You can't control shit.
Not timelines. Not canon. Not even a teenager with guilt issues and genius IQ.
It was pretty simple, but true nonetheless, there was simply no way a single man could ensure events transpired the way he wanted, the way he thought they should because some movie, cartoon or colored pages said they would.
No matter how much foresight you had, how many comics you memorized, or how hard you tried to nudge things just-so, there would always be some cosmic toddler yanking the tablecloth just to see how many dishes would break.
First, it was the Maspeth job. It paid off, sure. But it also made him lay low for two whole weeks, doing jack except tweaking some algorithms and eating through his protein-heavy stash like a raccoon on bulk day. Then the infamous Oscorp visit, that staple of every Spider-Man origin worth its salt? Didn't happen.
Just… didn't.
Empire State University had hosted the presentation this time. Not Oscorp. Not Norman Osborn with his discount Dracula aesthetic.
Just Dr. Curt Connors and his suspiciously green-tinted PowerPoint presentation on genetic editing through radioactive vectors…at least that's how Ethan imagined it, Gwen would probably fill him in later.
Ethan had been at home. Nursing a pulled muscle and watching reruns of Jeopardy!
Peter, however? Peter had been there.
Which meant, Peter got bit.
And Ethan missed it.
He didn't get to pocket the spider. Didn't get to clone it, study it, figure out whether it was mystical, scientific, or just one big cosmic joke. One moment Peter was just a stressed-out STEM student with a tragic backstory pending, and the next, he was looking a little too comfortable sticking to walls.
But whatever, there was still Uncle Ben.
Still a canonical turning point. Still a cosmic road sign saying, "Here Be Trauma."
When Uncle Ben–and yes he called him that, no he wouldn't elaborate, came face to face with a confused mugger with a gun…it was time to see if there was truly such a thing as a canon event.
Just a mere pulse of power from two hundred meters away making sure the trigger would stay put no matter how hard little Dennis Carradine pressed.
So were canon events a thing? Yesn't.
Ethan's little stunt worked, sort of, no shots were fired but Ben Parker still went down.
Ethan put the final nail in the continuity's coffin, at least as far as the friendly neighborhood spider-man was concerned, but he could still work with the information on people's character, their powers and personalities and general affiliations.
Uncle Ben wasn't dead.
Though the American healthcare system would make him wish he was, it would be nice if some Italian kid with a gun had something to say about it…meh, it's not important.
He wasn't dead, but he wasn't getting up.
Paralyzed from the waist down. Nerve damage. Incomplete spinal injury. Whatever the phrasing, the result was the same.
Hospital bills. Rehab. Modified home. Financial ruin in slow motion.
Ethan saw opportunity.
At that point, it was only a matter of maximizing his gains and planning around the variations.
Not because he wanted to. Not because he was some mustache-twirling villain eager to exploit a tragedy. But because he understood reality.
Peter needed a job.
And Ethan needed Peter.
He needed what Peter's mind could build, break down, repurpose. Not in five years. Not when he got a degree. Now. When he was still moldable, hungry, and too desperate to question a generous offer.
And Peter was working already.
They had an arrangement.
Two thousand dollars upfront, no questions asked. Peter's hands had trembled when he took the envelope. Ethan told him it was a retainer. Told him he'd need help with his "start-up ideas." A catch-all term that made it sound hip, legal, and harmless.
It was mostly legal. Mostly harmless. But not nearly as simple as Peter probably thought.
He wasn't building nukes or hacking the Pentagon. He was writing code. Fine-tuning scripts. Testing apps. Designing little widgets that Ethan barely looked at but knew would sell if he wrapped them right.
And that was the game.
Bullshit games, Online productivity tools. Niche utility apps. Browser extensions that tracked digital habits and gamified homework productivity.
Nothing huge. Nothing flashy. But early enough to get the worm.
Peter built a lightweight note-taking tool that synced across devices, stripped of bloat, clean interface, perfect for ADHD-addled teenagers who needed structure but hated planners.
Ethan gave it a name, paid a freelancer to design a logo, and uploaded it to the App Store under a dummy LLC. It started selling. Slowly, sure, but real money that wasn't touched by creepy crooks.
Pocket money. Gas money. Rent money if it scaled.
The next week, Peter wrote a Python script that scraped ticket resale data and predicted pricing trends. Ethan pitched it as a research tool for "investment-minded concertgoers."
It was a dumb lie. But it sold.
Every time Peter handed him a new project, Ethan handed him cash.
Not enough to be suspicious. But enough to feel it.
"You don't need to pay me this much," Peter had said one night, eyes flicking toward the envelope Ethan slid across the table.
They were sitting in a cramped corner of a Dunkin' Donuts, wi-fi shaky, surrounded by fluorescent lights and the smell of burnt sugar.
"Yes I do," Ethan had replied, and left it at that.
Because it wasn't just about paying Peter.
It was about owning just enough of his time and attention that he didn't give it to someone else. Ethan couldn't compete with Tony Stark. But Stark wasn't here, and Ethan was.
Besides, Peter didn't need a genius mentor. He needed a business partner. A quiet backer. Someone who would say yes instead of "let's optimize the arc reactor" every time he made something weird and brilliant.
The biggest win came a few days ago, Peter sent Ethan the beta for a plug-in that used optical character recognition to convert whiteboard scribbles into formatted LaTeX code in real time.
Nerd bait. Pure, unapologetic nerd bait.
And it worked.
Ethan had put together a website for it overnight—midnight black background, smooth animations, sleek branding. The tagline was garbage ("From Chalk to Code: Fast."), but the demo video was slick.
He slapped on a ten-dollar-a-month subscription and pushed it to a couple forums under fake usernames.
Within hours, they had a hundred sign-ups.
Peter didn't know that yet.
Ethan wasn't hiding it, he just hadn't brought it up. Not because he didn't plan to share the profits (he did), but because he wanted to see how far this could go before Peter realized his side gig had real teeth.
They worked together like that. Quietly. Odd hours. A few texts, a Document here, some shared code there. Nothing formal. No contracts. But Ethan had drafted one already. Just in case. A first-bite clause. A profit-sharing agreement.
Something ironclad for when Peter got curious.
Or when he invented something too big to be casual.
Still, there were moments that tugged at Ethan.
Like the time Peter apologized, actually apologized, for not delivering a prototype on time because Aunt May had to pick up another shift and he had to stay home with Ben.
Like it was some personal failure.
Like Ethan was a boss.
"Don't sweat it," Ethan had said. "He's family."
Peter had blinked at that.
"Yeah," he'd murmured. "He is."
Those moments made Ethan feel like a bastard. But he didn't stop. Because deep down, he knew this was the only version of Peter Parker that didn't burn out trying to carry the whole world on his back.
Also, it felt pretty good.
No wrestling gigs. No stolen suits. Just quiet work. Brain work. Work that paid.
Sure, the spider bite changed things, and it was only a matter of time before Pete put on a mask and his aunt's tights and started swinging around the city reducing the crime rate.
It was coming.
Ethan could feel it.
And when it did, when Peter finally snapped and put on a mask, Ethan would still be there. Not to stop him. Not even to steer him. But to make sure whatever came next worked in his favor.
For now, though, it was enough to get dinner delivered, apps shipped, and Peter home by nine.
It wasn't heroic.
But it worked.
'I wonder how Jameson will do without Peter playing both sides for a few bucks…' Ethan smirked, things were getting interesting.
Perhaps too interesting.
"–Tony Stark went missing." He heard the report from someone's laptop and promptly stopped all his work, thoughts and processes to express an important opinion.
"Shit"
Author's Note:
If you're enjoying the story and want to read ahead or support my work, you can check out my P@treon at [email protected]/LordCampione. But don't worry—all chapters will eventually be public. Just being here and reading means the world to me. Thank you for your time and support.