A Really Good Lawyer [Spider-Man]

Chapter 1: You're Gonna Need a Lawyer

It's been three months since the world forgot Peter Parker. Three months since he said his last goodbye to MJ and Ned. Three months since he lost Aunt May. (Her final words still haunt him. They'd been so soft in that moment of chaos. Even as she bled out her focus had been on him. On making sure he was okay. On making sure that he understood that she didn't blame him for trying to help people, even supervillains. Her only focus had been to emphasize to Peter that with great power came great responsibility. He owed his kindness to more than just those who deserved it.

I just need to catch my breath, she'd said, in a voice feather-light and far away. Now, every time a criminal gets a lucky blow at his chest, knocking the wind out of him, his heart stutters and his lungs refuse to fill. His returning punch is always just a bit too hard.

But he didn't kill Osborn and he doesn't kill them. Even if tears spring in his eyes from more than just the pain.)

In between preparing for his GED, creating a new Spider-Man suit, and finding a job that'll actually cover his rent, Peter's had little time to grieve. Though he'd be loathe to admit it, this is by design. The past can't hurt him if he doesn't let it catch up. So he keeps moving. Keeps swinging. At the very least, the world hasn't forgotten Spider-Man.

He's not exactly sure how that works, but he's grateful all the same.

***

"Watch out! Coming through!" Peter yells, shooting his webs at the next lamppost. The webs latch onto the curve of the post, throwing him off-course in what is probably a lovely ballerina twirl. New Yorkers honk and curse as Spider-Man swings above Queens traffic. Adjusting his trajectory before he can slam full force into the metal pole, Peter continues his pursuit of the armored truck. It weaves in and out of lanes with not much precision, grinding against taxis and minivans as its tires squeal.

The van's stolen. Because of course it is. Peter doesn't really care about what the van's cargo is, though he hazards a guess from the Chase Bank logo that it's valuable. Worth stealing in broad daylight over.

Finally in swinging distance, he shoots a web at the truck and slingshots himself forward. He lands on the roof of the truck with a heavy thud. The driver and his accomplice in the passenger seat shout in alarm and the hairs on the back of Peter's neck rise. He flings himself to the side of the van-- latched on for dear life with sticky fingers-- just in time to avoid the rattle of gunfire bursting through the roof.

"Hey, hey! This thing's supposed to be bulletproof!" Peter flattens himself against the wall of the truck, narrowly avoiding being crushed against a city bus as the driver tries to shake him off. "You're gonna void their warranty! Then how are they gonna get their money back, huh?"

He's shouting into the wind, his voice lost in the angry honks and yelling of civilians. Nobody's even pulling over. At this point, Peter figures that no self-respecting New Yorker will abandon their car unless they're on a collapsing bridge. A truck hijacking in the middle of the day? That's nothing. After all the alien and multiverse attacks, any car owner worth their disdain for Taxi Driver has insurance up to their ears. They can deal with a broken side mirror or some scratched paint. But that doesn't mean they aren't going to bitch about it.

"Get 'em off the road!" The woman's shout is followed by another honk.

"You got this, Spider-Man!" This cheer is further away. Hopefully off-road. "Do a flip!"

How the hell is he supposed to manage that on a moving truck that's determined to crush him like a bug? Peter crawls back up to the roof of the truck, waving in in the direction of the voice. As an afterthought, he flashes a peace sign. Whoops of laughter erupt from the sidewalk, getting further and further away. Wind whips at Peter's face, pushing his mask into the seam of his lips. The cloth doesn't taste good.