Peter had been in hundreds of strange conversations — symbiotes, clones, dimension-hopping teenagers — but sitting across from Ethan Kane in a dim pizza shop ranked high on his most quietly unsettling list.
The kid had the unnerving calm of someone who already knew the ending to every conversation. His coffee sat untouched, cooling beside the last uneaten slice.
"You're clever," Peter said, voice casual, a mask of his own. "Maybe too clever. Felicia doesn't waste her time unless there's a payout. So tell me, Ethan — why drag me into your little club of secrets?"
Ethan didn't immediately answer. He wiped his hands with a napkin like he was scrubbing away the question itself. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but steady. "Because one day the people who save the world won't have time to save me. And I'd rather not wait for that day to build a bridge."
Peter gave a short laugh — the tired kind, equal parts humor and ache. "That's a cynical way to make friends."
"I don't believe in luck," Ethan said. "Only margins of error."
That line caught Peter off-guard. There was no arrogance in it — just weary certainty. 'God, he sounds like I used to sound after Gwen died,' Peter thought. 'The kind of voice that mistakes control for safety.'
Ethan reached into his coat and pulled out a small matte card, sliding it across the table. "Here, I'm giving you this. Felicia has one."
Peter turned it over, remembering the black RFID from the café talk Felicia had mentioned in passing. "Oh, what's this? A little insurance policy?"
"It's an RFID card," Ethan corrected. "Closed-loop network. No cloud, no trace. If you ever need help — no headlines, no costume — this pings me or Felicia. You can crush it if you don't trust me."
Peter raised a brow. "Feels like a leash."
"It's a lifeline, but I can see the leash angel," Ethan said. "I guess it just depends who's holding it."
The kid was impossible to read. No twitch, no heartbeat of deceit Peter's instincts could sense. Only stillness — that eerie stillness of someone who's already rehearsed their own defense in advance.
Peter leaned back, studying him. "You don't trust anyone, do you, kid?"
"I trust patterns," Ethan said. "People change. Probabilities and patterns don't."
He said it so matter-of-factly that Peter almost missed the sadness buried inside it. He'd heard that tone in the mirror once — the same brittle calm he'd used after Uncle Ben's death. The same lie that said, 'If I just plan hard enough, nobody else will die.'
"You know," Peter said, rubbing his neck, "you talk like someone twice your age. That's not a compliment, kid. Trust me."
"I'm aware." Ethan's eyes didn't move from the table. "When your house collapses because two super-powered lunatics are fighting outside, you age fast. I decided a long time ago I'd never feel powerless again."
Peter's humor faltered. The joke he'd been crafting died in his throat. 'There it is,' he thought. 'The damage.'
He forced a small smile. "You sound like Tony or Iron-Man used to. Building armor for everything that might go wrong."
"I'm building options," Ethan said. "You were once that with great power comes great responsibility. I just think responsibility includes preparation."
That line hit Peter right in the ribs. He didn't know where the kid heard that line from, but it seemed he took a different lesson from it.
"Preparation's fine," Peter said carefully. "But you start stockpiling power, planning for everything, and pretty soon you're not protecting the people around you anymore — you're protecting yourself from forming connections with them. You do it with excuses like 'They'll be safer if I'm gone'"
Ethan didn't answer right away. He just looked down at his reflection in the glossy tabletop. "Being powerless once was enough."
The honesty in his voice surprised Peter. It wasn't self-pity; it was confession.
Ethan went on, quieter now. "You know, I used to read about you. The papers, the forums, the interviews. They said you cracked jokes while fighting people who could break you in half. You smiled through it. And I wondered—" he hesitated, eyes lifting, "—were you ever actually happy? Are you happy now?"
Peter froze. 'That's the question, isn't it?'
He tried for levity, but it came out thin. "Happiness is relative. I have a punch card for trauma at this point. One more tragedy and I get a free latte."
Ethan didn't smile. He just waited.
Peter sighed. "I try to be. You learn to take the small moments — a quiet morning, May's pancakes, the city actually not on fire — and you hang on. But… no. Not always. Not enough to say I'm happy."
Ethan nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something he'd suspected for years. "Then you're stronger than I thought."
Peter frowned. "Because I'm miserable?"
"Because you keep going anyway. I know I'm not strong enough to do it."
There it was again — that haunted admiration in Ethan's tone. Peter recognized it because it used to belong to him. The same awe he'd had for Captain Stacy, for Ben, for anyone who seemed unbreakable until they were.
"You ever talk to someone about all this?" Peter asked. "Therapist, friend, priest, fortune cookie?"
"I talk to myself," Ethan said dryly. "And I argue back."
Peter snorted despite himself. "Careful, that's how I ended up talking to an alien glob of goo that understood me better than most people."
That earned the faintest grin from Ethan — not warm, but real. "Guess I'm in good company then."
Peter's expression softened. "Kid, whatever you're building — safehouses, comms cards, leverage — it's fine to prepare. But the second it stops being about helping people, you'll lose yourself in it. The fear I mean."
Ethan nodded like he'd already accepted that outcome. "Maybe that's a trade I'm willing to make."
"No," Peter said sharply. "That's the trap."
For the first time, Ethan looked uncertain — not intimidated, but thinking. The silence stretched until Peter couldn't take it anymore and leaned forward, breaking it with a grin.
"So, what, we partners now? You, me, and Felicia — Team Complicated Trauma?"
That earned a small huff of amusement. "Partnership implies equality. I'd like it if we could be friends."
"Wow," Peter said, "you really just needed a friend. You could have made one with a hobby. Do you have one?"
"I have one. Surviving."
The quip landed heavier than expected. Peter dropped his eyes to the card again, thumb brushing over its edge. This kid's building network of escape routes, he thought. And somehow it still feels like he's trapped.
Ethan checked his watch and stood. "Felicia should be back from San Francisco soon. We can reconvene when she returns."
Peter tilted his head. "You sure she'll make it back?"
"She always does," Ethan said. "Cats land on their feet, or so I'm told."
He tossed a few bills on the table and started toward the door. "You think I crossed a line mentioning your family matters earlier," he added without turning. "Maybe I did. For that I apologize. But fear keeps heroes humble. I'd rather be cautious than heroic."
Peter looked up, surprised by the quiet sincerity. "Yeah? Then I hope caution keeps you alive long enough to realize being heroic doesn't mean always being happy. It means doing the right thing no matter how it make you feel."
Ethan paused, one hand on the door. "I know." Then he left, the bell above the door chiming as the street swallowed him.
Peter stared after him, the hum of the city seeping back into the space he'd left. He glanced at the RFID card on the table, its surface catching the reflection of the neon sign outside: OPEN LATE.
"Kid's gonna out-paranoid Osborn," he muttered.
He pocketed the card anyway. Because that's what Peter Parker did — he worried about everyone, even the people who didn't want him to.
The walk back was quiet. Ethan said he lived close, so Peter decided to tag along, half out of curiosity, half out of instinct — that restless need to make sure no one self-destructed on his watch.
The city evening was humid, the kind of sticky air that made streetlights halo yellow. Taxis honked; someone laughed too loudly down the block. Ordinary life carrying on, blissfully unaware.
"You always this quiet?" Peter asked.
Ethan gave a small shrug. "I told you I'm naturally a quiet person. Besides, words lose value when people stop listening."
"Trust me," Peter said, "as a guy who monologues mid-fight, I disagree."
That almost drew a laugh. "You talk to distract yourself."
Peter smiled ruefully. "Yeah. Talking's cheaper than therapy."
Ethan looked at him sideways. "Does it help?"
"Not enough," Peter said. "But it keeps me human."
They reached the hotel — a modest mid-rise with peeling paint and an aging neon sign that buzzed like a dying wasp. Ethan gestured to it. "Functional, not glamorous."
Peter folded his arms. "You really think all this planning — the safehouses, the paranoia — will keep you safe?"
Ethan met his gaze. "No. But it keeps me from being surprised."
Peter nodded slowly. He understood that better than he wanted to. For years, every punch, every web-shot had been his way of getting ahead of fate before it blindsided him again.
"Kid," he said, voice quieter now, "you remind me a little too much of me. And that's not a compliment either."
Ethan smiled faintly. "Then maybe there's hope."
Peter blinked. "For what?"
"For surviving and turning out the way you did."
The revolving door turned between them, breaking the moment. Ethan stepped inside, raising a hand in a small, almost grateful gesture. "Goodnight, Peter."
Peter watched the door spin shut, his reflection shattering in the glass.
He stood there a while longer, listening to the hum of the city and the echo of Ethan's earlier question.
'Are you happy?'
He thought of Aunt May's laugh. Of MJ's smile. Of Ben's last words, still tattooed across every decision he made.
He thought of how many times he'd said "I'm fine" and meant "I'm not."
Peter exhaled, long and slow, the kind that empties a soul instead of lungs.
"No," he murmured. "But I'm still here."
He turned back toward the street, the RFID card heavy in his pocket — a reminder of a boy who built fortresses out of fear and called them safety.
Somewhere deep down, Peter hoped the kid would never learn just how thin that armor really was.