Chapter 15: "Of Science, Serums, and Surrogate Dads"
(In which Peter returns to the hallowed halls of higher learning, runs into a familiar face, and reflects on the people who shaped him.)
Peter's first real swing through the city wasn't just cool—it was game-changing.
Skyscrapers zipped past in a blur. Sirens blared, wind rushed through his hair, and the occasional pigeon decided to test his reflexes. But beyond the adrenaline, there was something else building inside him—awareness.
Every web he shot, every thug he knocked out, every "you're welcome" he tossed to someone after saving their dog from traffic—it all mattered.
Because being a superhero wasn't just about stopping crime.
It was about being seen doing it.
He knew that sounded a little egotistical, but think about it—Sentry was stronger than a hundred Spideys stacked on top of each other, but nobody liked the guy. He floated above the people like a god no one could relate to.
And the Hulk?
Poor guy just wanted to smash some snacks and be left alone, but every time he so much as sneezed, a building crumbled and half of New York called the National Guard.
Peter didn't want that kind of life.
He wanted the people to see him and say,
"There goes Spidey. He helped me carry groceries once."
"Spider-Man webbed my grandma's purse snatcher to a streetlamp."
"He posed with my cat. Coolest dude ever."
Because trust wasn't built through fear or mystery—it was built through connection.
So yeah, Peter joked with kids. He posed for selfies. He made old ladies laugh and flirted shamelessly with fire escapes when no one was around to hear it.
Because when the day came that a villain tried to turn the public against him—tried to frame him, expose him, or smear his name—Peter didn't want to face a skeptical city.
He wanted to face a crowd shouting,
"LEAVE SPIDEY ALONE!"
That was the real secret to heroism: being human first, super second.
And Peter?
Peter Parker was really, really good at being human.
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The moment Peter Parker walked through the front gates of Empire State University, reality hit him like a pop quiz he forgot to study for.
Gone were the skyscrapers and rooftop glory. Gone was the dramatic city-swinging, the web-flipping, the heroic smackdowns.
Now? Now it was fluorescent lights, outdated hallway posters, and the distant smell of cafeteria mystery meat.
College.
Peter sighed, adjusting his backpack and trying to look like he hadn't just broken seven laws of physics in the past hour.
As he turned the corner—dodging a group of students arguing about particle acceleration vs. magic mushrooms in multiverse theory—he spotted a familiar figure: a tall, gentle man carefully balancing what looked like a paper mountain.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Connors!" Peter called out, jogging over.
Curt Connors looked up from his avalanche of academic stress and gave a warm smile.
"Afternoon, Peter. Skipping morning classes again?" he asked, though his tone was more amused than accusatory.
"I was helping a friend with her…uh…energy projection problems," Peter said casually, taking half the stack of papers from the good doctor's one arm. "You know. Very hands-on stuff."
Connors chuckled. "Just make sure you keep yourself intact. I don't want my best lab assistant turning into a combustion case."
They started walking together, their steps echoing through the tiled halls.
Connors wasn't just a professor. He was the kind of guy who made science feel like magic without the wands or glittery explosions. His passion for research, especially regenerative biology, was legendary.
And so was his story.
A former battlefield surgeon, Connors had once saved lives with a scalpel. Until a warzone explosion took his right arm, forcing him to trade operating tables for lab benches.
But instead of breaking, he transformed—not unlike the creatures he studied. Inspired by lizards' regenerative abilities, Connors poured his soul into a dream: creating a serum to help amputees regrow lost limbs.
To most, that sounded impossible. To Connors, it was just Tuesday.
Peter had admired him from the moment they met—on a middle school field trip, no less. While other kids oohed at beakers and petri dishes, Peter had stayed behind to ask the weird questions. The ones about ethics and DNA and whether a gecko's tail could regrow with a mohawk.
Connors had answered every one of them with patience and curiosity. He saw something in Peter that day—and Peter, in turn, saw the kind of mentor he didn't know he needed.
Over the years, they had grown close. Not quite father and son, but something adjacent. Connors would never say it, but he quietly made sure Peter had access to the lab, research tools, and even grant-funded sandwiches from the faculty fridge.
Peter never asked. Connors never mentioned it. That's just the kind of guy he was.
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There are few things that could make Peter Parker willingly carry fifty pounds of research papers down a hallway without grumbling.
Dr. Connors announcing that the serum worked?
Yeah, that was definitely one of them.
"No way," Peter said, adjusting the stack in his arms like an overworked intern at a paper mill. "It worked? Like, it actually worked?"
Connors nodded, his eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning—if that kid also had a PhD and traumatic lab memories involving giant reptiles.
"Yes. The new variant triggered full limb regeneration in the mice—no side effects, stable cellular growth. It's… promising."
Peter blinked, stunned.
Then—before he could stop himself—he reached over with one free arm and hugged Dr. Curt Connors.
Hugged.
It wasn't a bro hug. It wasn't a side-hug. It was a full "I believe in you, mad scientist" embrace.
"I'm proud of you, Doc. That's amazing," Peter said, grinning.
Connors blinked in surprise but chuckled warmly. "Thank you, Peter. Just… try not to squeeze too hard. I'm still a civilian."
Peter laughed, pulling back with the awkward grace of someone who just realized he might've committed a PDA violation in a university hallway.
"Right, right—no pressure. Especially on the ribcage."
"Will you be joining us in the lab today?" Connors asked, clearly delighted.
"Wouldn't miss it," Peter said. "We're finally close. You might just be the first person in history to make regenerative medicine work without turning into Godzilla."
Connors gave a dry chuckle. "Let's hope so. I've already tried the lizard route once."
With a friendly nod, Connors headed into the lecture hall.
Peter followed close behind, setting the stack of documents carefully on the front desk. He flexed his arms once, subtly checking for papercut damage. So far, so good. Still alive.
As he made his way to his usual seat, he caught sight of Gwen Stacy, seated near the window.
She wore her usual clean-cut look—white headband, casual jeans, and a notebook already open like she was halfway through writing the next Nobel Prize speech.
When she saw him, she waved.
Peter felt his stomach do a tiny flip.
Not the backflip kind, but the gentle roller-coaster dip you get when someone cool actually remembers your name.
He waved back, sliding into the seat beside her.
"Hey," he said, trying not to sound like someone who just dropkicked six gangsters before breakfast.
"Hey," Gwen replied, smiling. "You're late."
Peter tilted his head. "Time is a social construct."
"Biology class isn't."
"Touche."
She raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess—you were helping an old lady cross the street, save a cat from a tree, and rewrite quantum mechanics?"
Peter chuckled. "Two out of three. I'll let you guess which ones."
As the professor began the lecture, Peter leaned back slightly, a small smile still tugging at the edge of his lips.
The serum was working. Gwen was talking to him.
And nobody had tried to shoot him in the last ten minutes.
Yeah…
It was going to be a good day.
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Peter hadn't even had time to pull out a pen before Gwen Stacy turned toward him with the expression of someone about to drop a very specific bomb.
"I didn't know you were close to the professor," she said, chin resting on her hand like this was some rom-com study session and not biology class.
Peter blinked, trying not to smile. "I've known him since high school."
That got her attention. Gwen sat up straighter, her eyes lighting with interest like she'd just found a secret cheat code.
"Really? Then could you put in a word for me?" she asked, tapping her notebook. "I want to be his lab assistant. Learn from him directly."
Peter chuckled under his breath. "Have you tried talking to him?"
"I did," Gwen sighed dramatically, crossing her arms like she was settling in for a rant. "He told me, 'Not yet. You haven't shown anything special to warrant such attention.'" She even mimicked Connors' calm professor voice, which was either deeply accurate or suspiciously practiced.
Peter smirked. "Yeah, that sounds like him. He doesn't just take anyone. You gotta impress him."
"I'm trying, okay?" she said, exasperated but clearly amused. "I just need a chance."
Peter leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil thoughtfully. "Give it a month. If he doesn't cave by then, maybe I'll nudge him."
Gwen narrowed her eyes. "That better not be favoritism."
"Only if you bribe me with coffee," Peter deadpanned.
"Done," she said without missing a beat. "Iced vanilla latte. Extra shot. No judgment."
Peter pretended to consider. "You know what? That's a tempting offer."
Gwen grinned. "I knew it. You're corruptible."
"Only for caffeine and academic ambition."
The two shared a quiet laugh, drawing a curious glance from a student up front. But Peter wasn't paying attention to the rest of the class. His brain was getting sidetracked.
By her.
Not in a crush way—okay maybe a little—but more in that this girl is way cooler than I expected way. Gwen had always been the calm, collected type from afar. Now that he was sitting next to her? She was… sharp. Witty. A little competitive. The kind of girl who could match him line for line and enjoy it.
And that smile…
Peter looked away.
"Why are you so interested in my head?" he asked, more curious than defensive.
Gwen shrugged. "I've read your articles. The stuff you published in the school journals? You're kind of a genius."
Peter rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the blush start to creep in. "You're gonna make me blush if you keep praising me like that."
"Oh no," Gwen gasped playfully. "The mighty Parker's weakness—compliments!"
Peter rolled his eyes, grinning. "You're really different from what I expected too."
"Oh yeah?" Gwen said, clearly intrigued. "And what did you expect?"
Peter smirked. "I thought you'd be a serious, no-fun science queen. Intimidating and emotionally unavailable."
Gwen mock gasped again, placing a hand on her chest like a Victorian lady. "Peter Benjamin Parker! How dare you?"
"Just saying. I was wrong."
"You bet you were," she said, smiling proudly. "I'm amazing."
Peter chuckled. "Never judge a book by its cover."
"I know," Gwen replied, eyes twinkling. "But sometimes the cover has resting genius face."
Peter gave her a sideways look. "Yeah, okay. That one's fair."
Just then, the professor walked in, setting down his bag with the slow precision of someone about to launch an educational assault.
Peter nudged Gwen gently with his elbow. "Now shh, class is starting."
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Gwendolyne Maxine Stacy wasn't the kind of girl who swooned.
She wasn't looking for Prince Charming, wasn't the "get saved" type, and definitely wasn't waiting for anyone to define her. Being the daughter of NYPD Captain George Stacy meant she knew how to read people—lies, tension, fear, power—it was second nature. By age twelve, she was already side-eyeing high school boys and mentally filing them into folders labeled "Too Dumb," "Too Loud," and "Too Horny to Function."
But Peter Parker?
He was none of those.
Gwen had heard of him long before she met him. His name popped up at every science symposium like some teenage Einstein with attitude. Articles. Inventions. Theories. Her favorite was his piece on cross-dimensional oscillation—a theory so absurd it circled back to genius. Most students she met bragged about parties or internships. Peter? He wrote about manipulating gravity in your garage.
And when she finally saw him?
Yeah, he was definitely not what she expected.
Sure, he was smart. That much was obvious from the way he casually talked through equations like he was explaining how to make toast. But then there was the sarcasm. The relaxed energy. The half-smirk like he was always in on a joke you hadn't heard yet.
And okay—she'd noticed his arms.
No shame.
For a "nerd," the guy was built. Thick forearms, strong shoulders, and a posture that didn't scream 'science club' as much as 'maybe I secretly train by punching robots.'
'Not bad,' she thought, stealing another casual glance as Peter jotted something down in his notebook. 'Definitely not bad.'
Of course, she wasn't about to start doodling his name in hearts. Gwen wasn't a fool.
She'd never had a boyfriend—not because she wasn't interested, but because no one had ever been interesting. The jocks bored her. The popular boys were all performance. And the average guys got so nervous around her she could practically hear their internal Windows XP errors going off.
But Peter?
He teased back. He didn't stutter or shrink. He treated her like a person, not a prize. And when he told her he wasn't going to pull favors for her lab application?
She respected that.
Besides, she was no pushover. Her dad had trained her for the real world. Gwen had a black belt in karate, a baton in her bag, pepper spray on her keychain, and the willpower to break a man's kneecap if he ever tried something stupid.
But Peter wasn't stupid.
No—he was different.
And that was what made her lips twitch into a smile as the professor began class.
Because maybe—just maybe—this semester was going to be a lot more fun than she'd planned.