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The Hobgoblin's Return (Peter/Felicia, PG-13)
Pairing: Peter/Felicia
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 6600
Summary: TAS based. The Hobgoblin escapes from prison. Felicia faces her demons.
Jason marches down the hallway, flanked by two guards whose suits fit just poorly enough to let him know that they're wearing body armor underneath. He can't see any weapons on them, but he knows they're there -- probably enough firepower to blow up a small country. The one on the left is walking so close to him that his arms brush against Jason's sides. He's blonde, built like a brick wall, and just the slightest bit twitchy. Jason knows the type. From Green Berets to crime syndicates (and the two aren't as different as they'd like to think), new guys are all the same.
"Not that I don't appreciate being busted out," he says. "The dynamite was a nice touch. Just my style. But do you think you could tell me where the hell we're going?"
"You'll find out when we get there," says the thug to his right.
There was a time when he could have made them tell him. Threatening to drop someone off a thirty storey building makes a person surprisingly talkative. Someday, I'm going to volunteer for a neogenics experiment or get doused in radioactive waste, do something that'll give me superpowers that don't depend on a glider and some bombs.
He decides that New Guy is a better bet for information. "I know you didn't get me out just for kicks. So, who's my mysterious benefactor? Kingpin decided he couldn't hack it without me? Oh, I know! Birdbrain Toomes needs my expertise. Am I right?"
"Our employer will introduce herself shortly." New Guy winces when he realizes what he's said. "Shit!"
So, a woman had him broken out. Interesting. Crime has always been mostly a man's game. Women are too soft, too easy to manipulate. Just look at Felicia. A few diamond necklaces, a few sweet nothings whispered in her ear, and she'd been eating out of his hand. Never mind that she hadn't even heard of Jason Philips until a few weeks before he'd decided to start courting her. He wonders if his female crime lord -- and really, who would have gone to all this trouble except a criminal mastermind? -- will be as susceptible to the famous Macendale charm.
They come to a battered elevator door. New Guy presses the down button while the other one grabs Jason's upper arm. "In you go," he says, and, not quite roughly, shoves him inside. The two thugs follow behind him. The elevator's interior is in sharp contrast to its dingy exterior: oak-paneled walls, brass handrails, plush carpeting. Jason half smiles to himself. Give the criminal element a choice between discretion and luxury, and they'll choose luxury every time.
Downstairs, even the pretense of ordinariness has been dispensed with. Men in grey suits and fedoras that look like something out of a Sam Spade novel huddle in groups of three or four or stand at attention beside unmarked doors. Vaguely humanoid marble sculptures stand in recesses at regular intervals along the wall. Jason thinks they look like a kindergartner's art project, which probably means they cost more than he ever earned for a job. A blonde woman sits at a receptionist's desk in the middle of the floor. The only clues that he hasn't stumbled on the set of a film noir are the domes on the ceiling that disguise security cameras and the MP5s the door guards are carrying. A nice place, all in all. He'll have to take it over someday.
The thugs march him to the receptionist's desk. "We brought Macendale to see Miss Silvermane, just like she asked."
Silvermane. He's heard more cock and bull stories about that family than he has aliases. They say that the old man seeks the Fountain of Youth or the Philosopher's Stone, that he's been turned into a baby, that he's been turned into a chimpanzee. He doesn't care if any or all of the rumors are true as long as the money's good. Still, he hopes he hasn't been broken out of prison to find the Three Lost Pieces of Montezuma's Amulet or some crap like that. He's more of a "steal this, kill that" kind of guy.
"Miss Silvermane is expecting you."
The door the thugs lead him to isn't obviously guarded. Jason raises his eyebrows. New Guy sees his confusion and smirks. "Miss Silvermane doesn't need guards to protect herself from the likes of you. Besides, her office has voice-activated laser turrets." He places his hand on the palm lock, and the door slides open.
Jason fights the urge to strangle him. The Silvermanes are two of the few people in the country who have the cash and complete lack of morals to hire him for a job that might net him enough cash to buy his own tropical island -- or at least some really fancy weapons. Killing an employee might piss them off prematurely. He'll see what the girl has to say, take the job, and collect his inevitable millions. Then, he'll kill New Guy.
He steps inside, and the door shuts behind him. The office is dimly lit. There's no immediate sign of the laser turrents, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. A young woman sits hunched over the desk in the middle of the room, typing furiously on a laptop. Alisha Silvermane, he presumes. He clears his throat. No response. He tries again, louder. Still nothing. Jason huffs. He can restrain his murderous impulses, but he will not be ignored. He turns on his heel to leave.
"Jason Philip Macendale. The Hobgoblin." He stops and turns around. The girl looks up from her laptop. "Odd, you don't look like a supervillain. My name is Alisha Silvermane."
Alisha Silvermane doesn't look like the daughter of the second most powerful man in New York. She looks like a college student or a writer, with her turquoise vest and khaki pants. Fashion sense aside, she's still gorgeous enough to find work as a supermodel. She reminds him a little of Felicia, except taller and with different color hair. This is going to be fun.
He walks toward her and places one arm on her desk, leaning in slightly as he does so. "My dear Miss Silvermane. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. How can a humble fellow like myself be of assistance?"
"Lay off the charm, Mr. Macendale," she says conversationally, "or I'll kill you where you stand. It's business that I want to discuss with you."
Okay, so she isn't that much like Felicia. No problem. He can be strictly professional, too. He straightens. "What kind of business?"
"I want you to kill Spider-Man."
Jason starts. Half the crooks in the city want Spider-Man dead, but hearing it stated so directly still unbalances him a bit. Then he smiles. He'd be more than happy to do the honors. Spider-Man and the Green Goblin are tied for first place on his list of people who've ruined his life. Hell, he'd kill the wall-crawler for free. Not that he's going to let Alisha Silvermane know that. "And what did old Web Boy do to you? Turn you down for a date?"
Her cheeks flush. "My father desires to restore his lost youth. He has made many attempts, none of which worked. Spider-Man has been directly or indirectly responsible for each failure." She clutches the edge of her desk. "My father now devotes his time to securing his empire so that I can take it over with a minimum of fuss. He despairs of ever being young and has accepted his mortality. For causing that despair, Spider-Man must pay with his life."
Revenge. It's always revenge with these types. "Sounds like killing Spider-Man would be downright noble of me. For you, I'll be noble," he says dryly. "There is the small matter of my fee. Killing superheroes is expensive. Ten million dollars, half in advance and the rest when I do the job."
She leans forward in her chair and steeples her fingers. "Six million, with two million paid in advance."
"Are you trying to insult me? I'm not your garden variety hitman. I'm the damn Hobgoblin!"
"You were the Hobgoblin. Without your equipment, you are a garden variety hitman. This city is infested with people like you. You're no better than a common street thug. But perhaps I can remedy that." She presses a button on the underside of her desk, and the wall behind her slides back to reveal a hidden room. She stands and gestures for him to look. He does and suppresses a gasp. His suit, his glider, his explosives, they're all there.
"What the --"
"I had Smythe duplicate and upgrade your equipment. The clothes, as they say, make the man. The suit is now impervious to most conventional weaponry. The glider is ten percent faster, and the blast radius of the bombs has been significantly improved. All this is yours to keep if you accept my offer." She bows her head, mock regretful. "Of course, if you refuse, I'm sure that there are plenty of people who would kill Spider-Man for a few million dollars and a chance to own all these lovely toys."
"No!" She's offering him a chance to become the Hobgoblin again. What's a few million dollars compared to that? He can rule the city this time, take down the Kingpin. Maybe he'll finish off the Osborn brat while he's at it, just for the headaches his old man has caused him. And, of course, he'll take care of Alisha and her father when he gets the chance. "You've got a deal. Any preferences on how you want this done?"
She smiles, a triumphant gleam in her eye. "As a matter of fact, I do have a plan. I happen to have an invitation to the social event of the season: a benefit gala at the Waldorf in two weeks I'm sure a party crasher of your caliber would attract attention from Spider-Man."
He bows mockingly. "It's a date."
Felicia hates benefits. Most of the guests will be socialites who think muscular dystrophy is a designer brand of shoes. The rest of them will be leading or well-connected scientists who will hound her and try to explain their funding proposals in technical gobbledygook that she only half-understands. There's little room for a genuinely concerned person who doesn't also happen to be a scientific genius at these gatherings, even if she is a Hardy. And, of course, the gossip columnists from the Post and even the Bugle will be out in force, searching for the merest hint of scandal -- or of nervous breakdowns from recently disappeared heiresses.
She hopes everything will go well with Harry tonight. She's not in love with him by any stretch of the imagination, but she does need an escort for tonight. Harry's not a wanted felon or a vampire; he doesn't even have the habit of breaking dates at the last minute or leaving for the flimsiest of reasons like Peter does. She supposes that it says something about her love life that that makes Harry better than ninety percent of the men she's dated. He's grown up the child of an influential parent too, and he should be used to uncomfortable questions by now. There are almost as many rumors about his father's disappearance as there are about hers. Everything will be fine.
She turns on the news. A grainy reproduction of Jason's mug shot fills the screen. "Police are still looking for escaped prisoner Jason Philip Macendale, who was convicted last year of --"
Felicia turns off the television. She doesn't want to hear anymore. She remembers the fury and the horror she felt when she realized that he loved her name and wealth far more than he ever loved her. She remembers, too, the pitying looks and whispered "poor dears" from everyone else when they found out what Jason was. Peter was the only one who hadn't treated her like a glass figurine. He'd taken her to The Coffee Bean and announced that he had a coupon for two cups of finely ground ristretto, her favorite. She hadn't had the heart to tell him that there was no such coupon available, and she knew he was paying for them out of his own money. All she could do was return the favor when he lost Mary Jane.
The phone rings."Felicia?" says the man on the other end of the line. At least, she thinks that's what he's saying. His speech is too garbled for her to be sure.
"Who is this?"
"H... Harry."
"Harry? What happened to you?"
"Nothing. I'm fine. Just haven't been sleeping well. I hate to spring this on you, but, um, I'm not going to be able to come to the fundraiser tonight. There something at one of the Oscorp labs that I need to look at. Sorry." He doesn't sound sorry.
"Are you sure you're all right? You don't sound like yourself."
"I'm fine," Harry snarls. "See you around." He hangs up.
Well, that makes it official: there are no reliable men left in New York City, except for Spider-Man. Pity that the muscular dystrophy benefit isn't a costume ball. Spider would be quite a hit. His grocery lists are probably more interesting than most of the conversation she'll endure tonight. If she didn't care so much, she would skip the benefit and spend the night fighting crime.
The intercom buzzes to life, interrupting her thoughts. "Peter Parker is downstairs," says the doorman. "He says he's here to return your book."
"Send him up." This is fate; it has to be. Peter understands medicalese. He can explain what the doctors at the benefit will be talking about and can translate it into English. He's not bad looking, exactly, and he can be funny and occasionally charming in his own science nerdesque way. Even his disappearing acts are by far the least of many evils. He'll be the perfect escort. All she needs to do is convince him of that.
She spends the next two minutes waiting for him to show up and thinking of ways to ask him to the benefit while making it clear that this is not a date. There's a knock at the door, and Peter is standing in the doorway. He clutches her dog-eared copy of The Count of Monte Cristo (in the original French, of course) and smiles at her. "Hi, Felicia. Thanks for loaning this to me. It was a lot less dry than what I read in high school." He holds it up to her.
She takes it and smiles mischievously. "Fascinated by the women cross-dressing, were we? You men are all the same."
He blushes. "I didn't say --"
She laughs. "I'm joking, Parker. Won't you come in?" He enters and sits down in one of the overstuffed chairs by the fire. She sits opposite him and tosses the book down on the table between them. The seconds tick by as she struggles for just the right opening. Peter leans forward in his chair and looks at her expectantly. The silence grows uncomfortable, which is ridiculous. She and Peter have known each other for years. He's the last person she should be uncomfortable with.
Maybe the direct approach would be best. "You wouldn't still happen to have the tuxedo you wore for my engagement party, would you?"
"Huh? I think it's in my closet somewhere. Probably smells like mothballs." His eyes narrow. "Why?"
"There's a benefit gala for the MDA tonight at the Waldorf. Harry was supposed to be my date for the evening, but he's canceled on me at the last moment. Would you like to go?" He stares at her. "Just as friends, of course."
Peter opens his mouth,then closes it again? "Me? Go with you? And to a black tie party? I mean, it was one thing to go to your engagement party. Nobody was interested in little old me. I'd be Page Six fodder in no time. I wouldn't even know what to say."
Peter Parker lost for words? She'll have to alert the papers. "These parties are all the same. Just pretend to listen while whoever it is prattles on about their second yacht or third marriage. That's what I do. Works like a charm." She gives him her best pleading look. "Please? I really need your help."
He chuckles. "I never could resist a damsel in distress. You have a deal."
"See you at eight."
She hasn't lied to Peter. This benefit is like a thousand other such gatherings of New York's rich and well-connected and their hangers-on. The same people having the same conversations they always have. Details have changed, of course. Several of the guests sport new spouses, not to mention gowns and tuxedos. Conversation is sprinkled with references to "poor sick people" instead of "poor Somalian refugees." Felicia sips her champagne. Once, she would have considered such things part of the natural order of the universe. Now, she finds these parties excruciatingly boring. They don't compare to the thrill of leaping from rooftop to rooftop or the satisfaction of foiling an armed robbery. They don't compare to working side by side with Spider-Man. Maybe she should make her excuses and have the Black Cat seek him out for an evening of crime fighting.
She checks herself. This benefit may be soul-crushingly monotonous, but they are doing real good here. How many people will the money they raise tonight help? A hundred? A thousand? More than an evening of tying up muggers at any rate. Sometimes it's easy to forget that.
Besides, leaving would mean abandoning Peter. He's been... twitchy all night, constantly glancing over his shoulder or at the doors and windows. It was as if he expected a bomb to go off at any moment "You're allowed to relax, you know."
"Sorry. Just afraid the fashion police will get me." He grins. "You're wearing some custom-tailored Versace gown, and I'm the guy with the tux he bought for forty percent off at Macy's." He grins. "It's probably illegal to be seen with you."
Peter's a horrible liar, but she'll play along just this once. "This gown's an Oscar de la Renta. You look great. I think the fashion police would only levy a small fine."
"Oh, yeah? What kind of fine?"
"You can explain what myoblast transfer therapy is, for starters. Dr. Michenko cornered me while you were in the bathroom. I just nodded and smiled while she explained her research proposal. She must think I'm another brainless heiress."
"Well, you're anything but brainless." He takes another gulp of his white wine. "I'm serious. Even when I tutored you in college, you always asked good questions."
She preens inwardly at the compliment. It's nice to be praised for something that isn't fleeting, like her beauty, or an accident of fate, like her wealth or even her powers. "Thanks, Parker."
Peter flinches and turns again, and this time Felicia follows his gaze. Silvermane's daughter stands behind them, wearing a silver evening gown and with her black hair swept up in an elegant topknot. "Well, well. If it isn't Peter Parker." Felicia grits her teeth. She hasn't forgotten the knockout gas or the indignity of being used as a hostage to get Spider-Man to capture the Scorpion. At least Peter doesn't look any happier to see her; a muscle twitches in his jaw. Silvermane's daughter is oblivious. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"
Peter grimaces. "Felicia Hardy, Alisha Silvers. Alisha Silvers, Felicia Hardy."
Felicia extends her hand. "Charmed, I'm sure." She almost corrects Peter as to Alisha's real last name, but she thinks better of it. That could invite uncomfortable questions about how she knows, questions that would be bad for her secret identity.
"Felicia Hardy? Peter has told me so much about you." She leans in confidentially, though Felicia notices that she still speaks loudly enough for Peter to hear. "Peter and I went out, once upon a time." Felicia gazes at Peter in disbelief. He shrugs by way of admission. It seems she isn't the only one who has lousy taste in relationships.
Alisha continues. "And of course that business with Jason Macendale has been all over the news. It must have been dreadful enough to find out that your fiancé was a supervillain, of all things. And then to find out that he's escaped? It must've been quite a shock. To hear the gossip columnists tell it, you really do have poor luck with men. What did you do, let a black cat cross your path?"
Felicia starts. She doesn't know. She can't. Changing into Black Cat changes everything about her: her voice, her hair, even her height. She and Alisha have never met as themselves before tonight. She can't have figured it out.
"Felicia can do a lot better than Jason." Felicia and Alisha both turn to look at Peter. He stands with his arms folded over his chest. His jaw is set, and there is an air of quiet certainty about him that reminds her of Spider just after he's taken down a particularly dangerous criminal. It's a good look for him. "Just you wait."
Alisha looks from Peter to Felicia and back again. She smiles, though there's nothing warm or pleasant about the way she's baring her teeth at them. "I see. I wish you all the luck in the world. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my date." And, with that, she's gone.
Peter exhales. "Well, that was awkward. I was really cheesy just now, wasn't I?"
"A bit." She sighs. "She's right, you know. I do have lousy luck with relationships."
"So do I," he says softly, and she knows he is thinking of Mary Jane.
Sometimes she wonders if all this could have been avoided. Suppose, for instance, that Peter had kept their date to go to that science exhibit all those years ago. She wouldn't have been outside waiting on him and had her purse snatched. Michael wouldn't have come along by chance and stopped the thief from getting away. She never would have gone out with him. Michael would have never tried to turn her into a vampire, or whatever it was that he had mutated into. Would a relationship with Peter have gone on long enough for her to avoid Jason's attentions? If Peter hadn't been going out with Mary Jane when the Green Goblin attacked, would he still have that haunted, wistful look in his eyes at odd moments? Maybe it would have worked between her and Peter and maybe it wouldn't have, but there's something to be said for a guy that she knows is decent. That's why she likes Spider-Man so much: he's a hero. He'll always do the brave and honorable thing. So will Peter, when he's not breaking dates at the last minute, but he's not usually as dramatic about it.
That's it. When this is over, she's finding Spider and asking him out to dinner, no masks. No more banter or innuendo or stealing kisses when he's not looking. She wants a real relationship with a real guy.
It takes her a moment to realize that Peter's still talking. "I think I might have met someone."
"Yes?" Well, so much for the rich and beautiful always solving their relationship problems before the rest of the world. She feels a twinge of jealousy and another emotion she prefers not to name. It's too much like regret.
"Yeah, she's --" Peter flinches. "Duck!"
Before she can ask what's going on, Peter throws her to the ground. Glass shatters somewhere nearby. For a moment, there is absolute silence. Then, screams, people running for cover: the universal sounds of panic. Familiar laughter fills the air. "My, my. It's been so long since I've seen any of you. Miss me?"
It can't be. She pulls herself into a sitting position, desperate to confirm that this issome kind of hallucination. It isn't. Jason, in full Hobgoblin regalia and with a broken window just behind him, hovers above the crowd on his glider. He laughs again. "Alas, catching up will have to wait. I have business to attend to." And with that, he draws a purple gun that looks like something her cousins use when they play space ranger. He fires.
Orange smoke spews forth. Her eyes water, and she gasps for breath. She hears Jason glide closer. "Don't worry folks. It'll wear off in a few minutes, after I get what I came for." Through the smoke she sees him swoop in and grab Peter. She tries to scream, but it comes out as a cough. Peter thrashes uselessly. Jason stabs something into his neck, and Peter stills.
"Felicia, my dear," Jason says with mock tenderness, "I would say that it was nice to see you again, except it isn't. I do apologize for interrupting your little soirée. Just business. You understand, don't you?"
She'd love to tell him what she thinks of that, but all that comes out is a choked, "Peter!"
"Oh, him? He's not dead. Yet." He shoves a piece of paper into her hand."If you ever want to see him again, tell Spider-Man to meet me at this address. She reaches out to stop him and grab Peter, but she clutches only air. "Twelve hours, Felicia. Twelve hours." The glider zooms away again.
The smoke clears soon afterward, and it's almost ridiculously easy to slip away in the chaos that follows. She changes into her costume and transforms. She can feel her bones lengthen, her muscles strengthen. She feels like a different person, and perhaps she is. Felicia Hardy is victimized by criminals and monsters; the Black Cat beats them up. Peter tried to rescue her once, on one of the many occasions that she was kidnapped. Now, she'll return the favor and rescue him. Well, technically, she and Spider-Man are going to rescue him, but it's the thought that counts.
Or it would if she could find Spider-Man. She searches the city for two hours, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. He's not in any of the usual places. There's an attempted jewelry store robbery that she has to foil all by herself, thank you very much, and he still doesn't show. Just when she was starting to think that he's one of the reliable ones. Peter's supposed to be one of his friends -- he lets him take those pictures, at any rate -- and he picks now not to show up? Maybe she doesn't know Spider-Man as well as she thought.
She checks the address again. It's right in the middle of the Meatpacking District. It would take her less than half an hour to get there if she hurries. She can rescue Peter herself. Every girl dreams of knocking her ex-boyfriend's teeth down his throat, and it looks like she's going to get the chance to make the dream a reality.
Peter wakes to the smell of grease. His head feels like someone took a chisel to it and decided to carve out the Ten Commandments. Something cold and metal bites into his wrists. Handcuffs. Gradually, his headache subsides, and his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. He's in a abandoned warehouse that looks like it was ripped straight from Supervillainy for Dummies. Unmarked cardboard boxes are stacked to the ceiling. The steel beams holding the place up are partially corroded. One good puff would blow them down. Lovely.
Hobgoblin comes into view. He leers at Peter. "Finally awake, I see. You were out so long that I was beginning to wonder if I'd misjudged the dosage and killed you after all. Not to worry. As soon as your pal Spider-Man shows up, I'm going to kill you both."
"And what makes you think he'll show up? He hates me, thinks I'm some snooping kid with a camera." Peter makes a show of working the handcuffs. He could break them, but that would mean letting the reject from a Halloween party know who he is. He'll have to get Hobgoblin to leave somehow, so he can do his patented quick-change. "You'll have to hunt him down."
Hobgoblin chuckles. It's scarier than his usual full-blown maniacal laughter. "Oh, I don't think so. Heroes are so predictable. Spider-Man will come charging in here like the Lone Ranger to rescue the innocent in distress. Why should I do all that legwork when he'll come right to me?"
So much for the obvious approach. It hasn't been his night. His spider-sense went off at the gala more times than he could count. He assumed that Alisha caused it (or the dozens of Fortune 500 types in attendance terrified that Uncle Sam would find out about their secret stash in the Cayman Islands, take your pick), and he hadn't seen the real danger until it was too late. And he'd been having such a nice time with Felicia, too. He'll have to make this up to her when he gets free.
There's a flash of movement near the window. "Looks like Felicia delivered my message." Hobgoblin jumps onto his glider. "I'm going to enjoy blowing that mask off Spider-Man's face."
"Will I do instead?" A black and white blur -- the Black Cat, he realizes with a mixture of joy and terror -- somersaults through the window and lands directly in front of the Hobgoblin. She studies him. "I must say, I was expecting someone impressive, not a low rent Joker knock off."
He snarls. "I'll show you low rent!" He charges her, trying to pin her between the glider and the wall. She dives to one side and leaps onto the wall. "You're not bad. Who are you?"
"Just a stray cat Spider-Man picked up." She leaps off the wall and plants a kick to Hobgoblin's midsection. He tumbles off the glider. Peter smiles. Looks like I made the right call on the whole partner thing. Hobgoblin growls and flings one of his pumpkin bombs at her. Cat somersaults away, and it explodes nearly harmlessly into the wall.
Peter has never seen Cat fight so well. She seems to be half a move ahead of Hobgoblin at all times. And to think he used to believe that the guy was actually a threat. He debates slipping away. They probably won't even notice that he's gone, what with all the exploding and crashing and stuff. On the other hand, they might, and then he'll have to deal with Cat discovering his secret identity, too. As much as he likes her (and possibly, eventually, other things beginning with the letter "l"), this isn't how he wants her to discover his secret identity. Not to mention the small matter of Hobby finding out along with her. So, he sits back and watches her beat him up.
They're circling each other now, like a pair of wary lions. Cat punches him in the face. He winces. "I take back what I said. You're really good. Every good crime boss needs a second-in-command. You can be mine. I can triple what Spider-Man's paying you."
"I work for free."
"Women! No sense of priorities. You're all alike, you know that?" Cat goes for another punch; Hobgoblin dodges her this time. "I knew this girl -- was engaged to her, actually -- always giving away money to cure this disease or build that homeless shelter. I tried to tell her that money was meant to be enjoyed, that those other poor slobs didn't deserve anything, but she wouldn't listen to me. I'll let you in on a little secret." His voice drops to a whisper. "She was a sap like all the rest, weak as water. Probably at home crying right now."
And that is precisely the wrong thing to say. Cat charges him, pinning him between her body and one of the support beams. She wraps one hand around his throat and squeezes. Hard. "Shut up!"
Hobgoblin chokes and splutters. "Trouble... breathing... here. Let go."
Her eyes flash. "I don't think so, you creep."
"What? But you're... supposed to let... police handle..."
The rage fades from her eyes. She releases Hobgoblin and steps back. He slumps to the ground, coughing. "You're right. I should let the police take care of you." She turns to Peter. "Let's go."
Peter's spider-sense goes off again. "Cat!"
He's too late. She's turned her back on Hobgoblin for a moment, and that's all he needs to regain his footing and tackle her. He uses his momentum to flip her over and straddle her. She thrashes. "Nuh-uh," he says, drawing the gun he'd used earlier. "This baby does so much more than deliver knockout gas. It can also blast through solid rock -- or your face, as the case may be. You're strong enough to throw me off. But are you fast enough to do it before I fire? That's the question."
Time slows. Peter can feel the blood pound in his ears. Cat would be fast enough... probably. There was a ninety-eight percent chance that she could stop Hobgoblin before he fires that gun in her face. That, of course, leaves a two percent chance that she'll fail. He, on the other hand, could break his handcuffs and leap on Hobgoblin before he even knew what happened. So, the question is: is his secret identity worth more than a two percent chance that the Black Cat might die?
It's the easiest decision he ever made. She matters to him, matters in a way that no one else has since he lost Mary Jane. He's sick of losing people. He's going to save her, come what may. He snaps the cuffs and leaps across the room and knocks Hobgoblin off Felicia. Hobgoblin goes flying, and lands on the floor with a grunt. He looks at Peter, disbelief in his eyes. "How did you do that? The only man I've ever seen do anything like that is --"
Cat gets it first. She's more than disbelieving; she's shocked. "Peter? You're Spider-Man?"
No point in denying it now. "I also cook."
Hobgoblin picks himself off the floor and laughs. "Who would have thought? The huge thorn in my side was only a nerdy little photographer. Oh well, doesn't matter." He points the gun at Peter. "This gun works just as well on insects as people. This ends now, Spider-Man!"
He fires. A yellow beam of light spews out. Peter dodges just in time. He can feel the heat when the laser passes by his head. The laser, unlike the bomb, does not hit the wall. The three of them watch in horror as it cuts through one of the already-rotting support beams. It's going to collapse within moments, and it's going to take the ceiling with it.
He feels Cat take him into her arms. She looks at Hobgoblin, visibly struggling with herself before offering her hand. "You too."
"Not on your life!" He runs toward the glider.
She shrugs and returned her attention to Peter. "May I do the honors?" He nods hurriedly. She shoots a cable from her wrist and swings up and out through the window. The sound of explosions ring in his ears.
An hour later, Peter sits on a nearby roof, watching the assembled mass of firemen and other rescue personnel. This part always leaves him feeling a little hollow. Superheroes are great at saving the day, not so great at picking up the pieces afterwards. That requires the ordinary sort of hero, it seems.
Cat leaps back on to the roof. "Well?" he asks.
"He didn't make it out." She shakes her head. "A huge chunk of debris fell on him. He's not dead, but the paramedics are saying but it looks like brain injury he sustained is severe enough that he'll be lucky to ever remember his own name." She sits down beside him, not quite touching. "Your secret is safe."
Conflicting emotions claw at him. They ought to have saved Hobgoblin, made sure he got away. It's what they do, what he does. On the other hand, Peter will never have to worry that the madman will show up at Aunt May's door. The thought makes him feel even more guilty.
They sit in silence for a long moment. After what seems like an eternity, Cat speaks. For the first time since he's known her, the edge of flirtation has gone from her voice. "Speaking of your secret, we need to talk."
He sighs. She's right, but he dreads it all the same. So far, people seem to like either Spidey or Peter, but never both. Flash's one of Spider-Man's biggest fans, but it never stopped him from making Peter's life a living hell. A small part of him insists that she can't possibly be interested in the science geek, only the superhero, and he should count himself lucky that she hasn't vomited in sheer disgust. "What do you want to know?"
"Nothing. It's just...you're Spider-Man? I never would have guessed." Here it comes. He steels himself for what is certain to follow. She laughs, but it's not the kind of laughter he expects. It's not bitter or scornful. Cat guffaws. "Of course! I'm an idiot for not realizing it sooner. It explains everything: why you always disappear, how you get those photos." She smiles slightly. "And it makes everything so much easier."
"Huh?" She knows him that much is clear. "What do you mean?"
The smile grows. "Why don't I show you? Fair's fair, after all." She removes her mask. He watches in amazement as she becomes slimmer and shorter, as her hair shrinks to shoulder length. She looked at him. "Hello again, Peter."
Peter opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Felicia is the Black Cat. Felicia is the Black Cat. Oh, God. Felicia Hardy, the heiress he once prayed would notice him, has saved him. It seems impossible that she who has always been the rescuee and never the rescuer is a superhero. Yet, here she is. She looks at him expectantly, and he realizes that she is awaiting a response. "How?" he rasps.
She tells him, about the super soldier serum and the training her father hastily gave her and all the rest of the whole sordid story. When she tells him how Kingpin and Landon used her as a guinea pig for their little experiment, he feels a fierce, hot rage snake inside him. He's always suspected that the Black Cat was a prototype for their little army, but the confirmation that they used her like that makes him want to eviscerate them. How dare they ever hurt Felicia? He crushes her to him, and she does not resist. He brushes his lips against her. Later, if she lets him, he will do more, when he's not sweaty and exhausted and they haven't almost died -- again. She returns the embrace and there's nothing more wonderful in the world than holding and being held.
"Peter," Felicia murmurs after a long while. "You said at the party that you might have found someone. What's she like?" There's a hint of a smile on her face and Peter knows that she's fishing for compliments. Not that he minds.
He grins despite himself. "Well, she drives like a maniac and she has this horrible habit of taking things that aren't hers. Maybe I could tell you more over dinner."
"Maybe you could." She kisses him lightly. "Maybe you could."
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No point in denying it now. "I also cook."
Vintage Parker. I loved all the slow build-up going on here. Took me back to my misspent youth.
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