The fine for an illegal parking violation in New York City won't bankrupt you, but it will steal something far more valuable: your time. Unlike other places where a ticket was a simple matter of paying a fine, here it was classified as a minor crime. It meant a mandatory, soul-crushing trip to traffic court.
As Gwen Stacy skillfully navigated her yellow Corolla through the post-invasion traffic and towards LaGuardia Airport, she breathed another sigh of relief. The thought of spending an entire afternoon in a stuffy, crowded courthouse waiting room was far more daunting than the monetary penalty. At the same time, a flicker of professional curiosity surfaced.
"That's strange," she mused aloud, more to herself than to Hawk. "I can park for ten minutes outside the Manhattan courthouse with no problem, but the one in Queens is a ticket-trap."
Hawk, who had been quietly observing the city's slow recovery through the passenger window, turned his head. "Even if you had gotten the ticket, it wouldn't have been a real problem, would it? A call to Captain George Stacy should solve it." It was a logical assumption from his perspective, a simple exercise of influence he imagined was common in a world he was not a part of.
Gwen snapped out of her thoughts, glancing at him with a look of surprise before shaking her head. "No, absolutely not."
Hawk recalled the powerful effect her family pass had on the traffic cop. It seemed like a contradiction.
Gwen seemed to read his mind, and a warm, explanatory smile touched her lips. "The family pass is one thing. It's an internal courtesy, a kind of unspoken benefit the department gives to police families. Everyone uses it for small things. But getting an official summons is completely different."
She shifted her tone, perfectly imitating the stern, principled voice of a veteran police captain. "'Gwen,'" she intoned, her expression serious, "'if you break the law, you must stand in court and bravely admit your mistake. I will not interfere with the due process of the justice system.'" She relaxed back into her own voice. "That's what he would say. My dad would never call in a favor to erase a ticket. He'd probably drive me to the courthouse himself to make sure I learned my lesson."
Hawk listened, his perception of the world shifting slightly. He had imagined Captain George Stacy as a rigid, stereotypical cop, a man of black-and-white rules. But this was different. This was a man of deep, unshakable principle. A man who understood the difference between a professional courtesy and a corruption of the law. It was an honorable distinction, and one Hawk had not expected. The world, it seemed, was more complex than the archetypes he held in his mind.
Forty-five minutes later, the familiar sight of LaGuardia Airport came into view, with the massive, makeshift hangar that served as the shelter looming nearby. Gwen pulled the car over to the curb.
"Thank you again, Gwen," Hawk said, unbuckling his seatbelt.
He pushed open the car door, one foot already on the pavement, when her voice stopped him. "I'm curious about something, Hawk."
He paused, turning back to look at her. "What?"
She leaned over the center console, her blue eyes filled with genuine, analytical curiosity. "If I don't accept your thanks, what's your next move? Do you just keep thanking me on a loop until I do?"
The question was so unexpected, so far outside his social programming, that it completely short-circuited his brain. He was silenced. His entire life, "thank you" had been a simple, transactional phrase used to politely close an interaction and maintain distance. She was refusing the transaction, leaving him with no script to follow.
After a long, awkward moment, he searched his mind for the only logical response to a social error. "Sorry?"
This time, Gwen was the one who fell silent. She stared at him for a second, and then a bright, delighted laugh filled the car. It was a warm, genuine sound, completely devoid of mockery. The idea that his response to "don't thank me" was to apologize was, apparently, hilarious.
"You've thanked me enough for one day," she said, her smile widening. "We're friends. Friends don't need to keep a running tally of thank yous."
Friends?
The word landed in Hawk's mind with the weight of an alien concept. He did a quick, mental inventory of their relationship. They were deskmates in physics. Their interactions, before today, could be measured in minutes and were almost exclusively academic. He didn't have much contact with any students. The term felt… unearned. Inaccurate.
But he couldn't say that. Not after she had driven across the city for him, saved him from a legal disaster, and was now waiting to make sure he got back safely. To refute her declaration of friendship at this moment would be an act of profound social stupidity. He still possessed that much emotional intelligence. So, he just gave a short, noncommittal nod, and finally got out of the car.
He watched the yellow Corolla make a U-turn and accelerate away, disappearing into traffic. Only then did he turn and walk towards the chaotic, noisy reality of the temporary shelter.
That evening, in a tasteful apartment in Manhattan, Helen Stacy was watching television when she heard the front door open. George Stacy, still in his crisp white shirt, tie, and black suit, walked in, his police badge glinting at his waist.
"You're back," Helen said with a smile.
"Yes," George answered, closing the door. He looked around. "Where's Gwen?"
"Upstairs. Went straight to her room after she got back."
George nodded and headed for the stairs. He found his daughter's door closed and knocked gently. "Gwen."
Her voice came from within, bright and clear. "The door's unlocked, Dad."
He pushed it open. Gwen was in her pajamas, her golden hair draped over her shoulders, sitting cross-legged in her desk chair reading a book. She looked up as he entered. "Dad, what's wrong?"
George leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He didn't enter her room, respecting her space, but his expression was that of a detective who had a person of interest in his sights. A slight, knowing smile played on his lips. "You didn't have class this afternoon, did you?"
Gwen's eyes widened slightly in understanding. She gracefully unfolded her legs and stood up. "Did someone from the 19th call you?"
"What do you think?" George said, his smile growing. "Standard procedure. They have to call and verify, just in case someone is using a fake family pass. It's rare, but it happens."
Gwen let out a small, exasperated sigh. "Dad, I really didn't mean to park there. The Manhattan courthouse has parking all over the place."
He waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not interested in your illegal parking. Frankly, that's what the family card is for. As long as you don't abuse it." He wasn't so rigid as to deny his family a small, harmless perk. His gaze sharpened. "But I am interested in why you were at the Queens courthouse this afternoon."
"Oh." Gwen sat back down, picking up her book again as if it were a shield. "It was nothing. I was just taking a classmate there for something."
George's smile turned into a full-blown grin. "A male classmate?"
Gwen put the book down, her expression turning serious as she met her father's teasing gaze. "Dad. Hawk and I are just friends."
The words came out with firm, absolute conviction. But even as she said them, a private thought surfaced, undermining her own certainty. No. That's not quite right. She remembered the look on Hawk's face that afternoon when she had said the same thing to him. The brief, almost imperceptible stiffening of his posture, the flicker of confusion in his eyes.
He doesn't seem to agree that we're friends at all.