For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The first rays of dawn were a dirty, washed-out grey, filtering through the greasy window of the 24-hour diner. The light seemed to bleach the color from the room, turning the red vinyl of their booth a dull brown and casting long, weary shadows. The air was thick with the smell of old coffee and the profound, buzzing exhaustion of a night spent staring into the abyss of the digital world.
Peter leaned back, the cheap vinyl groaning in protest. His eyes burned, and his mind felt like a supercomputer that had been forced to run a million complex calculations at once, its circuits now dangerously close to overheating. He looked across the table at Diana. The weariness was visible on her, too, a faint, bruised shadow under her eyes, a certain stillness to her posture that spoke of a deep, contained fatigue. But where he felt frayed and scattered, she seemed focused, her energy coiled and reserved, a warrior conserving her strength before a battle.
"So," he said, his voice a low, gravelly thing. "3 a.m. The Gantry Plaza freight yards. We have a time and a place."
"We do," she confirmed, her gaze distant, already sifting through the strategic implications. "It is an open space, on the waterfront. Multiple points of entry and exit. It is a poor choice for a secret meeting. Unless," she added, her eyes sharpening, "one is not concerned about being seen. Or one is setting a trap."
"A.I.M. isn't exactly subtle," Peter countered, rubbing his tired eyes. "Arrogant, like you said. Thorne probably thinks he's untouchable."
He looked at the satellite image still glowing on his laptop screen—a desolate, industrial wasteland of rusted cranes and decaying piers. It was the kind of place where bad things happened in the dead of night. His spider-sense, which had been a low, anxious hum all night, gave a sharp, definitive thrum. Trap or not, there was danger there.
"We have time," Diana said, her voice gently pulling him back from the edge of his anxiety. She reached across the table, her hand covering his. Her touch was a familiar, steadying warmth. "You are exhausted, Peter. Your mind has been at war for hours. You cannot face a new battle in this state."
He looked at her, at the profound, unwavering care in her eyes, and felt a wave of gratitude so powerful it almost brought him to his knees. She wasn't just his partner in this hunt; she was his guardian.
"What do you suggest?" he whispered. "A gallon of coffee and a power nap on the subway?"
"I suggest a tactical retreat," she said, a faint, soft smile on her lips. "Your home is… compromised by your aunt's worry. My room is quiet. And you require rest. True rest."
The offer was not one of passion, but of pure, unadulterated care. It was the offer of a sanctuary. He simply nodded, his throat too tight to form words.
The walk back to campus in the early morning light was a strange, dream-like journey. The city was just beginning to stir, the first few commuters and delivery trucks the vanguard of the coming chaos. They walked in a comfortable, shared silence, their hands clasped, a single, weary unit moving through a world that was still half-asleep.
When they reached her room, the quiet, orderly space was a balm to his frayed nerves. The world, with its frantic energy and its gathering storms, seemed to stop at her door.
"Sleep," she commanded softly, gesturing to her perfectly made bed.
"Only if you do," he countered, his voice thick with a weariness that went bone-deep.
They didn't bother with the pretense of undressing. They were too tired for passion, their need for connection a deeper, quieter thing. He shed his shoes and his hoodie, and she, her jacket. They slid under the cool, clean sheets of her bed, their clothes a rumpled, forgotten barrier between them.
He pulled her to him, her back settling against his chest, his arm wrapping securely around her waist. She let out a long, shuddering sigh, a sound of pure, profound exhaustion, and melted into his embrace. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her clean, familiar scent, and felt the frantic, buzzing energy in his own mind finally, blessedly, begin to quiet. There were no more lies to tell, no more secrets to hide, no more battles to fight. Not here. Here, they were just Peter and Diana. And they were safe. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, sleep was not an escape, but a homecoming.
Peter woke hours later to the smell of her. The room was bathed in the warm, golden light of the late afternoon. He was alone in the bed. He sat up, a moment of disorientation giving way to a profound sense of peace. He felt… rested. Truly rested. The psychic echoes, the emotional wounds, the frantic, buzzing anxiety—it was all gone, replaced by a quiet, steady calm.
He found her sitting in the single chair by the window, a book open in her lap, her focus absolute. She was not reading. She was meditating, her breathing slow and even, her posture a study in perfect, serene stillness. She was a warrior sharpening her mind, her spirit, her most essential weapon.
She opened her eyes as he approached, as if sensing his presence. "You are awake," she said, her voice a low, calm melody.
"You let me sleep all day," he said, a note of wonder in his voice.
"A warrior must be at his full strength before a battle," she replied simply. "Your body has mended. Now, it is time for your armor."
The sun was beginning to set, the sky outside her window turning a bruised, dramatic purple. The quiet peace of the day was over. The tension, the anticipation of the coming night, began to settle in the room. It was time to go. Time to become the other people they were.
The separation at her door was a quiet, heavy thing. There were no passionate kisses, no lingering touches. They simply stood before each other, two soldiers on the eve of a battle.
"Be careful," he said, the words a raw, inadequate container for the universe of fear and hope he felt for her.
"I am always careful," she replied, her gaze intense, unwavering. "It is you who must guard against your own reckless heart." She reached out, her hand resting for a moment on his chest, right over his heart. "Be the scalpel, Peter. Not the storm."
He nodded, a silent promise. And then he turned and walked away, the weight of their shared purpose a familiar, heavy cloak on his shoulders.
He went home to his empty house in Queens and began his own ritual. He laid out his suit, the red and blue a stark, vibrant splash of color against his messy bedspread. He meticulously checked his web-shooters, replacing the nearly empty cartridges with fresh ones, the quiet, satisfying click a familiar, grounding sound. He ran a diagnostic on his suit's systems, ensuring the EMP device was recharged, his lenses calibrated. This was his meditation. The science. The preparation. The armoring of a different kind of warrior.
As the clock ticked closer to 3 a.m., he stood before the mirror, the mask in his hands. He was Peter Parker, the student, the lover, the nephew. But tonight, he had to be something more. He had to be the scalpel. And he prayed he would be sharp enough.
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