[3rd Person]
The steam curled lazily from the two mugs on the small cafe table, painting hazy strokes against the window pane. Outside, Brooklyn was just starting to shake off the last vestiges of afternoon light, the shadows lengthening into the cool embrace of early evening.
Then the bell above the door jingled, and Bobby walked in.
He looked good. Better than the last time, when I'd seen him hooked up to more machines than a Stark Industries convention floor. Jeans, a simple hoodie, baseball cap pulled low – no ice trails, no crystalline sheen, just... Bobby. Normal. Or as normal as a guy who can instantly lower the temperature of a room to absolute zero can be.
"Pete, man!" he said, spotting me instantly. He navigated between tables with that effortless grace some people just have, pulling out the chair opposite me. "Didn't think you'd actually be early. That's gotta be a first."
I chuckled, pushing one of the mugs towards him. "Hey, spoke to your doctor, said you were cleared for moderate caffeine intake. Figured that qualified as a medical emergency."
Bobby grinned, pulling off his cap and ruffling his hair. "Yeah, yeah, always the responsible one. Thanks, though." He took a long sip, letting out a soft sigh. "Man, hospital coffee is the worst. This is like nectar of the gods."
"Glad I could facilitate your ascension," I quipped, taking a sip of my own lukewarm coffee. "Seriously though, you look... well. Stronger. Less... frozen solid."
He laughed, a bright, easy sound that felt good to hear. "Hey, turns out regenerative healing factors and being a mutant have their perks. Though yeah, Taskmaster really put me through the wringer. Thought I was a goner there for a minute." He spoke lightly, deflecting with humor like he always did, but I saw the flicker in his eyes, the brief vulnerability behind the easy smile. It was a familiar look, mirroring the guardedness I often felt myself. We both had our ways of burying the rough stuff. His leaned towards jokes; mine leaned towards just... not talking about it until it exploded.
"Yeah," I said, keeping my tone casual, not wanting to push. "Nasty stuff. I tried to track him afterwards, but he just... vanished. Like he does."
"Tell me about it," Bobby muttered, the humor fading slightly. "Dude's like a ghost with a camera fetish. Copies everything you do. It's unsettling. Just when I thought I had him figured out..." He trailed off, swirling the coffee in his mug. "Don't know who he is, or why he came after me specifically this time. Just some freelance mercenary, right?"
"That's the general consensus," I confirmed, leaning back in my chair. "Dangerous, though. Definitely dangerous. Glad you pulled through, Bobby. Seriously." I meant it more than I could probably say aloud. The thought of losing another friend... it was a weight I barely let myself acknowledge most days. Uncle Ben. 3D-Man.
Bobby met my gaze, and for a moment, the lighthearted facade dropped completely. "Yeah, me too, Pete. Me too." He paused, taking another steadying sip of his coffee. "But hey, not just here to recap my near-death experience. How've you been? Haven't seen you around much lately. Everything... okay?"
The shift caught me off guard. Bobby was usually the one deflecting, keeping things breezy. For him to initiate the 'checking in' phase meant he was serious. And suddenly, the knot in my stomach was back, tighter this time. Because 'okay' was a relative term lately.
"Uh, yeah, mostly," I mumbled, staring into my coffee. How much could I really say? How much should I say? My life felt like a perpetual three-ring circus, and lately, the rings were collapsing into each other. School life was a mess and my personal life... well, that was the biggest mess of all.
"Come on, Parker. Spill it," Bobby prompted gently. Not pushing hard, just... waited.
Okay. Take a breath. He's a friend. He gets it. Mostly.
"It's... Elaine," I started, the name feeling heavy on my tongue. "Things... aren't great. I'm just... not around enough, you know?" I sighed, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the table. "It's the usual story, I guess. Last minute emergencies, broken plans, cancelled dates. I'm constantly flaking because some bodega is getting robbed."
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the familiar frustration bubble up. "She's amazing, Bobby. Smart, funny, she actually likes me, somehow. And I feel like I'm just... failing her. All the time." The words tumbled out, a little faster than I intended. It was hard to talk about this stuff. Opening up felt dangerous, exposing a raw nerve. I was so used to compartmentalizing, keeping the two halves of my life separate, especially from the people I cared about. It was supposed to protect them, but sometimes... sometimes it felt like it just pushed them away.
"I tell her I'm busy, whatever excuse I can come up with that doesn't involve me swinging across the city in spandex," I continued, the guilt gnawing at me. "And she's understanding, she really is. But there's only so many times you can cancel plans or miss something important before the excuses start wearing thin. Before she starts feeling like she's not... a priority."
My voice dropped to a near whisper. "And sometimes... sometimes I wonder if she'd be happier if she didn't have to deal with the uncertainty, the constant worry about where I am, wondering why I'm always late or tired or got some weird bruise." I looked up, meeting Bobby's steady gaze. "It feels like I'm always choosing between being there for her and being there for... well, everyone else. And 'everyone else' usually wins."
Bobby listened quietly, his usual jokey demeanor completely gone. He just nodded slowly, stirring his coffee with a finger, creating a tiny vortex of cool mist above the mug. When I finished, he didn't jump in immediately with advice or platitudes. He just thought for a second, maybe two.
"Yeah. I get that," he said finally, his voice low and thoughtful. "It's... a lot. This life we live. Hard to fit anything else into it sometimes, isn't it?" He paused, then added, "Especially relationships. They need... presence. And ours? It's kinda built on absence, huh? Always having to bail, always having to disappear."
He took another sip, leaning back in his chair. "Look, Pete. You're not perfect. Nobody is. Especially not guys like us. We make mistakes. We drop the ball. A lot." He chuckled softly, a self-deprecating sound. "Believe me, I've messed up plenty. Hurt people I cared about because I was too scared, too avoidant, too busy trying to be the hero or just trying not to feel like a screw-up."
He leaned forward slightly, his expression open and serious. "But, man... you're also one of the best people I know. You literally risk your neck, every single day, for strangers. You run into the fire when everyone else is running away. That's not just brave, Pete. That's... it's you. It's fundamentally who you are."
He gestured with his hand, tracing an invisible pattern on the table. "And yeah, that part of you, the hero part, it takes up a huge chunk of your life. It has to. But it doesn't define all of it. You're still Peter Parker. The smart, funny, ridiculously loyal guy sitting across from me."
"You can't always be perfect," he repeated, looking me right in the eye. "You're going to screw up. You're going to miss things. But being honest about it? Trying? Making the effort, even when it's impossible? That counts for a hell of a lot, Peter. Elaine... she probably knows you're not just flaking because you don't care. If she's amazing, like you say, she probably sees the good in you. The part that makes you do what you do, even if she doesn't know what that is."
He shrugged, a loose, easy movement. "You can't magic away the superhero stuff. But maybe... maybe you don't have to be perfect at balancing it. Maybe just being present when you can be, and being honest – as honest as you can be, given... well, everything – is enough. Trying counts, Pete. It really does."