… Aidan Quinn
The place we picked was just a corner café. The kind that smells like stale waffles, has dirty windows, and plays background music that's always three seconds out of sync with reality. The kind of spot that, in any comic book, would be where people whisper secrets while pretending the table next to them isn't loudly arguing about the latest zombie show.
It's perfect.
I got there first, which already meant something was seriously off in the universe. I had on a light jacket, hood down, and my coffee half-finished.
Gwen showed up next, with MJ.
They looked… normal.
Which, in their case, meant gorgeous, put-together, and with eyes sharp enough to cut me in half if they wanted to. Which also meant I had to choose my words carefully.
Peter came in last, hesitant as always. Like every step he took needed permission from gravity and fate.
But he came.
Which meant he understood why I called this, even if I'd been pretty vague about it.
We all sat down. Four people facing each other like a ticking emotional time bomb.
I stayed quiet for a few seconds, then took a deep breath.
"Alright. Let's cut to it."
Three pairs of eyes locked on me. Peter looked uncomfortable. Gwen, tense. MJ… MJ sat there with her arms crossed, staring at me like a judge waiting for the verdict.
"First off," I said, leaning forward on the table, "I owe you an apology."
MJ raised an eyebrow, suspicious.
Gwen just pressed her lips together.
Peter stayed silent.
"Not for what I did," I clarified, already knowing I had to spell it out. "But for what you went through because of me. Because you were too close when someone decided to use me as a target."
MJ crossed her arms tighter.
"You knew this could happen?"
"No. But I should've thought about it. I underestimated how much attention I was already pulling in, and you two… got caught in the middle of it."
Gwen glanced sideways, like she wanted to say something but was waiting for MJ first.
And, of course, MJ went in.
"You could've told us about your powers. About who you really were."
"Yeah, I could've. But honestly, MJ…" I looked at her. "I didn't think I had to. Powers or no powers, I'm still me."
"But you dragged us into this," Gwen said softly. "And we almost died."
I let out a slow breath. Guilt was there, sure. Gnawing at some corner of my stone-cold heart. But if I was the type to second-guess my choices, I'd be a completely different person than the one sitting here.
"And I expressed my displeasure about that to them. Don't worry."
Peter finally broke his silence, voice low and nervous.
"So… that really was you. The portals, the explosions, the news…?"
"Who else would it be? Doctor Doom? On a Monday?"
"But why am I here?" Peter asked, frowning.
"Because you could've been a target too. You hang out with them, with MJ, with Gwen. You're part of the same circle and, more than that…"
I turned to him fully now, letting the pause hang before finishing.
"… I wanted you to see the choices they'd make, knowing my 'reasons.'"
That was as far as I could go without outing him directly.
My last — and maybe first — gesture of goodwill toward the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
… Peter Parker
Hearing Aidan talk like that — so direct, so raw, so exposed — was like getting sucker-punched in the gut. One he didn't even see coming.
Peter felt the air leave his lungs, even though nobody touched him. The discomfort didn't come from Aidan's words themselves, but from the contrast. The casual coldness with which he laid it all out. Like saying "I have powers" was no different than commenting on the weather. Like dealing with consequences, danger, and exposure was just another item on his to-do list.
Peter stayed quiet through the whole conversation. The kind of silence that doesn't come from peace, but from overload. His brain was spinning, trying to keep up with every word, every nuance, every gesture — and still always ending up one step behind.
Aidan didn't hesitate once. He talked about powers, consequences, the kidnapping. He apologized — not for his choices, but for what they caused. The kind of apology that felt almost impersonal. Like he understood there was pain, but had already accepted it as the cost of living his way.
And the weirdest part?
MJ and Gwen didn't freak out.
No tears, no yelling, no dramatic storm-outs. None of the nightmare reactions Peter had always imagined when he thought about confessing his own secret. Sure, there was shock. Some silence. But… that was it.
And that messed with him.
More than he wanted to admit.
More than he thought he could handle.
When MJ left — her eyes locked on some invisible point, like she was replaying the kidnapping on a loop — it was just him and Gwen left.
Just the two of them, sitting at the same table, drowning in a silence way heavier than before.
Peter didn't look straight at her. His eyes wandered around the busy café, following customers as if pretending to be calm, while his chest tightened with every breath.
But Aidan's words echoed.
"Hiding doesn't protect anyone forever."
And it was true.
How many times had he hidden behind the mask, thinking it was the right thing? Believing lies equaled protection. That silence meant safety.
But if someone found out — when someone found out — the price wouldn't just fall on him. It would fall on the people he loved most. The people he wanted to protect.
And they'd never have the chance to prepare. To choose.
Was hiding the truth really protecting them?
Or just leaving them defenseless in the dark?
Peter took a deep breath. His heart hammered.
He already knew the answer. Deep down, he always had. Pretending otherwise had just been easier.
"Gwen…" he said, voice lower than he meant.
She turned, eyes sharp, her body shifting toward him slowly, like she could feel something important coming.
"You remember when… when we'd talk about secrets? And I'd always dodge it?"
She raised an eyebrow but answered with that gentle care so typical of her.
"I remember. You'd joke, change the subject… like you panicked at the idea of even touching the topic."
He gave a short laugh. One of those hollow ones with no humor in it.
"Sorry about that. For lying, for hiding— whatever you wanna call it. I thought I was protecting everyone."
She didn't say anything. She just waited, patient.
"But that's not how it works. Hiding doesn't stop bad things from happening. It just stops people from being ready for them."
The silence that followed was sharp.
"I'm Spider-Man."
And…
Saying it was easier than he expected. Like lifting off an invisible weight.
Gwen froze a second longer than he liked. She blinked a few times, staring at him. Her brow furrowed slightly, like the words got in but her brain was still double-checking if it was a joke.
"You're serious?"
"Yes."
This time he met her eyes. No dodging, no sugarcoating.
That was his responsibility — as Peter.
"I'm Spider-Man. I didn't tell you because I thought keeping you in the dark would keep you safe. But after what happened to you and MJ, and after what Aidan said, I realized hiding the truth might be the thing that puts you in the most danger."
Gwen was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Did Aidan know?"
Peter hesitated, then nodded.
"I never told him. But… I'm pretty sure he's known for a while."
She dragged a hand down her face, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh.
"So… it really was you that day on the bridge. And during the restaurant attack?"
Peter nodded slowly.
"I thought I was losing my mind…" she muttered, mostly to herself. Then she looked back at him. "Why tell me now?"
Peter took another deep breath.
"Because I still want to be Peter. Not just Spider-Man. And for that, the people who matter most to me need to know who I am. What I am. And if that means I'll have to fight harder, protect more… I'll accept it."
She didn't answer right away. But she didn't leave either.
Instead, Gwen leaned in closer, her shoulder brushing against his. She looked off to the side, like he had minutes earlier, and whispered, "Then promise me that if I stay, you'll let me help."
Peter smiled. The kind he hadn't felt in a long time.
"I promise."
… Natasha Romanoff
Another Hydra facility.
Another "secret" hideout that probably shows up on Google Maps if you type in "evil lair with recycled Nazi aesthetics."
Natasha slid her knife through the last lock, listening to the dry click as the door gave way. Inside, the air smelled like iron dust, ozone, and failed tech projects — typical.
Behind her, the dream team Fury and Hill had put together moved with the precision of a military opera: two SHIELD tactical agents who looked like they came straight out of a recruitment poster (one of them was definitely named Rick or Rich, she'd bet), plus the science geek of the week with a PhD in messing with things you shouldn't touch.
Oh, and of course, Captain America.
Steve Rogers was right behind her, shield gleaming, face set like he was always two seconds away from lecturing someone on ethics, honor, or the improper use of tight uniforms.
"You know that uniform never had a zipper, right?" she muttered as they moved. "I'd bet Hydra wasted hours just trying to figure out how you put that thing on without help."
Steve, as usual, ignored the jab. Or pretended to — same difference, except for the faint red creeping up his ears every time she opened her mouth.
But this wasn't the time for harmless flirting. Well… it's always time for harmless flirting, but even Natasha had limits.
The room they entered was the jackpot. State-of-the-art computers, traces of Chitauri tech, encrypted files with acronyms that sounded shadier than an underground rave in Texas.
She typed fast, fingers dancing across the keyboard with the ease of someone who could kill you with one leg while sipping espresso.
What she found… wasn't pretty.
"You're gonna want to see this," she said, glancing sideways at Steve. He stepped closer, eyes serious, posture tense. Always tense. He had more muscles than he had sense of humor.
On screen: confirmation she didn't want. Hydra had been siphoning Chitauri weaponry.
Leftovers from the New York invasion. Gear that should've been locked up in SHIELD warehouses was in Hydra's hands. And being redistributed.
"They've been arming anti-mutant groups…" Natasha muttered, flipping to the next file. "Funding radical cells, handing out alien weapons, dressing it all up as grassroots movements…"
Steve's jaw tightened. "They're trying to spark a war."
She arched an eyebrow. "And here I thought Hydra had evolved. Nope, still the same bunch of sociopathic idiots with a leather fetish and a chaos kink."
The real concern, though, was the pattern. This wasn't one rogue op. It was a network. Hydra wasn't pulling the trigger themselves — they were pointing humans at mutants and loading the gun.
"Brilliant and disgusting at the same time," she said. "They don't just want to wipe out mutants. They want humanity to do it for them. Stir up enough hate, enough panic, and someone else hits the red button."
She stepped back from the terminal and cracked her knuckles, the sound echoing in the room.
"We've got enough here for a full report. And enough to know this is gonna blow up on a global scale."
"We'll take it to Fury. Hill too," Steve said.
"Sure. And meanwhile, someone needs to find where the hell the next shipments are headed, before some suburban xenophobes decide to LARP as Terminators."
She caught her reflection in the security mirror near the door, running her fingers through her hair.
"Note to self: try saving the world without heels. Or at least convince these psychos to build lairs with working elevators."
Steve didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Victory.
Natasha yanked the flash drive free, tucked it into her bra — where else do you stash secrets that could start a war? — and turned for the exit.
The world was, once again, on the edge of a cliff.
And guess who'd be balancing it with a pistol in one hand and a flirty one-liner in the other?
The one and only Black Widow.
… Susan Storm
Peace was a rare thing at the Baxter Building. Normally, it got interrupted by some interdimensional anomaly, one of Johnny's screw-ups, or one of Reed's wild theories about particles that only existed in the first five seconds after the Big Bang.
But lately… the biggest headache had a name.
Aidan Quinn.
She pressed her lips together just thinking about it. Not out of anger — more that controlled kind of frustration you only get after having to explain to the government why, "No, the Fantastic Four isn't going to intervene in the case of the mysterious mutant with the sexy troublemaker reputation."
Because yes, they asked. Actually, they insisted.
And it was strange.
They didn't take orders from Washington — Sue made a point of reminding them of that at every meeting. But they still listened. And when Aidan's name started showing up in reports with words like "mutant threat,""strategic instability," and the worst of them all, "urgent and classified," Reed started to consider.
Ororo was the one who pulled the reins back.
Quiet updates, actual facts, balanced statements — from someone who knew exactly what it meant to be at the center of political hysteria disguised as public concern.
Then came the incomplete records. Fragments of attacks that didn't add up. Reports that didn't match the government's story.
And then… suspicion.
Not surprising. The Fantastic Four always had their battles. While the X-Men dealt with mutants and prejudice, they fought cosmic threats and the Negative Zone. An invisible dividing line, but a real one. Each in their corner, playing their part.
But this time, the worlds collided.
And the kid responsible for that?
Of course it was him.
But Aidan wasn't the enemy.
He just didn't care about looking like the hero.
And in the public's mind, that was almost the same thing.
Still, since the end of that whole episode — which no one seemed to fully understand — his name had vanished from the headlines. Like it dissolved into the tide of misinformation, half-truths, and bad decisions from higher-ups.
Sue shook her head, still not fully believing it. Johnny, of course, was ready to defend his new "bro," as he called him — thinking the whole thing was awesome, and kind of dangerous, which only made it cooler to him.
Ben stayed quiet, but made it clear he didn't like the smell of this "suggested mission." According to him, anything that came with a government report and zero practical details looked a lot like an ambush with a ribbon on it.
And Reed… well, Reed considered everything, even nonsense. But this time, he agreed to wait, and in the end, that turned out to be the right call.
No attacks. No confrontation.
Good thing, too. Because now, with a clearer picture, it was obvious they'd almost been used as a political tool. A game between humans and mutants against a piece no one knew how to play.
A pawn no one could move.
Sue narrowed her eyes.
She didn't like being manipulated.
And even less being stuck cleaning up after reckless, charming boys with way too much power and way too questionable a sense of humor.
He'd shaken up half the world and then disappeared like nothing happened.
She didn't know if she admired his boldness or wanted to pin him inside a force field until he apologized.
Maybe both.
But of all the consequences, one in particular annoyed her most: he left her name tied to the mess.
She'd spent days sitting through briefings, reports, and speculation — all circling back to "what if the Fantastic Four had gotten involved?"
Jen, of course, didn't help. Her comments were getting more and more suggestive. Last time, she smirked and said: "So, Sue… I hear the troublemaker has a handsome face and a reputation for leaving superheroines… let's say, sweaty."
Sue's answer had been an invisible splash of water straight to the back of Jen's head.
But she'd thought about it. Way more than she should have.
Enough to do something completely irrational for someone like her.
She picked up her phone, opened the chat with the name that had been circling in her head for days, and typed:
"You owe me dinner. For every headache you've caused me."
If Jen saw that, she'd laugh for half an hour. But Sue didn't care.
It was just dinner.
Dinner, and nothing more.