Doctor Connors is Peter Parker's father

The years smoothed out the sharp corners, turning habit into something more — into convenience, into kinship. Peter was no longer that frightened boy frozen in the doorway. At his fourteen, he was still skinny and awkward, but his movements had gained confidence, and his gaze held a calm depth, inherited from the biological father, whom he was already beginning to forget little by little, and the present one. One Saturday morning, returning from the bakery with a still warm baguette, Peter saw on the sidewalk a helpless sparrow with a damaged wing. The bird darted about, trying to take flight, and was clearly doomed to become prey for a cat or simply die from hunger. Last year's Peter, maybe, would have walked past, buried in his thoughts. The present one — stopped. He carefully, so as not to frighten, took off his jacket, covered the bird with it and gently lifted the trembling lump. He did not run home, but walked quickly, but carefully, pressing the find to his chest. — Dad? — Peter's voice sounded throughout the hallway, habitually and naturally. This word had long ceased to be accidental or embarrassing. It had become as ordinary as "hello" or "how are you." From the study came out Kurt. He was in home clothes — a rare sight — and with glasses on the tip of his nose, which made him more "Doctor Connors" and less just "Kurt." — Did something happen? — his gaze immediately fell on the bundle in Peter's hands. — Look, — Peter carefully unfolded the jacket, revealing the frightened bird. — It is wounded. Can we help it? Kurt came closer. His gaze, always analytical, softened. He did not ask "why?" or "why me?". He simply nodded. — Bring the shoebox from the wardrobe. And a soft cloth. I will get the first aid kit. Five minutes later on the kitchen table, next to Kurt's unfinished coffee, stood an improvised ward for the bird. Peter held the sparrow, whispering something calming to it, and Kurt, armed with tweezers and antiseptic, with surgical precision treated the wound. His only hand moved confidently and gently. — Hold it tighter, but don't squeeze, — he quietly instructed. — You see, the fracture is not complicated. We need to immobilize it. They worked silently, in complete agreement. Peter handed cotton, bandage, supported the bird. Kurt applied a splint from improvised means — ice cream sticks and strips of adhesive tape. It was not the global problem of limb regeneration. It was a small, simple life they were saving together. — That's it, — finally exhaled Kurt, tying the last knot. — Now it needs rest, water and food. In a couple of weeks, maybe, it will get stronger. Peter looked at the neatly bandaged little bird, then at Kurt. His eyes shone. — Thank you, dad. Kurt turned away, pretending to put away the first aid kit, but Peter saw the corner of his mouth twitch. — Trifles. Just immobilization. — But he could not hide a light pride in his voice. Not for the medical procedure, but for something else. For the fact that his son brought him a wounded bird. For the fact that he knew — he would not refuse. Peter placed the box with the sparrow in a quiet corner and began to set the table. He poured Kurt fresh coffee, broke off half of the baguette for him. — Here. You have eaten almost nothing since morning. — Thank you. — Said Kurt, taking a bite. They were having breakfast. Peter chatted about school, about an upcoming project, about a new movie about Titans that he wanted to watch. Kurt listened, nodded, sometimes inserted a remark about the scientific implausibility of this or that scene, and Peter rolled his eyes, but smiled. And through this ordinariness shone that very kindness of Peter. It was not loud, not showy. It was in his calm confidence, in his readiness to stop and help someone weaker. It was in how he looked at Kurt — not with pity for his stump, but with deep, unconditional respect and understanding. He had adopted from him not the love for science — that was in the blood — but precisely this core, this quiet, stubborn conviction that you are obliged to do what you can to make things better. Even if it is just one small bird. And for Kurt, the greatest miracle was not that he had almost grown accustomed to the word "dad." But that he himself now responded to it with his entire being. He was no longer Doctor Connors, fulfilling a duty. He was simply dad. A person to whom one came with a wounded bird and academic problems. A person whose home was no longer a sterile refuge from the world, but had become a part of it — warm, noisy, sometimes inconvenient, but infinitely alive. — Of course. After we check on our patient. And in these simple words there was more integrity and healing than in all his failed experiments with the Decay Algorithm. He had found his stabilizer. And he was sitting opposite, finishing the baguette and smiling at him over the edge of the mug.