Unfortunately, I don't own Spiderman or any affiliated characters, franchises and/or logos or some shit like that.
His head swiveled to find the person that the voice belonged to.
Beautiful, blonde, perfect in every way.
They both were.
"What have I told you about climbing on the walls?"
"It's dangerous and I should wait 'till I'm big and strong to climb."
Peter Parker chuckled to himself.
Of course she'd be one of those mothers. Constantly worrying. He didn't blame her. After what she'd been through-what Peter himself had put her through-he wasn't exactly expecting the opposite.
But that's beside the point.
Seeing Gwen for the first time in five years was surreal for Peter Parker, as he had imagined this moment in his head far more than any normal human/spider hybrid should.
He'd seen Gwen get married-from afar, of course-to a handsome young scientist who was at the top of his field, who took care of Gwen's every need, every want. They lived in a perfect house, in a perfect neighborhood, with perfectly mowed lawns and perfectly groomed dogs. Gwen's wedding dress was perfect. The wedding itself was perfect. Perfect flowers, perfect ceremony.
But none of it was perfect to Gwen Stacy herself, and Peter knew it.
He knew it because her perfect house was crawling with spiders. He knew it because her old Oscorp lab jacket still hung in her perfect closet, right next to her perfect momish sweater vests and perfect conservative dresses. He knew it because inside her perfect closet, behind all of her perfect momish sweater vests and perfect conservative dresses, there was a little safe filled with newspaper clippings from over the years, all about Peter Parker. Well, not exactly Peter Parker.
They were all about Spiderman. Mostly about attacks he had stopped, defended, prevented. A few marveling at the fact that somehow, this crazy dude was still alive, even after being shot and stabbed and altogether ripped apart, (though at different times by different people in different places) and somehow seemed to come back stronger than ever.
Of course, Mr. Perfect had no idea those clippings were there.
He didn't even know why his son was named Peter. He figured it was something to do with Gwen's past, which she never spoke of. He was correct, of course. Just not the past he knew about.
And then there was the clipping to put an end to all others.
That was the article about Spiderman's death.
That article stayed in a drawer in Gwen's bedside table, where she could reach it easily and cry herself to sleep after she had put little Peter to bed, and after Mr. Perfect had had his customary two beers a night and then passed out at ten.
Nobody heard her sob into the early hours of the morning, no one heard her tearfully proclaim "that goddamned Peter Parker ruined my life, that asshole."
No one heard her sighs as she affirmed that, in spite of all he had done to make her life miserable, she still loved that idiotic superhero.
That didn't mean that Mr. Perfect didn't know who Peter Parker was. No, Gwen had visited Aunt Mae's grave too many times for it to go unnoticed. But all that was known was that "Aunt Mae's nephew was a very good friend of mine in high school, and she meant a lot to him, and she meant a lot to me."
But there was no such gravesite for Spiderman. Peter lived in a shitty apartment in the Bronx that cost almost nothing, and nobody knew who he was, what he did, or where he was from.
And that's the way he liked it.
Because the Aunt who knew everything about him was dead.
And the girl he loved was impossible to have.