"𝑵𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒚, 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆.. 𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆.."
Widow was just like your average, everyday spider-woman. Doing average, everyday spider-woman things. Swinging through the streets of New York, and keepi...
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Widow's patience was tested as she transported the enigmatic individual back to her uncle's apartment. Her determination was unwavering, though, driven by the pressing need for answers. She secured him to a punching bag and waited for him to regain consciousness.
As the man slowly stirred and his eyes flickered open, his spider senses tingled, causing a small gasp to escape his lips. Widow met his gaze with a stern, unyielding expression, determination etched across her features.
"You're like me," he observed, his voice laden with surprise.
"I've got some questions," Widow declared, attempting to project an intimidating demeanor.
His initial response was an attempt to break free, and Widow couldn't help but flinch at his struggle. Eventually, he ceased his futile efforts, allowing her to proceed with her inquiries.
"Why do you look like that one scientist who died a few years ago? What was his name again... Peter Parker?" Widow's voice held a mix of suspicion and curiosity.
With a graceful maneuver, the man reached for the floor, pivoting himself to face Widow. "Because I am Peter Parker," he admitted, his gaze scanning the unfamiliar surroundings of the apartment.
Widow bombarded Peter with a barrage of questions, her curiosity unrelenting. "Then why aren't you dead?" She questioned his apparent resurrection. "And why is your hair different? Why are you older? And why is your body a different shape?"
Peter quirked an eyebrow at her inquiries. "Pretty sure you just called me fat," he remarked, with a hint of amusement.
"No, it's just-" Widow attempted to clarify before being cut off by Peter's swift repositioning to face her once more.
"Hey, listen. You don't look so hot either, kid. Most superheroes don't wear their own merch," Peter commented, his gaze landing on Widow's spider necklace, hinting at a sense of irony.
Widow circled around the punching bag, her questions persisting. "Are you a ghost?" she wondered aloud.
Peter's response was succinct. "No."
"Are you a zombie?" she continued to inquire.
"Stop it," he retorted with the same disinterest.
"Am I a zombie?" Widow pondered, gazing at her hands.
