Doctor Connors is Peter Parker's father

Rain pounded the tin kitchen windowsill in the modest Queens house. The air smelled of the oatmeal cookies May had baked that morning, trying to ward off her grief, and cheap instant coffee. Three adults sat at a table covered with a worn, floral-patterned oilcloth. Their postures were tense, their faces haggard. Curt Connors, in his formal and obviously expensive suit, seemed out of place in this cozy, shabby setting. His gaze slid over the worn linoleum and modest curtains, and in his eyes there was not contempt, but a heavy, oppressive understanding. An understanding of a truth everyone here already knew. Ben and May Parker sat across from them, holding hands under the table so tightly their knuckles turned white. They were home, but they felt trapped. — The official notification came this morning, — Connors's voice, usually confident and instructive, sounded alien and muffled here. — No data from the flight recorders. The plane simply vanished over the Atlantic. The search... has been called off. They are presumed dead. May sobbed quietly, pressing a handkerchief to her face. Ben put his arm around her shoulders, his face gray from lack of sleep and helplessness. — This can't be happening... Richard, Mary... — he whispered, shaking his head. — How? — The reasons are unknown, — Connors replied, trying to sound like a scientist, as if that would shield him from the overwhelming emotion. — The weather was perfect. The equipment was state-of-the-art. The crew was experienced. This is... an anomaly. An inexplicable loss. In the oppressive silence that followed these words, the only sounds were the steady patter of rain and the faint scraping of the doorway. Six-year-old Peter stood in the doorway, huddled in the dim light of the hallway. He pressed himself against the frame, as if trying to become part of it, unconsciously picking at the peeling paint with his finger. His large, intelligent eyes, full of adult melancholy, were fixed on the adults in the kitchen. He didn't understand all the words—"anomaly," "chart recorders"—but through the crack in his heart, he sensed the most important thing: something final and irreparable. His world, already shattered the night his parents disappeared, was now crumbling completely, leaving a lump in his throat. — Peter, — Ben said the name quietly, but so clearly that the boy froze for a moment, holding his breath. — What will happen to Peter? May looked at her husband with hope mingled with such horror that Peter felt terrified. He'd seen Aunt May cry into her pillow at night, and now those cries were etched into every wrinkle. — We... we want to keep him, Kurt, — her voice trembled. — We love him very much. He's like a son to us... — But you can't, — Connors finished for her quietly, almost soundlessly, understandingly. He didn't look at them, but looked past them, at the raindrops rolling down the glass. His gaze fell on his right stump, where his arm should have been. He clenched his teeth. — We have a small house, — Ben began, and each word was like a hammer blow, driving a nail into the coffin of their hopes. Peter heard the rhythm. — The mortgage. Our salary... We barely make ends meet. We want to give him the best, not fight just to feed him. He's so smart, Kurt. He deserves a good school, opportunities... Everything Richard wanted for him. — He deserves to be with a family that loves him! — Connors suddenly blurted out passionately, as if surprised by his own fervor. — You are his family. — And we will stay that way! — Ben's voice grew stronger, a steely determination laced within it. — We will see him every weekend. Call him every day. He will know he has an aunt and uncle who adore him. But he needs to live... he needs to live with you. Ben gestured at Kurt, at his expensive jacket, at his confident stance, which contrasted so sharply with his own tired, hunched posture. — You have a home, Kurt. Stability. You can give him what we can't. Everything Richard dreamed of for him. — I... I'm not cut out for this, — Kurt whispered hoarsely, looking at what remained of his right hand. — My job... it's dangerous. I can cause harm. I'm a bad father. I even see my son, Billy, once a week, sometimes even less... I'm a recluse. — You were his father's friend, — May said quietly but firmly. The tears dried, leaving only a maternal firmness that made Peter press even tighter against the doorframe. — Richard trusted you. We saw how Peter turned to you. You're his link to his father. That's priceless. — It's a duty, — Connors corrected her grimly. — No, — May shook her head. — It's love. Love for a friend. And we ask you for that love. We give you the most precious thing we have because we love him more than our own lives. We're asking you to do what's best for Peter. Curt Connors leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling on the doorway. He noticed movement. In the dim light, he saw a family.

***

Peter sat on the cold floor until his stomach growled loudly and demandingly, breaking the oppressive silence. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. The adults were too preoccupied with their grief and difficult conversations to think about food. The fear of the unknown and the pain of loss had temporarily dulled his hunger, but now it was returning with renewed vigor. The boy rose unsteadily to his feet. The room seemed even larger and emptier as he stood alone in the middle of it. He remembered Dr. Connors's words: *If you get hungry... there's food in the refrigerator in the kitchen.* But where was the kitchen? This house was like a labyrinth of glass and concrete. Taking a deep breath, Peter approached the door and peered cautiously into the hallway. It was long and dimly lit, the walls bare. At the end was another door—the one through which Connors had disappeared. Peter stood hesitantly for a few seconds, listening. A measured, tense silence fell behind the door. Then he called timidly, — Dr. Connors? His quiet, hesitant voice echoed down the hallway without eliciting a response. He waited, clenching and unclenching his fists, and then called a little louder, — Uncle Kurt? I'm hungry. This time, there was movement outside the door—a chair sliding back, heavy footsteps. The door swung open, and the tall, slightly hunched figure of Curt Connors appeared in the doorway. He looked tired and distracted, his gaze lost in thought, as if still immersed in formulas and blueprints. — Peter? Is something wrong? — His voice was distant, but not irritated. — I... I'm hungry, — the boy whispered, lowering his eyes. Connors paused for a moment, as if this simple, everyday need presented a complex challenge. He raised his hand to his forehead, adjusting his glasses with a familiar gesture. — Yes, of course. Sorry. I completely forgot about the time. He left the office and quietly closed the door behind him, as if hiding something important and personal behind it. — The kitchen is here, — he said, gesturing with his left hand toward another door at the end of the hall. — Come on, I'll show you. They went downstairs. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was a model of minimalism: glossy surfaces, built-in appliances, no unnecessary details. Connors opened the huge, silent refrigerator door. Inside, the orderliness was almost as great as in the office: neat containers with incomprehensible labels, bottles of water, a few bags of sandwiches, probably bought in a hurry. Kurt fell silent, examining the contents. — Hmm, — he swallowed. — What's inside... — he muttered, more to himself than to Peter. — Honestly, I don't cook often. I usually grab a snack in the lab. He pulled out one of the sandwiches and silently handed it to the boy. The sandwich was cold and looked unappetizing. Peter took it timidly. — Thank you, — he whispered. They stood in the middle of the gleaming kitchen—the large, awkward scientist with his empty sleeve and the little boy with the cold sandwich in his hands. Neither of them knew what to do next. The hum of the refrigerator, which Connors had forgotten to close, seemed to add to the awkwardness. — Maybe... maybe I should heat it up? — Kurt finally suggested, and for the first time, a hesitant, scientifically detached note crept into his voice—a note that was deliberately sympathetic. Peter simply nodded. Kurt, slightly embarrassed, took the sandwich and turned to the microwave, staring at the control panel as if it were a complex device in his lab. At that moment, in the cold light of the LED lamps, through the hum of the microwave, they both—the orphan and his incompetent guardian—took the first small, tentative step toward each other, driven by the simplest and most basic of human needs: the desire not to be alone.

***

The microwave hummed, creating an awkward silence in the kitchen. Curt Connors stood with his back to Peter, his shoulders tense. He was obviously more comfortable manipulating the quantum accelerator than this household appliance. Finally, the beep sounded. Kurt pulled out a sandwich, now hot, and placed it on a plate. He turned and handed it to Peter, but his gaze slid past the boy, fixing on a spot on the wall where, presumably, a formula was projected in his head. — Here. It should be edible, — he said, his tone more stating than caring. Peter took the plate and sat unsteadily on a high bar stool on the kitchen island. His feet dangled in midair, not quite reaching the floor. He took a bite. The sandwich was dry and tasteless, but he ate in silence, feeling distracted, his heavy gaze protective. — Tomorrow, — Kurt said, suddenly breaking the silence, — I'll take you to school. There's a good elementary school here, with a weak focus. Richard... your father... said you were very bright. At the mention of his father, Peter winced and stopped working. A lump of food lodged in his throat. — I... I don't want to go to a new school, — he whispered, looking down at his plate. — I want to go to Aunt May's... Kurt watched. It wasn't an irritated sound, more a tired one, the sound of someone faced with a problem and offering no logical solutions. — It's necessary, Peter. Your old friends... they'll be here, nearby. You grow by seeing them. But you'll learn here. It... it would be right. He paused, looking at the boy, who seemed so small and lost in the large chair. — Are you finished? — he asked, nodding toward the plate. Peter was silent. The one who no longer felt like eating. — Then go get ready for bed. You'll find toothpaste and everything you need in the bathroom. Connors turned back to the table, as if smiling not only at the plate but also at this awkward, painful conversation.

***

The night was long and restless. Peter returned to his oversized bed, listening to the creaks and rustles of the unfamiliar house. He thought he heard footsteps in the hallway, and he froze, hoping it was Uncle Kurt, that maybe he'd look in and ask how he'd been feeling. But the door never opened. In the morning, Kurt woke him at precisely seven. He was already dressed in dark trousers and a smart white shirt with a tie, holding a folder of papers in his hand. — Peter. Come on, get up. Get yourself ready. We're leaving in about forty minutes. The school was as modern and sterile as Connors's home. The children looked curiously at the new student, the teacher addressed him with obsequiousness, casting respectful glances at his famous guardian. Peter felt like an exhibit in a museum. He was silent in class, refused to participate in games during recess, and only looked out the window toward Queens, consciously measuring the distance to his real home. That evening, when Kurt picked him up from school, they were silent, but Connors decided to break the silence. — So? — Connors finally asked. — Fine, — Peter said curtly. — Has anyone ever bullied you? — Kurt asked, frowning. — No. — Are the lessons interesting? — They're okay. The conversation didn't go well at all. Kurt didn't try to ask any more questions. At home, Peter was sitting in his room, doing his homework. The door was slightly open. Suddenly, Kurt's loud, irritated glare came from the study, escalating into a shout: — No! That same mistake again! Without his data, it's just a string of symbols! Peter froze. He'd been afraid of these outbursts, this incomprehensible rage directed at nothing. But then he heard something new. A quiet, muffled groan. A sound full of despair and helplessness. The boy carefully slid off his chair and tiptoed to the study door. It was slightly open. He was looking in from the inside. Curt Connors sat at his desk, his head resting on his hand. His shoulders were tense. A framed photograph sat on the desk next to him. Peter recognized the man from the photo—it was his father, Richard Parker, his arm around the smiling Kurt, who at that moment still had both arms. They stood against the backdrop of some laboratory, laughing. — Why, Richard? — Connors whispered, his voice broken and broken. — Why didn't you trust me? I could have... I could have finished your job. And now... all is lost. Peter didn't understand the words, but he was sick. He saw this big, strong, usually so reserved man crying. Crying for his dad. The boy didn't go in. He quietly, tiptoed back to his room and closed the door. But something inside him twisted. Anger and fear slowly began to give way to a feeling—a strange, aching understanding. Dr. Connors wasn't just an evil or indifferent man. He, too, was wounded. He, too, had lost someone important. He was lonely too.

***

The next morning, Peter woke up earlier than usual. He went down to the kitchen and, with great difficulty, pulled out a chair and got cereal and milk from the cupboard. He poured two servings into deep bowls and carefully placed them on the table. Then he sat down and waited.