Chapter 20: Happy Holidays
The clang of iron doors and the constant roar of shouted insults assaulted Wilson Fisk’s senses the moment the guards marched him into the recreation pen. Ryker’s Island smelled of bleach, sweat, and despair, a far cry from the polished marble and curated art of his former empire. He kept his posture ramrod straight despite the garish orange jumpsuit that hung loose on his massive frame.
Dignity was not granted in a place like this. It was taken and defended.
He found his usual corner of the pen and stood with his back to the wall, observing. In the far corner, Zoltan Drago muttered to himself, rocking slightly as he sketched invisible patterns in the air. “Fear… yes, the fear will take them all… my beautiful figures…” The man now commonly known as Scarecrow had clearly slipped deeper into whatever madness had claimed him.
As long as he had delivered the results Fisk paid for after his capture, the ravings were irrelevant. The mad man could rot in his delusions.
Across the pen, Walter Hardy glared at him with self-righteous fire in his eyes. The aging thief sat with his arms crossed like he still had any moral high ground to stand on. As if the man who had shot a fourteen-year-old boy protecting an old man possessed the right to judge anyone. Least of all, him.
Fisk met Hardy’s stare evenly until the smaller man looked away. Pathetic.
The guards approached again, this time escorting a new prisoner. The man walked with a pronounced limp, heavily bandaged across his torso and one side of his face. Military bearing still clung to him despite the prison uniform and the fresh wounds. Colonel Ray Schoonover. The Blacksmith.
Most of the inmates saw only another broken man shuffled into the machine. Fisk saw opportunity.
He rose slowly, the orange fabric pulling across his shoulders, and crossed the pen with measured steps. Schoonover’s eyes tracked him warily, assessing threats even through the painkillers and bandages. Good. A man who kept his instincts even when wounded was useful.
“Colonel,” Fisk said, voice low and cultured, carrying just far enough for the other man to hear. “I’ve followed your work with interest. Impressive distribution network. Military precision applied to more… entrepreneurial ventures.”
Schoonover didn’t answer right away. He lowered himself onto a bench with careful stiffness. “And you’re the Kingpin. Heard you lost your crown.”
Fisk allowed a small, cold smile. “A temporary setback. Empires are not built in a day, nor lost in one. But prisons have interesting ways of leveling the field. You see, they too create new hierarchies.”
He glanced meaningfully at the other inmates, at Walter, and Drago, then back to Schoonover.
“You still have connections.” Fisk noted. “Suppliers. Men who know how to move product through channels most of these animals couldn’t dream of. I still have vision. And resources that extend beyond these walls.”
He let the silence sit for a moment, watching the calculation play out behind Schoonover’s eyes.
“Think about it, Colonel. While the city believes us caged, we could be building something stronger. Something that waits patiently for the right moment to step back into the light.”
Fisk returned to his bench without waiting for an answer. He could feel the shift already beginning. The board was changing. And he would sit at its head once again.
…
The Raft was silent in a way Ryker’s Island could never manage. No echoing shouts, no slamming bars, only the low, constant hum of reinforced systems and the sterile glow of lights that never dimmed.
L. Thompson Lincoln sat behind the pristine reinforced glass of his supermax cell like a CEO behind a mahogany desk. The orange jumpsuit looked almost tailored on his powerful frame. He had turned the cell into an office through sheer force of will.
He pressed the comms button, voice calm and measured as it carried down the row to the other sealed chambers.
“Gentlemen,” Tombstone said. “I trust you’re all adjusting.”
Mac Gargan’s growl came through first, rough and bitter. “Adjusting? I’m stuck in a tin can at the bottom of the ocean because of those damn spiders.”
Adrian Toomes—Rhino—added a heavy grunt of agreement. “They took everything. My revenge. My strength. And now this. My freedom.”
Max Dillon’s voice crackled next, still carrying that nervous edge. “At least you guys can sleep without worrying about frying the power grid. They keep the lights so bright in here…”
Tombstone leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. The Raft’s designers had meant this place to break men. He treated it like a temporary headquarters.
“Gentlemen,” he continued smoothly, “being locked away is not defeat. It is consolidation. The public sees us contained. The heroes pat themselves on the back. But while they chase shadows in the streets, we sit here together—Scorpion, Rhino, Electro. The beginning of something greater. A board. A council. My Sinister board, if you will.”
He let the words settle, watching the reactions through the monitoring feeds.
“They believe walls and water can hold power,” Tombstone said. “They are wrong. We will build from within. Quiet alliances. Favors traded. Resources funneled. When the time comes to step out, we will not be scattered individuals. We will be an organization. Stronger than Fisk’s ever was, because it was never dependent on one man’s empire.”
Gargan chuckled darkly. “You’ve got a plan, Big Man?”
“I always have a plan,” Tombstone replied, a cold smile touching his lips. “And you three are the foundation. Rest. Recover. And prepare. The city thinks it’s safer with us in here. We will teach it the opposite.”
The comms fell quiet again, but the silence now carried purpose. Tombstone released the button and folded his hands, staring out through the thick glass into the dark waters beyond.
The game had not ended. It had simply moved to a more exclusive table.
…
The wind howled across the roof of the Chrysler Building like it was personally offended by the mess I’d made of tonight. I stood frozen under Gwen’s icy glare, the kind of look that could probably calculate pi to a hundred places while simultaneously planning exactly how hard to punch me off this ledge.
Felicia lounged sideways on one of the ornate gargoyles like it was a damn chaise lounge, legs crossed, white hair whipping dramatically in the breeze, clearly living her best life watching me squirm.
This was not how I wanted this conversation to go.
We have chosen poorly, Harry.
Venom rumbled in my head, sounding far too amused.
The blond one is calculating trajectory. She might throw us off the building. It would be fun, but also maybe bad. Maybe we should try eating the cat lady? That might make her feel better.
‘No. Nobody is getting eaten, and nobody is getting thrown off anything,’ I shot back silently, trying to keep my face neutral. My heart hammered against my ribs. Gwen’s arms were crossed tight, her white-and-black suit somehow looking stricter than usual, and those sharp eyes of hers didn’t miss a single twitch.
“Start talking, Venom,” she said, voice dangerously calm. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like my boyfriend just had a secret rooftop meeting with a known thief who tried to rob his lab. Or am I still missing something.”
Just some context clues, but for the most part, that was spot on.
I swallowed hard and raised both hands slowly. “Okay. Okay, I can explain. First—full disclosure. She knows who I am under the suit. She saw my face. But I know exactly who she is too. Felicia Hardy. Walter Hardy’s daughter. The same Walter Hardy I helped put away. So if she tries to blackmail me or out me, I can out her right back. Stalemate. Nobody wins if we go nuclear.”
Felicia let out a soft, delighted laugh from her gargoyle perch, like I’d just told the funniest joke. “He’s not wrong, Spider-Girl. We have ourselves a good old-fashioned high-tensile stalemate.”
“Okay.” Gwen didn’t even glance at her. Her eyes stayed locked on me, and the hurt starting to creep in behind the anger made my stomach twist worse than any symbiote hunger. “You still went behind my back. Behind our backs. With her. Why?”
I winced.
There was no good way to say the next part, but I had to rip the band-aid off. “I needed her help. Tombstone’s vault is serious security. Military-grade stuff mixed with whatever shady tech he’s got his hands on. I couldn’t risk bringing you or P—Spider-Man in on something this dirty. Not when Mark’s life is still on the line and Tombstone has that leverage hanging over his head. So I hired Felicia. Her thieving expertise for one job—get in, grab the hard evidence that can actually put Lincoln away for good, and steal whatever he’s using to keep Mark under his thumb.”
Gwen’s expression didn’t change, but I saw her jaw tighten. She was running the logic in her head, that brilliant brain of hers already mapping out probabilities and outcomes. She was smarter than me on my best day, and right now that felt like a curse.
“The price?” she asked quietly.
Ask, and you shall receive…
I glanced at Felicia, who gave me a little finger-wave. “Teaching her how to properly operate the microbots… that she stole. She gets cutting-edge tech she can actually use. And we got the leverage to free Mark for good and finally nail Tombstone. It’s a pretty fair trade, for the most part.”
Fair trade?
Venom scoffed.
We should have eaten her and taken the microbots back. Much simpler. Cleaner. Tastier.
‘Not helping.’
Gwen was quiet for a long moment. The wind whistled between the Art Deco spires around us. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, but I heard the crack underneath it. “Mathematically, it makes sense. You assessed the risk, chose the asset with the right skill set, minimized exposure for the team. Classic Osborn-Venom independent decision making. Very efficient.”
She took a slow step closer, and the hurt in her eyes hit harder than any punch I’d taken tonight. “But emotionally? You shut me out, Harry. You went behind my back and partnered with a thief who was literally robbing your house. After everything we’ve been through—Fisk, the docks, Electro, Central Park—you still defaulted to handling it alone. With her. Like you don’t trust me to handle the dirty parts. Like Venom’s making you more… independent. More dangerous. And I don’t know where Harry ends and that version of you begins anymore.”
The words landed like lead weights in my chest. I opened my mouth, but nothing good came out. She was right. I had shut her out. Not because I didn’t trust her, but because I didn’t want to drag her into something that could blow back on her dad or her future or any of the thousand ways this could go wrong.
“Gwen, I—”
She held up a hand, cutting me off. “I need space. Tonight showed me I need to figure some things out. Where we stand. Where you stand with that thing on your back.” She glanced at Felicia for the first time, a sharp, warning look. “And you. Stay away from him unless it’s strictly business. I catch you flirting again and the stalemate ends with me webbing you to the Brooklyn Bridge.”
Felicia grinned, completely unbothered. “Noted, Blondie. Though I do love a woman who knows what she wants.”
Gwen shot me one last look—equal parts hurt, disappointment, and that fierce protectiveness that made me fall for her in the first place—then fired a web line and launched off into the night without another word. I watched her white-and-black figure disappear between the buildings, chest tight.
She is very angry.
Venom observed, almost impressed.
We like her. She would make an excellent predator.
‘She’s right to be mad.’
Felicia slid gracefully off her gargoyle and stretched like a cat waking from a nap. She sauntered over, stopping just close enough that I caught the faint scent of whatever expensive perfume she wore. Her eyes sparkled with pure mischief.
“Well, that was delicious,” she purred. “Domestic drama looks good on you, Osborn. Don’t worry—I’ll give your girlfriend some time to cool off before I send you that booty call. When I’m ready for my microbot lessons, I expect very… hands-on instruction.” She winked, slow and deliberate. “Try not to miss me too much, handsome.”
She blew me a kiss, fired her own grappling line, and vanished over the edge of the roof in a swirl of white hair and black leather, leaving me standing alone with nothing but the wind and Venom’s commentary.
I sank down onto the edge of the roof, legs dangling over sixty stories of nothing, and buried my face in my hands. The suit rippled around me, Venom shifting restlessly.
The cat lady is trouble. We should have eaten her.
‘No. We shouldn’t have.’
But the blond one is furious. This is bad. We like when she smiles at us. Now she might throw us off buildings.
“Yeah,” I muttered out loud, voice hoarse. “She might.”
The city stretched out below me, lights twinkling like nothing was wrong. I’d saved Mark’s shot at freedom today. I’d kept the Castles alive. But I’d hurt Gwen doing it, and now she was questioning everything—me, us, the symbiote. And Felicia was going to be hanging around like the world’s most dangerous stray cat, ready to cause chaos the second I taught her how to use those microbots.
I stared out at the skyline, the weight of every choice pressing down harder than the suit ever could.
We are in the doghouse.
This is new. I don’t like it.
“Me neither, buddy,” I whispered. “Me neither.”
The night felt a lot colder than it had ten minutes ago.
…
The Parker kitchen on Christmas Eve felt less like a room and more like a high-stakes staging area for a flour-based war zone. Clouds of powdered sugar still hung faintly in the warm air, catching the pale afternoon light filtering through the window. And every available inch of the laminate countertops was occupied by cooling racks, mixing bowls, and tangled nests of silver tinsel that Aunt May had insisted on setting out.
It was perfect.
Mary Jane Watson carefully positioned a final gingerbread star onto the tiered porcelain dessert tray, her fingers slightly sticky with royal icing. It was supposed to be a relaxing holiday afternoon, but the sheer volume of baking supplies currently dominating the small Queens kitchen felt almost tactical.
Right beside her, Liz Allan was methodically arranging a row of frosted sugar cookies, her movements tense and overly precise. Liz had come over to escape the absolute pressure cooker of her own house, seeking refuge from the suffocating anxiety of Mark’s ongoing legal nightmare and the constant, grim hum of local news vans parked down the block.
“If I have to look at another lawyer’s business card, MJ, I think I’m going to throw up,” Liz said, her voice dropping into a tight, strained register as she set down a cookie with a bit too much force.”
Somehow, MJ doubted it was about the cookies.
“My dad spends all day on the phone with the defense team, and my mom just stares at the tree like it’s a court summons.” Called it! “It’s like our name is suddenly radioactive. Everyone at Mid-Manhattan is going to be staring at me the second the new semester starts, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
MJ stopped what she was doing, wiping her hands on a checkered dish towel before looking over at her friend. The old, superficial friction that used to define their relationship at school—the petty social posturing and the unspoken competition for attention—felt incredibly distant now, entirely burned away by the raw reality of the past few months.
“Let them stare,” MJ said, her voice steady and grounded, completely devoid of the hollow pity that Liz usually detested. “They’re just looking because they wouldn’t know how to carry half the weight you’ve been dealing with without completely breaking down. You’ve been the anchor for your entire family through a massive storm, Liz. A few whispers in the hallway aren't going to sink you.”
Liz let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders dropping slightly as the validation hit home. It wasn’t a platitude; it was a reminder of facts, and coming from MJ, it felt like solid ground beneath her feet.
“It’s just hard to imagine a future that doesn't involve constant damage control.” She admitted. “I’m trying to focus on college applications, but every time I sit down to write an essay, I keep wondering if some admissions board is going to look at my last name and just slide the paper into the trash.”
“Then you make your academic record so incredibly flawless that they can’t afford to look away,” MJ replied, offering a warm, reassuring smile as she shifted a bowl of sprinkles out of the way. “You’ve been talking about the early decision track for months, and your GPA is practically a work of art. Mark’s mistakes are his own, Liz. They don't get to dictate your future or rewrite your intelligence.”
Liz looked up, a small, genuine spark of her usual competitive fire returning to her eyes as she adjusted her ponytail. “You’re right. I’ve worked too hard on my AP chemistry portfolio to let the narrative slip away from me now. I’m going to submit those mid-year grades the second they lock, and if Columbia wants to hesitate, I’ll give them five more reasons to accept me.”
She paused, the tension in her face softening as she looked at MJ.
“What about you? You’ve been rehearsing that monologue for the Manhattan Theater Club auditions until your voice is practically hoarse.”
A familiar, fluttery knot of nerves instantly tightened in MJ’s stomach at the mention of the production. Stepping onto a real, professional stage in front of actual casting directors felt like jumping off a cliff without a net, a completely different beast than the comfortable rehearsals in the school auditorium.
“Honestly? It terrifies me,” MJ admitted, leaning back against the counter and looking down at the tray of cookies. “It’s one thing to perform in front of friends who want you to succeed, but walking into a cold casting room where you’re just a number on a headshot is a whole different level of exposure. Sometimes I look at the script and I wonder if I’m just pretending to be someone who can actually pull this off.”
“You aren’t pretending,” Liz said firmly, abandoning the sugar cookies entirely to lean in closer, her tone fiercely supportive. “I watched you command the room during the fall showcase, MJ. You have this presence that completely forces people to pay attention, and that isn't something you can just fake. You’re going to walk into that audition, you’re going to give them that performance, and you’re going to make them realize exactly what they’re missing if they don't cast you.”
MJ let out a soft, surprised laugh, the heavy weight of her performance anxiety easing just a bit under the sheer force of Liz’s confidence in her. It was a strange, beautiful thing, realizing how deeply they had come to understand each other over the course of a chaotic, dangerous year that had tested everyone they knew.
“Thanks, Liz,” MJ said quietly, her expression softening as she reached over to adjust a stray piece of tinsel that had drifted onto the edge of the dessert platter. “That actually means a lot. We’ve both had to grow up a lot faster than we expected this year, haven't we?”
“Way too fast,” Liz agreed, a gentle, knowing smile touching her lips as she picked up the finished tray. “But at least we’re the ones driving the car now. Let’s get these out to the living room before Aunt May realizes we used all her decorating sugar.”
…
The Parker living room was a vibrant, suffocating ecosystem of holiday cheer, smelling strongly of pine needles, roasting ham, and the distinct, oily top-note of whatever hair product Peter was using to look civilized. It was easily the most absurdly mismatched ensemble of human beings ever assembled in the borough of Queens.
Peter was hovering near the refreshment table like a hyperactive golden retriever, refilling punch glasses and trying to keep the conversational gears moving, while Aunt May drifted through the crowd, radiating pure maternal warmth and fussing over shirt collars. Across the room, my mother, Emily, was laughing softly at something Dr. Connors said.
She looked genuinely happy, having successfully sneaked away from Norman’s brooding, corporate shadow for a few hours. Though, the faint, anxious glance she gave her watch told me she’d be heading back to the penthouse far sooner than either of us wanted. Ugh. Why did she have to actually love my dad?
Things would be so much simpler if she could just divorce him, and take half his money.
Kidding!
Mostly…
This pine tree is dead, Harry,
Venom rumbled in the back of my mind, his mental voice fluctuating with a mix of profound confusion and deep interest.
Why have we decorated a corpse with glowing spheres? Is it a warning to our enemies? A monument to our kills? Respect.
‘It’s a Christmas tree, buddy. We put gifts under it,’ I project mentally, keeping my face perfectly locked in a polite smile as Peter bumped his shoulder against mine, subtly steering me into the narrow corridor toward the kitchen.
“Hey, man, this came for you,” Peter said, pulling a crisp, heavy cream-colored envelope from his back pocket and sliding it to me like a piece of contraband. “A courier dropped it off at the apartment earlier. It’s from a Mr. Murdock. He said it was just a low-profile thank you for the… localized legal assistance we provided regarding the Kitchen Irish and that whole Castle mess.”
I took the envelope, running my thumb over the elegant, slightly indented texture of the card. Matt Murdock was a genuinely good guy—a blind, remarkably disciplined nice guy who spent his nights bleeding for Hell’s Kitchen. I opened the flap, glancing at the impeccably neat, perfectly straight handwriting inside that had absolutely been penned by Foggy Nelson.
You know. Because Matt himself was blind.
I still appreciated the gesture, though.
It was a simple, thoughtful holiday greeting, a rare piece of uncomplicated kindness in a universe that usually preferred to throw bricks at my head.
“That’s nice of him,” I said, tucking the card into my jacket pocket. “Really nice. Though I’m still trying to figure out how Jessica managed to walk through your front door without causing a structural collapse.”
I gestured subtly toward the corner by the television set.
Jessica Jones was currently standing completely rigid beneath a monstrously ugly, oversized festive sweater featuring a reindeer with a flashing red nose—an item Aunt May had undoubtedly forced her into at the door. Jess was glaring into a glass of non-alcoholic eggnog with a level of pure, concentrated malice that could have curdled dairy on its own.
Aunt May was hovering right beside her, patting her arm and treating her like a local hero for her private investigative work, a display of unadulterated affection that was clearly terrifying Jess more than any supervillain ever could.
“Why exactly is she here, Pete?” I asked, leaning against the drywall. “I mean, I love that she’s not drinking your house dry, but she looks like she’s actively plotting a homicide.”
Quite possibly mine.
“Hey, don't look at me, Aunt May went on a total holiday rampage,” Peter whispered, a helpless grin breaking across his face. “She decided that since we’ve all had such a crazy, stressful year, we needed to bring the community together. She invited basically all of our bosses. Jessica, Dr. Connors, she even tracked down an address for J. Jonah Jameson.”
I blinked, the absolute mental image of the Daily Bugle’s chief editor sitting on Aunt May’s sofa nearly shattering my brain. “Jameson? You’re kidding.”
“Oh, he couldn't make it, but he sent a present anyway,” Peter chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled a small printed voucher from his pocket. “A card with a redemption code for a free one-year premium trial to his aggressive new podcast. May thinks it’s a lovely gesture. Ben’s currently using it as a coaster in the den.”
Before I could answer, Aunt May sailed past the corridor entrance holding a massive, steaming ceramic platter.
Harry, the little ginger-bread men are screaming!
Venom suddenly shouted, his internal presence practically vibrating with carnivorous excitement as he stared through my eyes at the tray of cookies.
Are they tiny human sacrifices for the season? Look at their frosted faces. Let us eat them, Harry. They look delicious. They look crunchy.
I looked at the little spiced cookies, then back toward the living room where Gwen was currently laughing at a joke MJ made, her eyes completely avoiding mine from across the room. The lingering, icy sting of our rooftop confrontation was still a heavy, suffocating knot in my chest, and honestly, a little mindless holiday indulgence sounded pretty good right about now.
‘You know what, buddy?’ I thought back, letting a genuine smile slip through. ‘Sure. Merry Christmas, Venom.’
You mean it?!
Venom roared, his mental voice hitting a pitch of pure, ecstatic glee that nearly gave me an aneurysm.
We finally get to eat someone! Yes!!! Victory is ours!
I snatched three gingerbread men off the edge of the platter as May passed, shoving them into my mouth before anyone could comment on my manners. The ginger and molasses hit my tongue, and internally, the symbiote purred like a giant, satisfied engine, thoroughly convinced we had just performed a glorious ritual execution.
I was still chewing when a heavy, leather-clad shoulder slammed into my ribs, steering me backward into the shadowed alcove near the coat rack. Jessica Jones stood there, having successfully abandoned her eggnog somewhere by the radiator. Her sharp, dark eyes bored directly into mine, instantly noting the deep, dark circles under my eyes and the overall emotional exhaustion radiating off my posture.
“You look like garbage, kid,” Jessica said, her voice a low, gravelly murmur that barely carried over the sound of the holiday music playing in the den. “Seriously. Like you got dragged backwards through a meat grinder and then ran a marathon.”
“It’s been a long week, Jess,” I said, swallowing the last of the cookie. “Just family stuff. And school. The usual.”
“Don't give me the teenager script, I get paid to see through bad acting,” Jess countered, leaning her hip against the wall and crossing her arms, the flashing red reindeer nose on her sweater blinking mockingly between us. “You’ve been running ragged since Central Park. Look, I got way too used to having a free secretary around the office to go back to doing all that filing and digital tracking myself. You’re getting back in my office. Soon. I need someone to answer the phones who doesn't complain about the smell of stale Chinese food.”
It was her version of an olive branch, a blunt, clumsy way of pulling me back under her perimeter where she could keep an eye on my vitals. After everything with the microbots and Norman’s constant surveillance, having a safe house at Alias Investigations actually sounded like a luxury I could afford now.
“I can do that,” I said, nodding quietly. “I can make some more time for the office. The schedule cleared up a bit… a little too much, actually.”
Jessica’s eyes narrowed, her private eye intuition—mixed with the terrifying, innate radar of an older woman—instantly locking onto the exact frequency of my misery. She glanced through the doorway toward the living room, her gaze tracking Gwen’s bright blonde hair for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my face with an aggressively flat expression.
“Oh,” Jessica muttered, a faint, cynical smirk touching her lips. “Girl problems. Stacy’s giving you the sub-zero treatment, isn't she?”
I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the heat rise into my cheeks. “Is it really that obvious?”
“You’re radiating pathetic from three feet away, Osborn,” Jess said, reaching out to punch my shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth, though there was a rough, protective weight behind it. “Listen to me. If you screwed up, don't do that stupid thing boys do where you hover around like a depressed ghost waiting for an invitation.”
‘I don’t do that. Do I?’
We don’t want to say anything negative during the holidays.
‘So…?’
…
‘… did you just ghost me?’
Don’t be ridiculous, Harry! We’re an alien, not a ghost. Also, you should really listen to the booze woman. She is very wise.
“And definitely don't try to solve it with some grand, algorithmic spreadsheet logic.” Jessica… continued? I think. “Women hate that. Just show up, admit you were an idiot, and don't make her guess what you're thinking.”
“I have to… admit,” I shuddered. “That I was wrong?”
“I… fucking duh! Ugh. No wonder she’s ignoring you. Go apologize. Now!”
…
The constant, rhythmic clinking of silverware against porcelain was the loudest sound in the Castle dining room, a steady metronome that kept Frank anchored to the present.
The scent of roasted pine, gravy, and sweet potatoes filled the air, thick and heavy, competing with the underlying, clean tang of medical antiseptic that still clung to his skin. His head throbbed with a dull, pulsing ache right beneath the fresh white gauze taped tightly over his temple—a constant reminder of the bullet that had nearly taken his life in Central Park.
But looking across the table, the pain didn’t matter. It didn't even register.
Maria was laughing, a bright, melodic sound as she adjusted a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes crinkling with the familiar warmth that had pulled him through two separate deployments.
Beside her, Lisa was carefully negotiating the terms of her dessert intake, using a fork to point at the untouched broccoli on her plate with a look of pure, stubborn determination that she had absolutely inherited from him. Across from them, Frank Jr. was enthusiastically narrating a play-by-play of a football game he’d watched earlier, his hands gesturing wildly until he nearly knocked over his glass of apple juice.
It was loud. It was chaotic. It was a miracle.
Frank took a slow drink of his water, his large hands steady around the glass, though his knuckles were still bruised and scraped. Just days ago, he’d been trapped in a sterile hospital bed, a comatose shell while a war waged in the shadows of the city.
He’d woken up to a world of blood and betrayal, set on a violent path by a shadow from his past, ready to burn everything to the ground to find the monster responsible for putting his family in the crossfire. Ray Schoonover—the Blacksmith. A man he had trusted, a man who had worn the same uniform. The betrayal still tasted like ash in his mouth.
But the storm had cleared, stopped cold by a pair of brightly colored anomalies who had absolutely no business operating in a war zone. The Spider-Man kid in his bright red-and-blue threads and the girl in the white hooded suit had stepped between him and the abyss. They were just children, fourteen-year-old kids who should have been worrying about algebra and high school dances, yet they possessed a terrifying, relentless competence.
They had helped him corner the Blacksmith, ensuring Schoonover was dragged away in chains to rot in a cell rather than leaving Frank to cross a line he could never walk back from. They had preserved this exact moment. They had kept his hands clean so he could sit at this table.
“Hey, pass the rolls, would you, Frank?”
The voice pulled him out of the tactical overlay running in his head. Billy Russo sat at the far end of the table, his handsome face split by an easy, charismatic grin as he gestured toward the basket of bread. Billy looked immaculate, his tailored shirt crisp, radiating the confident aura of a man who belonged in a high-rise office rather than a foxhole.
He’d been there when Frank woke up, a rock of familiarity in the chaos, helping him navigate the immediate aftermath of the Central Park ambush.
Frank picked up the basket and passed it down, his eyes locked onto his old brother-in-arms for a fraction of a second too long. There was an edge to Billy tonight, a subtle, microscopic tension in the way his shoulders shifted under his jacket, a tells-and-signals language that only men who had bled in the dirt together could truly read.
Billy was hiding something.
The realization didn't come with anger, just a cold, analytical curiosity.
In Kandahar, a man hiding something meant a compromised perimeter. Here, at a Christmas Eve dinner with Maria and the kids, it meant Frank’s guard could never truly go down. The war was over, the Blacksmith was broken, but the world was changing. New players, new organizations, and a city full of masked vigilantes meant the pieces were constantly shifting on the board.
“You’re quiet tonight, Dad,” Lisa observed, abandoning her broccoli entirely to fix him with a discerning, wide-eyed stare. “Does your head still hurt?”
Frank’s stern, weathered features softened instantly, a genuine, rare smile breaking through the rugged lines of his face. He reached over, gently tapping the tip of her nose with a heavy finger. “Daddy’s just fine, sweetheart. Just thinking about how lucky I am to have the best assistant chef in New York.”
“I helped with the mashing,” Frank Jr. piped up proudly, his mouth slightly full of turkey. “Billy said I have a great striking technique.”
“He’s not lying, Frank,” Billy chuckled, tearing a roll in half with an easy, fluid motion. “The kid’s got a mean left hook. We might have to sign him up for the Golden Gloves in a few years.”
“Let’s focus on him finishing middle school first, Billy,” Maria said with a playful, warning roll of her eyes, though she reached under the table and squeezed Frank’s knee. The warmth of her hand radiated through his jeans, a grounding weight that finally forced the lingering adrenaline out of his veins.
The city outside the window was alive with the distant hum of traffic and the soft, pale drifting of a late December snow, but inside this room, the perimeter was secure. The Blacksmith was behind bars. The monsters were contained. Frank picked up his fork, listening to the bright, beautiful noise of his family’s laughter echoing against the walls, and let himself simply be a father.
For one night, the soldier could rest.
…
The crisp night air on the front porch was a sharp, grounding shock after the suffocating warmth of the Parker living room. Gwen leaned against the wooden railing, watching the pale flakes of a late December snow drift down to coat the cracked Queens sidewalk.
Inside, the muffled hum of the party was finally winding down, but the heavy, icy tension that had lingered between her and Harry since that midnight rooftop still felt entirely unresolved.
She heard the screen door squeak open behind her before she saw him. Harry stepped onto the porch, exhaling a soft plume of white mist into the cold, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. For a long moment, neither of them said anything, the quiet crunch of the falling snow filling the space between them.
“I’m sorry, Gwen,” Harry said quietly, stepping up to the railing a few feet away from her. “Really. I know I completely blew past the line, and I know I didn't trust you when I should have. The next time I think of doing anything even tangentially stupid, I promise you, I will call you first.”
Gwen kept her eyes fixed on the streetlamp across the road, letting the words hang in the air. Her practical, sharp-witted side wanted to tease him, to point out that “tangentially stupid” covered about ninety percent of his daily itinerary, but the raw sincerity in his voice softened the defensive edge she’d been holding onto all night.
She looked over at him, her expression a mix of lingering frustration and reluctant warmth.
Before she could formulate a response, Harry pulled a flat, heavy package from under his coat and slid it across the wooden railing toward her.
Gwen’s eyebrows knit together as she picked it up, her fingers tracing the textured fabric of a beautifully bound, handmade scrapbook. Opening the cover, her breath caught slightly in her throat. Page after page was filled with neatly clipped columns, investigative notes, and front-page spreads—every single article Ben Urich had ever written documenting the heroic deeds of Ghost-Spider.
“It’s proof,” Harry murmured, watching her face closely. “Proof of the hero I always knew you were, even when the rest of the city was blind to it.”
A profound, overwhelming wave of emotion hit her, completely melting the last remnants of her anger. It wasn’t just a nice gesture; it was a devastatingly precise acknowledgment of the weight she carried every time she put on that mask.
Looking at the neatly ordered pages, she realized how deeply, fundamentally Harry understood her—not just as a classmate or a girlfriend, but as a person trying to make the world a better place. The entire Felicia debacle suddenly felt less like a betrayal and more like what it actually was: a fourteen-year-old boy growing desperate and making a reckless mistake to save their friend.
“Harry, this is…” Gwen trailed off, her voice a little thick as she closed the album and pressed it against her chest. “You are completely ridiculous, you know that?”
“Hey, I’m just a guy who appreciates the press,” Harry said, a familiar, confident smirk finally returning to his face.
But because he was still an Osborn and physically incapable of quitting while he was ahead, he didn't stop there. With an absurdly theatrical flourish, he reached into his pocket again and produced a second, sleek, unmistakably designer jewelry box, flipping it open to reveal a pair of ridiculously expensive, perfectly cut diamond earrings catching the winter light.
Gwen’s emotional warmth instantly evaporated, replaced by a flat, highly skeptical look as her eyebrows arched high. “Harry, you were this close to me forgiving you. You can't just buy my affection.”
“I know. Not with money,” Harry replied smoothly, his smirk widening into something thoroughly unrepentant. “That’s why I got you a gift from the heart. This one is just because I'm filthy rich and I like looking at shiny things on you.”
Gwen let out a dramatic, long-suffering groan and rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the genuine, bright smile from breaking across her face. It was impossible to stay mad at him when he was being this aggressively himself.
“You’re terrible,” she said, though she did let him slip his hands around her waist, the heavy scrapbook securely tucked under her arm. “You realize I can’t exactly wear diamond studs while swinging through Hell’s Kitchen, right? They aren't exactly aerodynamic under the hood.”
“True. But you can still show them off at ESU,” Harry countered, leaning his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her nose. “It’s a pretty nice fashion statement. It screams class. Plus, it reminds the other interns that you’re taken by a very wealthy, attractive, and highly grounded individual.”
“Grounded by your father, you mean,” Gwen teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she looked up into his face. “How’s the house arrest treating you, anyway? Did Norman let you out on a leash tonight, or did you have to pick a lock?”
“I don’t have bedtimes, anymore. Remember?” Harry murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of her winter coat. “I’m my own person now. Well, two persons, if you count the alien passenger. Venom thinks the Christmas tree is a warning monument to our enemies, by the way. He respects it.”
Gwen let out a soft laugh, burying her face into his shoulder for a brief second to shield herself from the wind. The sheer absurdity of their lives—superpowers, corporate groundings, and alien symbiotes—somehow felt completely normal when it was just the two of them on a quiet porch. “Tell him I’m glad he’s getting into the holiday spirit. Just keep him away from Aunt May’s roast ham. Peter says she’s been guarding it like a hawk.”
“No worries. We already sacrificed three gingerbread men for the cause,” Harry said, contentedly. “This is nice… I’m glad we’re talking. Jessica was right, I just had to admit that I was wrong, and you were right. Which I will never doubt again.”
Damn right.
Wait. What?
Gwen pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyebrows arching again in disbelief. “Jessica Jones gave you relationship advice? The woman who wears a leather jacket to a Christmas party and looks like she wants to punch the tinsel?”
“She told me to stop hovering like a depressed zombie and just apologize,” Harry admitted, offering a sheepish shrug. “She was surprisingly definitive about it. Kind of mean, too.”
“Well, she’s smarter than you are,” Gwen said, tapping the tip of his nose with a gloved finger. “But I suppose your apology is accepted. Just… remember the promise, Osborn. No more lone-wolf operations with cat burglars.”
“Call first. Every time,” Harry promised, his voice softening as he pulled her a little closer against the chill. “Merry Christmas, Gwen.”
“Merry Christmas, Harry,” Gwen whispered, leaning up to kiss him as the snow continued to blanket the quiet Queens street.
Huh.
Looks like she can have quiet, happy, and uncomplicated moments, after all.
Suck it, Fall Formal.
…
The penthouse and the city below were dead quiet, suspended in the hollow, artificial peace of midnight on Christmas Eve. But sixty floors below the festive lights of Manhattan, inside the restricted sub-laboratory of Oscorp, the world was cast in a cold, unblinking green-tinted dark.
Norman Osborn stood entirely alone, the harsh luminescence of his multi-monitor array cutting through the shadows of the vault. On the massive screens before him, paused frames of high-definition security footage flickered in a slow, rhythmic loop. It was the black-suited vigilante—the creature the streets were calling Venom.
Norman leaned closer, his eyes tracking the impossible, liquid physics of the suit's movements with an obsessive, clinical scrutiny. He knew every millimeter of that foreign mass. He knew its pulse, its thermal output, and exactly whose heart it was beating against.
A father would never regret saving his son’s life. Norman certainly didn't. When that stray bullet from a low-life thief had triggered the dormant genetic decay Harry inherited from Emily, when the boy was bleeding out in a sterile hospital room, Norman had done what any man of vision would do. He took control of biology.
He forced a solution.
But as he watched the digital playback of the sleek, black entity effortlessly scaling a brick wall, a heavy, bitter knot of resentment tightened in his chest. He would always regret that he had been forced to use that specific method to do it.
Ever since Harry had bonded with the creature, the boy had changed. He wasn't just recovering; he was slipping away. He was reckless now. Defiant. Disobeying direct orders, breaking a mandatory grounding to play cops and robbers, and keeping secrets that didn't belong in a fourteen-year-old’s head.
Norman crossed his arms, his jaw tightening as he stared at the frozen screen. It was difficult to determine where the problem truly lay. Was it the parasite’s insidious, predatory influence corrupting his son’s natural sense of duty? Or was it the Spiders?
Those two radioactive anomalies—the Parker boy and the Stacy girl. Yet another pair of stolen Oscorp experiments turned directly against their creator, filling Harry’s head with delusion and turning Norman’s own family against him. And for what? So Harry could spend his holidays eating cheap gingerbread cookies in a cramped Queens kitchen while his father guarded the empire alone.
Even Emily had been reluctant to return to the penthouse tonight, her distant, hollow excuses carrying the distinct sting of quiet judgment. She couldn't see the grander tapestry. None of them could. Something had to change, and a man of Norman's intellect knew with absolute, mathematical certainty that he wasn't the problem.
The Symbiote was the problem.
It was an unstable asset, an untamable variable that had outlived its tactical necessity. All he had to do was remove it. Not right away, of course—the creature was still the only biological engine keeping Harry’s cellular degradation at bay. A premature extraction would mean liquidation.
But Norman Osborn didn't stop at single contingencies. There were always alternatives, and the primary terminal was currently processing the ultimate answer.
He turned his back on the security footage, walking over to the central diagnostics bay where a complex chemical matrix was actively rendering on a holographic display. Just a few feet away, inside a pressurized stabilization chamber, a bright green formula bubbled quietly, casting a sickening, emerald glow across the metallic floorboards.
It was pure, synthesized human enhancement. A hyper-accelerated cellular regenerative matrix designed to rewrite human DNA, to cure what was broken without the need for a volatile, independent alien passenger. It would fix Harry. It would fix everything.
It had to.
It had to
It had—
It will.
All will be well. All will be as it should be. In time. All in good time.