The automatic doors of the Avengers medical wing hissed open, and the scent of antiseptic and over-filtered air washed over me. It was a smell I associated with stitches, broken ribs, and well-meaning lectures from Helen Cho. Leaning against the polished chrome exterior was Bobby Drake, looking like a ghost haunting a sci-fi convention. He was paler than usual, which for a guy who can turn himself into a snowman, is saying something. The standard-issue grey sweats he wore hung loosely on his frame, a stark reminder of the weeks he'd spent lost to the world in a coma.
He offered a weak smile as I approached. "Parker. Come to see the specimen?"
"Just making sure you hadn't short-circuited the ice machine again," I replied, clapping a gentle hand on his shoulder. It felt fragile. "How're you feeling?"
Bobby sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a dozen sterile-white rooms. "I'm sick of it, Pete. I'm sick of the sterile walls, the Jell-O cups, and the nurses nagging me about my fluid intake like I'm a houseplant. If I have to watch one more daytime game show, I think my brain might actually melt. Ironic, I know."
His voice was thin, but the snark was there, a flickering pilot light of the old Bobby. That was a good sign. The facility, for all its state-of-the-art care, was a cage. He needed out.
"Well," I said, gesturing towards the bustling street beyond the compound's gates. "I know a place with zero Jell-O cups and a distinct lack of nagging nurses. It's called 'outside.' You know, fresh air? Remember that stuff?"
He squinted into the bright afternoon sun. "Fresh air sounds… loud."
"It's New York, Bobby. Loud is its middle name. C'mon. We'll take a walk through Midtown. I'll even buy you a real, non-gelatinous meal."
He hesitated for a second, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. But the restlessness won. The desire to just be a person again, not a patient. "Fine," he conceded, a genuine grin finally breaking through. "But if a car backfires and I instinctively build an ice wall in front of a Starbucks, the water damage costs are on you."
"Deal."
Twenty minutes later, we were deep in the heart of the city's beautiful chaos. The air was thick with the smells of roasting nuts, exhaust fumes, and a thousand different perfumes. The symphony of taxi horns, distant sirens, and the chatter of the crowd was a world away from the hushed beeps of the medical bay. I watched Bobby take it all in, his eyes wide, like he was seeing it for the first time. The color was already starting to return to his cheeks.
"First stop, sustenance," I declared, steering him toward a hot dog cart with a giant, faded pretzel painted on its side. "Two dogs, everything on 'em, a big pretzel to share, and two Cokes."
The vendor, a burly man with a world-weary expression, grunted his affirmation. We found a small patch of unclaimed curb and dug in. For a few minutes, there was only the satisfying crunch of mustard-slathered onions and the comfortable silence of two friends eating greasy, glorious street food. It felt normal. More normal than anything had in months.
Bobby took a long sip of his soda, his eyes closing in bliss. "Oh man, I missed the specific chemical burn of a Coke." He set the can down on the pavement beside him. When he picked it up again a moment later, a delicate filigree of frost had bloomed across the red aluminum. The can was frozen solid to his palm.
He stared at it, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Ah, crap." He tried to pry it off, but it was stuck fast.
I couldn't help it. A laugh burst out of me, loud and unreserved. "Dude, seriously?"
He shot me a glare, but there was no heat in it. "It's not funny. My hand is cold."
"Your hand is always cold!" I choked out between laughs. "I swear, you've cost this city more hotdog stands than Vulcan. Remember that time in Times Square? The guy's entire inventory of Sabretts ended up in a five-foot ice sculpture of a squirrel."
Bobby finally managed to coax the can from his hand with a controlled, minimal melt, leaving a perfect, hand-shaped patch of condensation on the metal. He took a theatrical bow. "A masterpiece of abstract expressionism, I'll have you know. The critics raved. Besides, it's not my fault villains always insist on monologuing next to refreshment carts. It's a tactical weakness."
The ease of the banter was like a healing balm. It was us again. The tension that had clung to him back at the facility was melting away, replaced by the familiar rhythm of our friendship. We ditched our trash and continued our walk, falling into a comfortable stride.
We were passing through Herald Square when he stopped dead. His easy smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp stillness. He was staring up, past the swarms of tourists, at a massive digital billboard overlooking the intersection.
On the screen was Shadow. She was in her civilian clothes, part of a high-tech ad for some new Stark-adjacent communications company. She looked confident, powerful, smiling a small, knowing smile at the entire city.
Bobby didn't say a word. He just stared. The life, the humor that I'd just seen return to him, seemed to drain away, leaving behind that same pale, fragile look from the medical wing. It was only for a moment, maybe ten seconds, but it felt like an hour.
My first thought was that he was overdoing it. "Whoa, man, you good?" I asked, putting a hand on his arm. "Was the walk too much? We can grab a bench."
He blinked, tearing his eyes away from the billboard as if it had physically burned him. He forced a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Nah, nah, I'm good. Just… spaced out. Low blood sugar from the coma, probably. Where's that pretzel?" He snatched the half-eaten pretzel from my hand and took an aggressive bite, chewing with a focus that was clearly meant to be a distraction. The subject was changed, forcibly, but the echo of that quiet moment lingered in the air between us, cold and heavy.
We found our way to a bench in Bryant Park, watching kids chase pigeons and office workers eat their sad salads. The manufactured cheerfulness of the park felt a world away from whatever had just happened in Bobby's head. I let the silence sit for a minute before I decided I couldn't.
"Seriously though… are you okay?"
He took a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes fixed on the distant carousel. "Peachy keen, Parker. Never better. Ready to get back out there and give some bank robbers a terminal case of brain freeze." His voice was light, packed with his usual brand of flippant humor, but it was a shield. I knew that shield. I used it myself half the time. He was hiding something, a hurt so deep it had silenced him in the middle of a crowded street. I knew better than to push. Pushing would just make him build the walls higher.
So, I shifted. "You know," I began, my voice softer. "We… we really missed you, man. The whole team. Especially me and Shadow. It was quiet. Too quiet." I nudged him with my shoulder. "Nobody freezes the water cooler with the same artistic flair."
A small, genuine smile touched Bobby's lips. It was a start. "Yeah, well, guess Midtown survived without me freezing pigeons solid mid-flight."
I grinned back, the warmth of the moment finally feeling real again. "Barely," I said. "The statue-defacement business took a real hit."
He laughed, a real, honest-to-god laugh that seemed to shake some of the weight from his shoulders. We sat there for a while longer, just watching the city live around us. When we finally stood up to leave, the easy camaraderie was back, the rhythm restored. We walked off together, trading stupid jokes, two friends just enjoying a perfect New York afternoon.
His spirit was returning, piece by piece. But as we walked away, I couldn't help but glance back over my shoulder in the direction of Herald Square. I knew Bobby was feeling it too. The laughter was real, but so was the silence.