❝ dancing with
our hands tied ❞

022. vengeance

𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐓. Their sanctuary — the rooftop of Midtown High — had always been their safe haven. A hidden escape from prying eyes, from the relentless media, from the suffocating weight of expectations that came with masks and powers. It was their place. Together.

But tonight, Peter sat there alone, hunched at the edge of the rooftop, silhouetted against the faint glow of the city. His posture was all wrong — rigid with pain, his shoulders trembling ever so slightly. Even from this distance, Ingrid could sense the quiet devastation radiating from him. Her chest tightened as she clutched the cold metal of the ladder, her instincts warring with her guilt.

The sight of him under the pale light stole her breath. His suit was a mess of tattered fabric and bloodstains, torn open to reveal raw, angry cuts underneath. Glass shards glinted in his skin, and his face — God, his face — was streaked with a mixture of blood, rain, and tears. The late autumn wind whipped around them, chilling the night, but Peter didn’t seem to notice. His head hung low, hair plastered to his forehead, tears pooling in his lap as though the weight of everything had finally crushed him.

Her hesitation shattered. Ingrid let go of the ladder and leapt from the higher platform, landing hard on the concrete with a dull thud. The impact jarred her legs, pain flaring momentarily, but she didn’t care. She had to reach him.

Ned and MJ followed closely behind, their footsteps echoing softly in the night. None of them said a word. There was an unspoken understanding among them: Peter didn’t need words. He needed them.

Peter flinched at the sound of their arrival. His shoulders stiffened, though he didn’t look back. He didn’t need to; he knew who it was. He kept his head bowed, his gaze fixed on the rooftop’s edge.

Ingrid knelt slowly beside him, careful not to scare him further. The artifact in her hand felt heavy, its importance now a distant thought. She placed it gently away from the ledge, out of harm’s way, before returning her attention to Peter. Her heart ached at the sight of his trembling frame, and she couldn’t stop herself from reaching out.

“Peter,” she whispered, her voice soft yet heavy with emotion.

He didn’t respond, but his jaw clenched, and his eyes squeezed shut, a single tear slipping free and trailing down his bruised cheek.

Ingrid’s fingers hovered for a moment before she finally cupped his face, coaxing his gaze toward her. When his red-rimmed eyes met hers, the anguish in them almost brought her to tears. She wiped the tear away with her thumb, her hand trembling slightly as she smeared blood across his cheek in the process. She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering for a heartbeat longer than intended.

Peter broke. The sob that escaped him was guttural, raw, and it tore through the quiet night. He collapsed into Ingrid, his fingers digging into her arm as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, her cheek resting against his damp hair as his cries wracked his body.

Ned crouched beside them, his hand finding Peter’s back, his usually jovial expression replaced with silent determination. MJ joined a moment later, her arms wrapping around all of them, pulling them into a shared embrace. Together, they held him as he wept for May, for the woman who had been his anchor, his family, his everything.

“I’m sorry,” Ingrid whispered into his hair, her voice cracking under the weight of her own guilt. She didn’t know what she was apologizing for — leaving when he told her to? Taking the artifact while he faced death alone? Or maybe it was the cruel truth they both lived with: that with their powers came unbearable loss.

Peter’s sobs eventually quieted, his breathing ragged and uneven as he clung to her. But then he tensed again, his body going rigid in her arms. Ingrid knew why.

“Peter,” she began softly, trying to keep her voice steady. “There’s... someone here.”

His head snapped up, his gaze locking onto hers, sharp and alert despite the tears still glistening in his eyes. Ingrid hesitated, her words faltering under the intensity of his stare.

Before she could say more, Peter was on his feet, pulling her up with him in one swift motion. His attention was no longer on her; it was fixed on the edge of the rooftop.

Ingrid followed his gaze. Two figures stood at the very top of Midtown High, bathed in moonlight, their silhouettes sharp against the night sky.

Peter’s grip on Ingrid’s hand tightened, his knuckles white as if he were afraid letting go might cause him to fall apart entirely. His jaw was clenched, his eyes hard and unyielding, the flicker of exhaustion in his features buried beneath the determination to keep fighting if he had to.

The sound of movement broke the tension. From above, two figures dropped gracefully to their level, landing with practiced ease. The two Spider-Men stood before them, illuminated by the moonlight, their expressions cautious yet calm.

Peter reacted instantly, stepping forward and pushing Ingrid behind him, shielding her with his body. His other hand shot up in warning, trembling slightly but firm enough to get his point across. “Hey, wait! Whoa, stop!”

The two Spider-Men froze mid-step, their hands raised in a gesture of surrender. The older one remained crouched from his landing, his sharp features softened by the somber realization dawning in his eyes. He exchanged a glance with the younger Peter, who stood a few paces behind, shrouded in shadow.

“Sorry,” the older Peter began softly, his voice laced with regret. “About May.”

“Yeah... sorry,” the younger one echoed, his voice quieter, hesitant. "I got some understanding of..."

"No, no, no!" Peter’s voice cracked as he cut him off, his frustration and anguish bleeding into the single word. "Please don't tell me that you know what I'm going through."

Ingrid caught the way the younger Spider-Man winced, swallowing down whatever he had been about to say. He took a small step back, his shoulders sagging under the weight of Peter’s anger. “Okay,” he said, barely audible.

Peter’s resolve seemed to waver for a moment, but then he spoke again, his voice raw and trembling. “She’s gone,” he croaked out, each word a knife twisting deeper into his own chest. “And it’s all my fault.” He looked down at his hands as if they were stained with something he could never wash away. “She died for nothing.”

Ingrid could see the way his body tensed as he made his decision, the way his eyes hardened with a dangerous kind of certainty. “So I’m gonna do what I should’ve done in the first place.”

Before anyone could react, Peter reached for the artifact lying nearby, his movements sharp and purposeful. But Ingrid was faster. Without even thinking, she snatched it up, holding it firmly to her chest as she stepped back.

“Peter...” the older Spider-Man tried again, his tone low and measured, but Peter didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t,” Peter interrupted, shaking his head violently. His voice rose with desperation. “You don’t belong here. Either of you. So I’m sending you home.”

He turned to glare at them both, his eyes blazing with fury and grief. “Those other guys — they’re from your worlds, right? So you deal with it. If they die, if you kill them, that’s on you. It's not my problem. I don't care anymore. I'm done." His voice cracked on the last word, but he kept going, forcing himself to sound resolute. “I’m... I’m sorry I dragged you into this. But you have to go home now. Good luck.”

Peter reached for the artifact again, his hand trembling slightly, but Ingrid stood her ground. She tightened her grip on the object and shook her head, a look of defiance settling on her face.

Peter froze, staring at her in confusion. For a moment, all the fire in his gaze dulled, replaced by bewilderment. He hadn’t expected this from her. Ingrid, the one who always fought fiercely at his side, who rarely questioned him, who understood his pain better than anyone — why was she stopping him now?

Ingrid hadn’t expected it either. If it had been earlier today, she might not have hesitated to use the artifact herself, to send the criminals to their fates without a second thought. But now...

Now she saw the storm in Peter’s eyes, the anguish and fury tearing him apart from the inside. She knew that storm too well. She’d lived in it, let it consume her, let it shape her into something unrecognizable. Acting out of anger and grief was in her blood.

But this wasn’t Peter. This wasn’t the boy who always believed in second chances, who never gave up on anyone, even when they didn’t deserve it. If he did this — if he went against everything he stood for —bIngrid knew it would break him in ways he couldn’t come back from. And she couldn’t let that happen.

“My Uncle Ben was killed.” The older Peter broke the cold silence, his voice low but steady, heavy with the weight of memory. “It was my fault.”

Her Peter turned toward him slowly, despair etched deeply into every line of his face. The older Spider-Man’s words pierced through the fog of his anger, but they weren’t enough to extinguish it.

Before her Peter could say anything, the third Spider-Man stepped forward, his posture tense. “I lost...” He paused, his hand rising as if reaching for the right words. When they didn’t come, he let it drop, exhaling shakily. “I lost Gwen. My, uh... She was my Ingrid.”

Ingrid stiffened, her heart skipping a beat as her chest tightened. She tried to keep her expression neutral, not letting the shock and panic she felt show. But Peter, her Peter, noticed. He turned to her, his gaze filled with something she couldn’t quite decipher — hurt? Sadness? Longing? She couldn’t tell.

Before either of them could say anything, the third Spider-Man pressed on, his voice growing distant. "I couldn't save her. I'm never gonna be able to forgive myself for that." He stared at the ground, his eyes unfocused, as if he were reliving the moment. “But I carried on. Tried to, uh... tried to keep going, tried to keep being that friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.” A fleeting, bittersweet smile flickered across his face, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Because I know that's what she would have wanted."

He hesitated, swallowing hard before continuing. "But... at some point, I just... I stopped pulling my punches. I got rageful. I got bitter.” His voice cracked slightly as he looked directly at Peter, his gaze intense and pleading. “I just don’t want you to end up like me.”

“The night Ben died...” The older Peter spoke again, his tone tinged with regret. “I hunted down the man I thought did it.” His eyes darkened, a flicker of guilt and sorrow passing through them. “I wanted him dead. And I got what I wanted.” He shook his head slightly, as if the memory still haunted him. “But it didn’t make it better." He sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the truth. “It took me a long time to learn how to get through that darkness.”

Ingrid shifted her focus to her Peter, watching him carefully as he listened. She could see the conflict in his eyes, the way his grief and rage warred with the flicker of doubt their words were beginning to plant.

But then, the anger returned, burning brighter than ever. “I wanna kill him,” Peter seethed, his voice trembling but resolute. The words weren’t just a wish — they were a promise. His fists clenched at his sides as he continued, his face contorting with the effort of holding back tears. “I wanna tear him apart.” His voice broke, and he looked down, his shoulders shaking slightly. “I can still hear her voice in my head...”

Ingrid’s chest ached as she watched him, her own grief threatening to spill over.

Peter’s voice softened, cracking under the weight of his emotions. “Even after she was hurt, she said to me that we did the right thing. She said...” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “She said that with great power...”

The older Peter’s eyes widened, recognition flashing across his face. “...comes great responsibility,” he finished softly.

Peter’s head snapped up, confusion cutting through the anger. “Wait, what? How do you know that?”

The third Spider-Man stepped closer, his expression somber. “Uncle Ben said it.” His voice was quiet, laced with sadness.

The older Peter nodded, his gaze distant, his voice thick with emotion. “The day he died.” He paused, his hands fidgeting as he struggled to keep his composure. "Maybe she didn't die for nothing, Peter."

.ೃ࿔*:･

Breaking and entering mixed with chemistry was the best plan they could come up with. It wasn’t ideal, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

The lab at Midtown High was modest — at least by Ingrid's standards. She was used to the high-tech facilities at the Avengers Tower and Compound, and even the makeshift lab her dad had built at home was more advanced than this. Still, they had to make do with what was available.

Peter moved with purpose, unloading a bag filled with broken devices and vials onto the scratched, worn lab table. Ingrid stood next to him, her arms crossed as she watched him sort through the mess.

“Okay, so...” Peter began, separating the devices into piles without much thought to the shards of glass scattered across the surface. “Connors, Marko, Dillon, and, uh...” His voice faltered as he reached the antidote meant for the Green Goblin. He hesitated, glaring at the vial as if it had personally wronged him. Then, with a sudden burst of frustration, he slammed it down onto the table and turned away. “Look, I think I can repair the devices for Dillon and Marko, but the others...”

“I got Connors,” the younger Spider-Man chimed in from the other side of the table. He sounded almost nonchalant as he rolled his shoulders. “I’ve already cured him once. No big deal.” The other two Spider-Men turned to him, their expressions a mix of surprise and disbelief. “What?” the younger Peter asked, confused by their reactions. “It’s no big deal.”

The older Peter raised an eyebrow but shrugged after a beat of silence. “Great,” he said.

“Yeah,” Ingrid’s Peter echoed, his voice strained. “That’s... great.”

The younger Spider-Man blinked at them, clearly unsure if they were being genuine or sarcastic, before shrugging it off. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work, muttering something underneath his breath.

The older Peter stepped forward and picked up the empty antidote vial meant for the Green Goblin. He turned it over in his hands, his expression thoughtful. "I think I can make an antiserum for Doctor Osborn. Been thinking about it a long time." He glanced up at the others when the room fell silent, their reactions unreadable. "Gotta cure all of 'em, right?"

Ingrid’s Peter hesitated, the muscles in his jaw tightening. Then, with some effort, he nodded. “Right.”

“Yeah,” the older Peter said, with a small but firm smile. “It’s what we do.”

The older Spider-Man moved to his workspace, leaving Ingrid and her Peter standing on opposite sides of the table. He was staring at the shattered pieces of a device, but she could tell his mind was elsewhere. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his brows were furrowed in thought.

“What?” Peter asked suddenly, looking up at her as if he could feel her gaze on him.

Ingrid blinked, startled by the question. Her freckled cheeks turned a faint pink as she realized she’d been staring. She shrugged sheepishly, her lips curling into a small, awkward smile. “It’s just...” She gestured vaguely at the room. “Three yous.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, his mouth twitching as if he were trying to fight a smirk. For a moment, the tension in the air lifted, replaced by something lighter, almost comforting. But the moment was short-lived. With a resigned sigh, Ingrid realized it was time to focus. There was so much to do, so many lives hanging in the balance.

Just as she was about to turn away and busy herself, she felt Peter's hand gently tug on hers. The touch was soft, almost hesitant, but firm enough to stop her in her tracks. She blinked, glancing up at him in surprise.

"Come here," he said quietly, his voice low and serious. He guided her toward a quieter corner of the lab, away from the hum of activity. They sat on two rickety stools facing each other, close enough that their knees brushed. Ingrid tilted her head, studying the sudden intensity in his expression.

"Everything okay?" she asked cautiously, though the question felt hollow even as she said it. Nothing about their situation was okay, and it wouldn’t be for a long time.

"Uh, yeah, I'm fine," Peter replied quickly, too quickly. His voice was thin, almost breathless, and Ingrid didn’t need to be a mind reader to know he was lying. She gave him a pointed look, her brow arching in disbelief. Peter faltered under her gaze, his lips pressing into a thin line. After a beat of silence, he asked, “Are you okay?”

Ingrid’s throat tightened. “Oh, yeah,” she managed to choke out, her voice cracking slightly despite her best effort to sound convincing.

The two sat in silence, their breaths soft but audible in the quiet corner of the lab. Brown eyes met green, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to fade. There was only them, locked in an unspoken understanding of shared pain and guilt.

Finally, Peter sighed, the sound heavy with emotion. He lowered his gaze, his voice soft and tinged with regret. “You don’t deserve this,” he began, his words hesitant, almost reluctant. “I brought you a life of—”

“Peter, no.” Ingrid cut him off, her tone sharp but not unkind. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, knowing it would only hurt him more.

Peter looked up, startled by the firmness in her voice. His expression was a mix of guilt and vulnerability, and it broke her heart. Her face softened instantly, and she leaned forward, cupping his scarred face gently in her hands.

“No, no, no. Look at me,” she whispered, her voice steady but tender. She waited until his eyes met hers, their gaze locking. Her thumbs brushed lightly against his jawline, grounding him.

“I’ve been fighting my whole life, okay?” she said, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. “I’ve been through hell and back, and I did it all because I wanted to. I’m still here because I want to be.” She paused, biting her lip as she searched for the right words. “I’m not going anywhere, Peter. We’re in this together. Whatever happens, we’ll get through it. Together. Okay?”

Peter hesitated, his brown eyes searching hers as if trying to find any hint of doubt. But all he saw was love and unwavering determination. Slowly, he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ingrid echoed, relief washing over her as she exhaled shakily. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. Her hands stayed on his face, her fingers brushing lightly over the scars. She closed her eyes, letting the closeness ground her as much as it did him.