oven cooked bacon was better for you, she claimed, and Peter and his uncle didn't mind, it was still bacon. "MJ's in the guest room, so you know. I'm not going to get her up, she had a bad night."

"I figured, yeah," Peter said as he moved to the waffle batter and starting whipping it, crushing the few lumps May had missed against the side of the bowl, then stirring them in. "Aunt May… do you know what happened?"

"Not really, not in detail," May sighed. She cocked her head at movement upstairs, then said, her voice low, "Mary Jane said that her dad has been… short tempered for the last six months, since a little while after he got promoted at his law firm. She knew that he'd argued with her mother a lot, that it had been getting worse— but she swore to me that if he'd hit Trish before last night, she didn't know about it."

"What started last night?" Peter asked. "Or… should I not ask?"

"I don't really know— but I know that he heard MJ and Trish talking about… 'something really personal,' and blew up," May shivered, then said, "She said that he hit her first, then started beating on Trish when Trish got between him and MJ, and just… MJ couldn't stop him, not at first— so she kicked him in the crotch from behind, grabbed her mother, and they came here."

For the first time in his life that Peter could remember, he heard about another man getting kicked in the crotch— and didn't wince in sympathy. "Go, MJ!"

"Damn straight," May said, sticking the bacon in the oven and nudging Peter away from the waffle batter. "Get the waffle iron down, would you, Peter?"

Ben Parker came down while the first of the waffles was cooking, and May insisted on looking at his knuckles and mouth, both red and slightly swollen, despite the application of ice the night before.

May was tilting Ben's head this way and that, trying to decide if she should make him ice his lip again, when a voice from the doorway said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Parker. I never meant for you to get hurt!"

MJ, wearing loose, comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt, stood in the doorway, her eyes starting to well with tears. "I never— I didn't think he'd follow us, I'm sorry, I never meant—"

"Hush," Ben said, standing and going to the girl, stopping a couple of feet away— but looking relieved when she flung herself at him and hugged him. "MJ, I'm glad you came here— I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't felt you could turn to us for help."

"I… you… I was so scared, and I knew… I knew you'd help," MJ admitted, letting go of Ben and moving to hug May. "I just… I didn't expect you to have to fight my— him, or to be so… so good at it. And I really didn't want you to get hurt, I wish you hadn't had to… well, that took a lot of guts, Mr. Parker."

"Believe it or not, it was a pleasure," Ben said, sitting down at the table, grinning as MJ pulled Peter to his feet and hugged him tightly before sitting down herself. "Sticking up for the underdog has been a hobby of mine for years."

"Oh, that's why you root for the Mets," Peter quipped.

"Quiet, you." Ben grinned at Peter and added, "Better the Mets than the damn Yankees."

"Well… thank you." MJ looked shaken, and said, "I was so scared when he came after you, Mister—"

"Ben. It's time and past time that you called me Ben, young lady."

"And I'm May," Peter's aunt put in.

"Thank you, both of you." MJ took a breath and said, "I was scared, Ben. I mean, I didn't know you could fight, and… well, I was afraid he'd hurt you. And he did, damn him!"

"Hey, it's okay," Ben said, leaning forward to catch her eyes. "Mary Jane, I'm not badly hurt at all— and it felt good to do it. I've always thought that… well, look, if something bad happens, and you can stop it, can help… you do. That's all. You help, because it's the right thing to do.

"I believe that. My dad taught it to my brother and I, and May and I have tried to teach it to Peter. I think we've done a good job— and if you learn it from what happened last night… well, then something good came out of this mess."

"Thank you, M— Ben." MJ sighed and said, "I'll try to remember that. Thank you."

"Never a problem," Ben said, and looked around the kitchen. "May, where's the paper? There's supposed to be a review of Greg Rucka's new book in there, I want to read it before I commit to a new series…."

Between Ben and May Parker, they managed to make the day as normal as was possible— when it included going to pick up Trish Watson and bring her home from the hospital, anyway.

Peter spent most of Sunday evening at the Watsons', helping MJ and his Aunt clean up the wreck of the kitchen, and moving Mrs. Watson to the downstairs guestroom— she wasn't supposed to try any long staircases for at least a week, Tom had wrenched her knee badly when she was trying to crawl away from him and her grabbed her to drag her back.

"MJ, you staying home tomorrow?" Peter asked as he and his aunt got ready to leave at about nine.

"She is not," Trish said firmly. "Tomorrow's that field trip to Roxxon Biochemical, I remember. Mary, you're going."

"Mom, I can—"

"I could come over until you kids get home from school," May said, overriding MJ's protest. "I can work from anywhere I have access to the internet. Advantage of editing an online newspaper, you know. You have wifi, I can see that, so I'd be fine."

"Well…." Mary Jane looked unsure.

"Mary Jane Watson, you go on that field trip or so help me, I will have you making me hard boiled eggs for every meal this week," Trish said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You know what that means."

"That means getting a haz-mat suit," MJ muttered just loud enough for Peter to have to work to keep a straight face. Then she added, in a bright, cheerful voice, "It means I'm going to Roxxon Biochemical tomorrow, yay!

"Peter, will you be my field trip buddy?"

"Well, since you asked, I guess I can dump Flash Thompson," Peter said, rolling his eyes.

"Then it's settled," Trish said. "Thank you both for your help— but we can handle it from here. Go remind Ben that he's not a footloose and fancy free bachelor."

Peter and May left, chuckling and amazed at Trish's positive outlook— it probably didn't hurt a thing that Tom Watson had been unable to find anyone to bail him out— and went home for the evening.

The next day, things got really weird on the field trip.