Doctor Connors is Peter Parker's father

Returning to school after his illness presented a different kind of challenge for Peter. His weakness was making itself felt: he could barely run a lap in gym class, and during recess he preferred to sit in a corner with a textbook rather than play noisily with others. This vulnerability, like blood in the water for a shark, caught the attention of Flash Thompson. Flash – large for his age, with a cheeky grin – had long since chosen Peter as his target. Quiet, intelligent, awkward in his movements, and living with "some one-armed scientist" – Peter was the perfect victim. The bullying began with small things. Flash "accidentally" bumped him with his shoulder in the hallway, sending his textbooks flying across the floor. Then came the hurtful nicknames: "Skeleton" for his thinness after his illness, "Genius" – a sarcastic taunt when Peter answered a question correctly at the board. Peter tried not to show it bothered him. He hunched his shoulders, trying to be inconspicuous, but every school morning now began with a heavy feeling of unease in his stomach. One day after school, Flash and a couple of his henchmen ambushed him at the school exit. — So, Parker? — Flash said, blocking his path, his legs spread wide. — I heard your disabled dad picked you up from the hospital? What, your snotty lungs couldn't handle it? Peter's heart sank. He tried to step around him, but one of the kids roughly shoved him in the shoulder. — I'm talking to you, four-eyes! — Flash poked him in the chest. — Or are you so weak you can't even speak? Somewhere deep inside Peter, something snapped. Not fear. Anger. Hot, furious, adult anger. Don't bother yourself. Don't bother him. Don't bother Uncle Kurt. — Leave me alone, Eugene, — Peter said quietly but clearly. A deathly silence fell. Flash's real name—Eugene—was his biggest secret and his most painful spot. He hated it with all his heart. Flash's face contorted with anger. He turned pale, then purple. — What did you say, you idiot?! — I said, leave me alone, Eugene, — Peter repeated, his voice suddenly stronger. He drew himself up to his full, short height. — Or I'll call the teacher. Or I'll tell everyone your mom calls you Eugene at home. It was a blind attack, a desperate attempt to defend himself. But it achieved its goal. Flash froze, his confidence instantly evaporating, replaced by a primal fear of exposure. He clenched his fists, but didn't dare take a step forward. — You... you'll regret this, Parker, — he hissed, but his voice was already tinged with uncertainty — Maybe, — Peter replied coldly. He picked up his backpack, dusted it off, and walked past the stunned offenders, his eyes never leaving the ground. He walked home, shaking with adrenaline. His hands trembled, his temples pounded. He felt no triumph. He felt emptiness and shame. He had sunk to Flash's level. He had used Flash's own weapon. Kurt found him in the living room, sitting motionless on the couch, staring into space. — Are you okay? — Connors asked, taking off his jacket. His gaze immediately became professional and appraising. — Did something happen? Peter paused for a few seconds, swallowing the lump in his throat. — I... I got into a fight with a boy at school. Kurt sat down in the chair across from him, putting the newspaper aside. — What do you mean, 'fight'?" — His voice was calm, non-judgmental. And Peter blurted it all out. About Flash's constant bullying. About his own helplessness. And about how Flash had hurt him by calling Kurt an invalid. — ...And now he'll hate me even more, — Peter finished, hunching his shoulders. — And I was the same way. I was evil. Kurt listened without interrupting. His face was serious. He remained silent for a long moment, thinking. — You defended yourself, Peter, — he finally said. — Not in the best way, but you defended yourself. That doesn't make you evil. That makes you human. He walked over to the couch and sat down next to him. — I had a friend like that... in university. He was very smart for his age. He was constantly beaten and insulted because they didn't like that he was smarter than them. He considered his physical limitations a source of ridicule. One day, during a biochemistry lecture, I lost my temper and, in front of everyone, tore his term paper to shreds, pointing out every mistake. I completely destroyed his scientific reputation. After that, we didn't speak for a long time. That friend was your father. Later, we made up and started working together. Peter looked at him wide-eyed. He didn't know they were classmates. — And... and weren't you ashamed? — I was, — Kurt admitted honestly. — Because I used knowledge as a cudgel, not a tool. But sometimes there's no other choice. You have to fight back, Peter. Not always physically. Sometimes intellectually. But always with precision. And remember: those who bully others are always unhappy and insecure. Their strength is only apparent. He put his one hand on Peter's shoulder. — Go to school tomorrow and behave as usual. Don't fawn, don't hide. If he comes at you again, repeat his name. Calmly and firmly. Not as an insult. As a fact. You've taken away his power over you. Now it's his turn to be afraid. The next day, Peter walked to school with a stony face and shaking knees. He was waiting for reprisals. But Flash Thompson avoided looking at him. He walked by with his head down, and in his eyes there was no longer angry excitement, but wariness and even ... fear. Peter did not feel victorious. He felt relieved. And understanding. Uncle Kurt was right again. Strength is not in fists or offensive nicknames. It's about calm confidence and the ability to find the weakest spot. Not to hit, but to defend himself. He looked at the schoolyard, at the laughing children, and for the first time he thought that he was not so defenseless. There was more than just a guardian standing behind him. There was a man who knew more about weaknesses and strengths than anyone else. And he was on his side.

***

4 years have passed like one long, eventful day. From a lanky, awkward ten-year-old, Peter turned into a teenager with angular limbs and an attentive, inquisitive look, which he inherited from his father. He had grown taller, but he still looked longingly at old photographs of Richard Parker — he was taller, broader in the shoulders, with that confident bearing and determined gaze that Peter was still only trying to cultivate in himself. The school... the school remained a battlefield. Flash Thompson, who had also matured and gained muscle mass, did not give up his attempts to assert himself at the expense of Parker. The barbs have become more sophisticated, the jabs more subtle. "Hey, Parker. Did your old man the scientist remember to give you two arms today? The last time he forgot, you were crawling up the walls? " or "Look, there's our future Nobel Prize winner for failure! ". Peter learned most of the time to just ignore it, but the needle of resentment and anger went deep every time. His only refuge was his house. Not just a sterile high-tech building, but a house, because Kurt was there. Their relationship was transformed. The dry, restrained scientist disappeared, and his father gradually took his place. A little clumsy, still immersed in his work, but unconditionally devoted. Kurt never missed school meetings, sitting in the back rows with the look of a man analyzing a strange organism called the "American education system" under a microscope. He helped with the most difficult physics and chemistry projects, not doing it for Peter, but asking leading questions that led to a solution. He would listen for hours to Peter's rambling stories about comics, nodding gravely and sometimes interjecting: "From a biological point of view, a spider—like creature of this size would not be able to..." - and then Peter would roll his eyes, but laugh. One evening, when the two of them were assembling a complex DNA model for a school project in the kitchen, Peter, pasting in another nucleotide, asked without looking up.: — Dad... what do you do for a living?" And where? You always just say "in the lab." Kurt, who was holding a tiny part with tweezers, froze. He slowly lowered her onto the table. This question has been in the air for years, but Kurt has always been evasive.: "Science" or "Research". But Peter was no longer ten, but fourteen. He deserved the truth. — I work at the Oscorp research center,— Kurt began quietly, taking off his glasses and wiping them with a handkerchief. — I am a leading herpetologist in the Department of Biochemical Research. Oscorp was a household name even for a teenager. A giant conglomerate dedicated to cutting-edge technologies, from defense to medicine. — Wow, — Peter whispered. — That's... that's cool! — It's a job,— Kurt corrected him carefully. But there was a spark in his eyes that Peter knew—the passion of a scientist when it comes to his life's work. — We're... we're looking for ways to help people. — Fix something that nature or an accident broke. He looked at his right stump, running his left hand over it in a familiar gesture. — My task is to regenerate tissues. To restore what was lost. In particular, of course, the limbs. But nothing works. We have a dead end. Peter froze, forgetting about the DNA model. The puzzles in his head formed a single, stunning picture. The constant smell of chemicals on clothes, the occasional slip of the tongue in conversation... and this quiet, inextinguishable obsession. — Are you... are you trying to grow a new arm? — What is it? — he gasped, unable to believe it. — I wish,— Kurt smiled tiredly. — But... my hand... not yet. — It's incredibly difficult. Nerve endings, muscle fibers, blood supply… But we have succeeded in regenerating tissues at the molecular level in experimental... creatures. I'm studying the mechanisms that allow some reptiles, like lizards, to regrow their lost tails. He was no longer talking to a child, but to a colleague, and Peter felt his shoulders straighten with pride. — And... and will it work? — he asked, holding his breath. There was a pause. The spark in Kurt's eyes faded, replaced by Peter's familiar shadow of disappointment and pain as old as the world. — There are... obstacles, — he said dully. — The formula. The Decay Rate Algorithm. The side effects are... unpredictable and dangerous. It's missing... a key component. An algorithm that would stabilize the process. All samples die. He looked at Richard's picture on the shelf again, and Peter understood. It wasn't just a job. It was a mission. Personal. Almost an obsession. An attempt not only to heal himself, but also to continue the work of his best friend, to solve the riddle that he took with him. — Dad... was he working on it too? — Peter asked quietly. Kurt nodded, unable to speak. Peter didn't ask any more questions. He just got up, walked over to Kurt and hugged him. It was awkward, like a teenager, but very strong. He felt the man's back stiffen and then relax in that embrace. That evening, Peter looked at the DNA model with different eyes. It wasn't just a school craft. It was a symbol. A symbol of the very essence of the person who was sitting next to him. A scientist. The dreamer. A warrior fighting his own imperfections. And his father. And he realized that Richard Parker's legacy lived not in old photographs. It lived in the quiet, persistent work at the Oscorp laboratory.

***

Sunday was a special day. Sacred. On this day, even the all-consuming work of Dr. Kurt Connors receded into the background before the inviolable ritual: Peter was on his way to Aunt May and Uncle Ben. The morning began with an unusual fuss. Peter woke up on his own, without an alarm clock, and ten minutes later he was dressed and ready, literally jumping up and down in the hallway. Kurt, who was usually immersed in reading another scientific journal at breakfast, put everything on hold these mornings. He watched this animation in silence, and a faint soft crease appeared at the corners of his mouth, like a smile. — Don't forget the sweater, — he said, handing Peter the jacket. — May said it's getting colder. — I didn't forget! — And give them this cake from that baker. They are always skimping on themselves. Peter flew out of the house like a bullet and almost ran through these two saving blocks that separated the strict Forrest Hills from the bustling, lively Queens. As he approached their house, he was assaulted by a wave of familiar smells: fried onions from a nearby snack bar, fresh bread from a bakery, and the sweet scent of blooming geraniums on the windowsills. The door to their apartment was always ajar, waiting for him. — Peter! — Aunt May's first joyful cry was heard, and then he was already drowning in her arms, smelling of vanilla, cinnamon and boundless love. She always held him like she was afraid he was going to disappear like his parents. — Come on, let me see you! — she cooed, pushing him away and carefully examining his face. — Skinny! Is Dr. Connors not feeding you? Well, nothing, nothing, I'm already a cherry pie in the oven, your favorite! And then a calm, deep voice came from the living room: — Let the boy undress, May, or he's going to suffocate in your arms. Uncle Ben. He was sitting in his battered but incredibly comfortable armchair in front of the TV, with a newspaper in his hands. He was a big, good-natured man with gray temples and wise, slightly tired eyes. In his calmness, there was the very reliability that Peter had craved as a child. He was older than Richard by as much as twenty years and had always treated his brother with light paternal care, which he now transferred to Peter. Peter would approach him, and Uncle Ben would put down the newspaper. His hugs were different—not as emotional as Aunt May's, but just as firm and truly safe. He patted Peter on the back, and all the anxiety and tension of the school week disappeared from this pat. — How are things, bloke? — he asked, and in his voice was so much sincere concern that Peter wanted to lay out everything to him - everything. And he laid it out. Over tea with that cherry pie, he talked about everything: about his studies, and about the hidden war with Flash Thompson, and about his projects with Kurt. Aunt May would exclaim, "Oh, that awful boy!" and Uncle Ben would listen in silence, nodding, and then give his advice. Not a scientist, but a simple, sensible person who has seen a lot in this life. — You know, Peter, — he would say, taking a sip of tea. — Strength — it's not in fists. And not even in the mind, although that's important. It's right here. — He would poke a finger into his own chest. — In the ability to do what's right. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard. Remember that. The greater strength, the greater the and responsibility. After breakfast, it was time for rituals. Sometimes Uncle Ben took him to the garage to fix a faucet or turn on something in his old but beloved Ford. He put a tool in Peter's hand and guided it with his big, hard-working hand, explaining it slowly and clearly. It was a different science — not high technology, but life, simple and tangible. At that time, Aunt May was preparing a whole mountain of food for him: pies, burgers, chocolate biscuits. "So that you don't starve there! " She was saying, and Peter didn't dare say that Kurt's fridge was full of food. It was disrespectful to them, to their decency. There was always a small moment of sadness before leaving. May stroked his cheek, her eyes sparkling. After breakfast, it was time for rituals. Sometimes Uncle Ben took him to the garage to fix a faucet or turn on something in his old but beloved Ford. He put a tool in Peter's hand and guided it with his big, hard-working hand, explaining it slowly and clearly. It was a different science — not high technology, but life, simple and tangible. After breakfast came the time of rituals. Sometimes Uncle Ben would take him with him to the garage — to fix a faucet, to tighten something in the old, but beloved Ford. He would put a tool into Peter's hand and with his own big, working hand would direct it, explaining unhurriedly and clearly. This was a different science — not of high technology, but of life, simple and tangible. Aunt May at this time would prepare a whole mountain of food for him to take: pies, cutlets, chocolate cookies. "So that you don't go hungry there!" she would say, and Peter did not dare to say that Kurt's refrigerator was bursting with food. It was a disrespect to them, to their decency. Before leaving, there was always a small minute of sadness. May would stroke his cheek, her eyes shining. — You are sure, that to you there well, dear? — she asked every time, and Peter would answer honestly every time: — Yes, Aunt May. To me well, but I very glad, that to be able to be with you. Uncle Ben saw him off to the door, having put his heavy, warm palm on his shoulder. — Take care of yourself, son. And convey hello to Kurt. Say, let him come in somehow on pies, not to be shy. Peter returned to the quiet, cool house of Kurt, smelling of ozone and cleanliness. He brought with him not only containers with food, but also a feeling of boundless, simple human warmth. It warmed him all the subsequent week, like a little sun, hidden in the chest. He loved Kurt — his strict, clumsy, genius guardian. But Uncle Ben and Aunt May were his roots. His unchanging, unshakable harbor. Those, who loved him not for the mind, not for the achievements, but just so. For that, that he is. And in this was a special, with nothing comparable magic. The magic of home.