NEW YORK CITY DEPARTMENT OF
PARKS AND RECREATION, GREAT TREES
OF NEW YORK CITY

✶

IV.
THE GREAT TREES OF NEW YORK CITY, PT. I

It's nice to meet you. I'm Peter Parker.

Juliet looked down to Peter's outstretched hand, hesitating. It was rare she met new people; rarer she met new people she liked, and rarer still that she met new people who liked her. To Ezra she'd once called herself a misanthrope. At best, that was a joke and at worst, it was an excuse. An escape—an exit, right down the halogen-lit hallway of the human condition and out, out, out into the open air. It was a Void, in its own way; any form of isolation was.

Life, living, and all it entailed—Juliet no longer understood it. She felt a separation between herself and the world, and the people who lived so effortlessly within it. It was as if she were a signal and something was scrambling it, as if there was white noise wherever she went, keeping her from the world, cutting her clean off from it.

It wasn't like she didn't want to be a part of it. But she had spent so much of her life hiding—so much of it convinced she was invisible until invisible was what she became. To let herself be witnessed again, to let herself be seen—

Humiliating was just one word for it. The Void existed in Juliet's mind and in Juliet's mind alone, but sometimes she wondered if—like many of her illusions—it had somehow bled through into reality. The Void, infinitely empty and infinitely lonely. She could feel such an abyss between her and Peter now, invisible but impenetrable nonetheless: a boundary she could not cross even if she wanted to, and for once, she knew for certain that she did want to. It made her feel fifteen again, jealous of Arden and her beauty, her charm. If she wasn't happy with herself, her sister could just escape—into a new body, a new face. Or, alternatively, she could simply change the one she had already, make it good, make it better, make it right. Tug out the fraying threads of her existence and tie them together—or better yet, cut them off—to make something neat, something beautiful, something new.

Juliet, however, was stuck with the same body she'd been born with. The same face, the same prison, the same cage. She had to live with that.

Following her departure from the Saviours, Juliet had built herself a house out of her heart. A beautiful one, admittedly, spawned from equal parts ancestral memory and shame, drawn from the grand design her mother had imagined when she abandoned her family and moved to America. This house had everything Juliet's childhood home hadn't: multiple bedrooms and connected bathrooms, insulated walls, hardwood floors and windows that closed all the way without jamming.

What it also had: a ghost. Juliet herself.

She was a friendly spirit; that's what she told herself. She could make the house lovely—she could paint its walls, cover its floors, fill the empty space with furniture. Plant flowers in the garden and keep the front lawn crisp and clipped. But take that away—remove all that embroidery, all that embellishment—and Juliet was left with another endless abyss, another unconquerable void.

She was left with herself. Was that enough?

Maybe this wasn't so bad. Maybe this wasn't so hopeless. All this space, it left room for introspection; it left Juliet to consider herself, the career she'd made out of creation. She was always making things, building fantasies then breaking them back down into the bones they came from. Creation was as much about deconstruction, destruction, as it was about construction. That was what the Illusionist was, what it always had been: a study in rock bottom, and what could be built upon it.

But—what about the careful work of maintenance? Not everything had to be shiny, not everything had to be new. What about repairing what she had worn down after years of use and abuse? What about stitching up what had split at the seams? What about mending what was torn until it was better?

Until it refused to break?

To be complicit in such vulnerability was lethal. To be seen in such a state was humiliating. (To be seen at all—God.)

(To be seen.)

How much Juliet wanted to luxuriate in her shame. How easy it would be to let herself drown in it—to retreat into that house of hers, that heart, to lock the door and throw away the key.

(Doors could be opened from both sides.)

(Maybe she didn't have to leave.)

(Maybe she could let someone in instead.)

The Illusionist was her hiding place, a costume she wore, a facade. She was still just Juliet beneath it all, behind it. The fabric of suit might cover her stitches and seams, her hems, her hurt—but it did not make it disappear. Only living did—living, breathing, moving on, moving through time and letting the scars fade. Letting them be shed with the old self as new skin was revealed underneath.

Life, living, and all it entailed—Juliet no longer understood it. But where she stood, in this moment, both so close to Peter Parker and so far, it seemed achingly effortless. Like something she could make her own, something she could take back from whomever had stolen it—Dominik, perhaps, or the Saviours—as easily as she took a breath.

It's nice to meet you. I'm Peter Parker.

Hi, Peter Parker. I think I've been waiting for you.

Juliet shook Peter's hand. She smiled. He smiled back. "And you're also still late to that advisor's meeting."

Peter's smile was gone in an instant. "Crap."

Juliet snorted gently. "Yup."

"I should probably get to that, shouldn't I?"

"Probably." It was in this exact moment that Juliet realised she was still shaking Peter's hand. (No, not even shaking it. Just holding it.) She cleared her throat and let go. "It sounds important. Advisor's meeting," she repeated, testing the significance of the words. "Yeah. Definitely important."

"It is," Peter said declaratively. He stepped away, and Juliet wondered if that was it. Had she seriously had an entire internal monologue over a guy only for him to just walk away? But then, he was standing beside her, angling his body in an attempt to—well, Juliet wasn't entirely sure what he was attempting to do.

"What are you doing?" Juliet asked, trying not to laugh.

"I'm trying—and failing, I think—to figure out what shot I ruined." Peter stilled. A grin tugged at his lips and for a moment, Juliet was unhaunted. "I assume it was of the tree?"

"Give the boy a prize," Juliet nodded, her eyes tracing his side profile. When he turned to look at her, she averted her gaze. "I've always liked this tree, but I've only ever used digital cameras to photograph it."

"Nothing compares to film," Peter said.

"Nothing compares to film," Juliet agreed. She turned away from Peter for a moment and retook her photo. In the last few minutes, the light had just shifted—now oblique, it filtered differently through the leaves, pooled oddly upon the red oak's roots.

Juliet took the shot anyway. She had never been one for the conventional.

"Have you seen the other great trees of New York City?"

"The other what nows?"

Peter slewed what sounded like an embarrassed laugh through his lips, as if this secret knowledge of trees was something he had no business possessing. "The great trees of New York City." A pause, and he repeated himself, enunciating each word as if it were a formal title. "The Great Trees of New York City."

Juliet raised an eyebrow.

"It's an entire thing."

"Is it now?"

"Uh-huh."

"Tell me about it, then."

"So, in 1985 the city had its first Great Tree Search—"

"—to search for Great Trees, obviously," Juliet interrupted with a dry smile.

Peter didn't seem to mind. "Exactly." He nodded. "So for this Great Tree Search, people from every borough could submit nominations for Great Trees."

"Oh? Tell me, Peter Parker, what defines a Great Tree?"

Juliet liked the way his name felt in her mouth, the way it sounded as it slipped past her lips. He must have liked it too; the blush in his neck and cheeks deepened. "Any tree, really, with any trait you could possibly define as Great. Whether it's by size, species, form. Historical or cultural importance, too. It's any tree that deserves recognition."

"Wow," Juliet said, "you are a nerd."

Peter just grinned. "Y'know, people have been calling me that my entire life. It doesn't hurt anymore. It's my best friend at this point."

Juliet laughed. "Oh, I'm sure. I'm also sure that sounded way less lame in your head."

Peter reconsidered his words. "It did, yeah." Face flushing even more, he threaded a hand through his hair. "We're gonna pretend I never said that. Let's go back to talking about trees."

"Mm, trees. My favourite topic of conversation, maybe even ever." Juliet tore her eyes from his and forced them to settle upon the tree, where liquid day filled the lines travelling up and down the red oak's trunk. Like veins filled with molten gold, Juliet followed them up to the sky. "Well, I'm not an expert on Great Trees like you so clearly are, but this one seems pretty Great to me."

"I agree." She could feel Peter's gaze, like sunlight on her skin. "Have you seen the ginkgo in Crocheron Park?"

Juliet shook her head.

"It's my favourite," Peter said. There was a moment of hesitation, and then he added: "Maybe I could show you sometime."

Juliet often left the world untouched, only allowing herself to watch or witness—never to want. She thought of the Great Trees and all they had seen, all that had changed in New York City since they first sprouted from seeds sown in the ground. They had remained strong and steady throughout the years, growing into new generations and eventually, new centuries. They did not belong in this world—in New York City, with its brick and mortar, its metal and glass—but they were part of it anyway.

It sounded familiar.

The ginkgo tree in Crocheron Park sounded familiar, too, and the phrase stirred something in Juliet's near-eidetic memory. Over a hundred and fifty years old, mythology clung to the tree like its gold-fingered leaves; it had allegedly beared witness to the escape of Boss Tweed, a corrupt New York politician who fled the States to seek a safe haven in Spain.

Juliet had grown tired of merely witnessing and, for once in her life, she felt no desire to flee.

"Maybe you could." Juliet smiled at Peter. "I'd like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She nodded earnestly. "I'm Juliet, by the way."

"Juliet," Peter repeated, sounding it out carefully as if it were delicate. "That's a really pretty name."

"Thank you."

"What do you study?"

"Architecture. What about you?"

"Biophysics."

"Nerd."

Peter laughed. The sound was clarifying, cleaving through the haze of white noise that clouded Juliet's sad, solitary existence. "You can call me a nerd as many times as you want. It's gonna bounce right off."

"You're so far gone."

"I am." The way he spoke—and the way he looked at her—made Juliet think, made her hope, he was talking about something else. "I've speedrun through all five stages of grief and here I am. At acceptance."

Juliet scoffed gently, though at its edge the sound was soft. "That's what they all say. Probably as a coping mechanism."

"Do you make a habit of poking fun at smart people?"

"Only when they make it easy. Be mediocre like the rest of us."

"You, mediocre?" Peter stared at her intently. "You seem anything but."

Her breath hitched in her throat. Juliet blanked entirely, blinking wildly for a few moments before she managed a reply she hoped was combative enough to cover herself, "Do you say that to all the girls?"

Peter, to his credit, acted as if Juliet hadn't just short-circuited right in front of him. "'All the girls'? Weren't you just calling me a nerd?"

Juliet, mostly recovered, shrugged. "I was. But lots of girls like nerds—you'd be surprised."

Peter lifted a brow. "Do you?"

"Guess you'll just have to find out."

"I guess so. Can I have your number?"

Juliet nodded, already searching through her bag for something to write on. Finding a loose receipt that didn't look all that important, she scribbled down her number. As she wrote, Peter looked her up and down. Subtly, at first, then less-so as he drew closer to her face. "I like your shoes, by the way."

"Thank you. They're my favourites."

When she was done, Juliet pressed the piece of paper into Peter's palm. He inspected her number, long-lashed eyes following the strokes of her handwriting, the neat lines of her name—Juliet, accompanied by a :), penned in blue ink. Then, he folded the receipt carefully and tucked it safely away into his jean pocket.

Juliet watched his face. This time, when he lifted his gaze to hers, she didn't look away.

"What happened to that advisor's meeting?"

"You know when you're so late for something you kinda have to wonder if it's even worth it showing up?"

"No, not really. Some of us actually plan ahead."

Peter gave her a look, and Juliet laughed, relenting. "Fine, yes, sorry."

"Well that, whether it's relatable or otherwise, is my situation right now."

"You should probably still go. If not to actually attend the meeting, then definitely to apologise for missing it."

Peter nodded solemnly in agreement. "Yeah, you're right." A pause. "Sorry again, for messing up your picture."

"It's okay," she said, and it was. "Call me?"

"I will. It was really nice meeting you." Peter backed away, giving an awkward little wave. He gave a smile, too. Lopsided, with those dimples. "See ya."

Then, he was gone. The instant he was out of sight, Juliet felt sick. From where she stood, she could see life—she could almost understand it. But she couldn't touch it.

And yet, there Peter was, real to the touch, tangible, not just alive but living; living and breathing and smiling and laughing. When was the last time she had longed for something—someone? When was the last time she had allowed herself to want?

When was the last time she had allowed herself to be wanted?

Juliet could feel the city's heartbeat. It was almost as loud as her own.

Life, living, and all it entailed—it was a breath, just waiting for Juliet to take it. She looked back to the red oak. The light had changed again, and this time it was perfect. She took another photograph, then went on her way, inhaling sharply. In, out. In, out.

In.

✶

Juliet and Ezra had a roster—pinned menacingly to the fridge by a Batman magnet—that dictated whose turn it was to cook dinner on any given night. During the week, Juliet and Ezra usually took care of themselves, sticking to their corners of the apartment with simple meals like salads and wraps. Towards the weekend, they had the time to make real food.

As the graphic organiser that Batman so staunchly stood guard over decreed, it was Juliet's turn this Thursday—Thursday being tomorrow night—to make dinner. So on the way home she stopped by her favourite Asian supermarket, one tucked between the folds of Koreatown. Her mother had shopped here until the owners had been forced to hike up the prices to stay open. Now that she was able, Juliet tried to distribute her funds to these family businesses; that, as well as the sudden craving she had for bulgogi, drove her to Han and Sons.

Having filled her plastic basket with all of her and Ezra's favourite snacks—pretty much everything under the familiar Lotte brand—she was trying to gauge how much kimchi her roommate would realistically be able to eat when she felt her phone buzz in her pocket.

Unknown number.

          JULIET: Peter?

Juliet winced internally at how hopeful she sounded. She winced again when her mystery caller replied—it was, decidedly, not Peter.

          EZRA: No? It's Ezra. Who the heck is Peter?

          JULIET: ...

She was never going to live this down.

          EZRA: Hello?

          JULIET: I'm still here.

          JULIET: (Under her breath) Wish I wasn't.

          EZRA: What was that?

          JULIET: Nothing. Why are you calling me? Did you change burners again?

          EZRA: Uh-huh. Who's Peter?

          JULIET: Nobody.

          EZRA: (Silently making assumptions.)

          JULIET: Fine.

          JULIET: I met a boy.

          EZRA: Oooh.

          EZRA: So did I.

          JULIET: Wait, what?

          EZRA: That came out wrong.

          JULIET: Did it?

The man behind the counter—Han—cleared his throat. He sent a pointed look towards the freezer door Juliet had left hanging open when she dropped everything to take P—Ezra's call. She flashed Han an apologetic smile and closed the door, before disappearing back down the confectionery aisle.

          EZRA: He's not really a boy, he's more of a... man?

          JULIET: (Re-evaluating how well she knew Ezra) A man?!

          EZRA: Why do you sound so—ah. I can see why you'd be confused.

          JULIET: Can you?!

          EZRA: Let me clarify.

          JULIET: Please do.

          EZRA: I met a guy, not a boy—not like that, wipe that grin off your face—

          JULIET: (Reluctantly wiping That Grin off her face.)

          EZRA: I met a guy, and—

          JULIET: —And what?

          EZRA: Let me finish, dipshit!

          EZRA: God.

          EZRA: Anyway! I met a guy and I think he's gonna murder us.

          JULIET: ...

          JULIET: Why didn't you open with that?

          EZRA: I was trying to!

          JULIET: Why would you tell me someone's trying to kill us and phrase it like that?

          EZRA: I don't think someone's trying to kill us, I think someone's going to kill us.

          JULIET: That's essentially the same thing.

          EZRA: No, it's not.

          JULIET: Yes, it is.

          EZRA: No, it's not.

          JULIET: Yes, it is.

          EZRA: No, it's—

Exasperated, Juliet hung up on Ezra and returned to the front counter, skipping the kimchi and paying for the rest of her purchases. Then, she was on the back on the bus straight through Koreatown to Hell's Kitchen.

She had barely keyed open the apartment door when it swung open and a hand shot out to grab her by her good shoulder and drag her inside. Locking the door behind her, Ezra practically sprinted to the dining table, and returned with a chair he promptly shoved under the doorknob.

Juliet watched this all unfold with a vaguely bemused expression. Ezra snatched her grocery bags from her and sifted through their contents in search of his favourite candy. Juliet knew he had found it when the sickly-sweet scent of artificial grape flavouring filled the apartment.

"Okay," Juliet watched for another moment, then approached him—carefully, as if he were a wounded animal. (Or one with rabies.) "Am I going to get an explanation for the whole, 'I think someone is going to kill us' thing? Or...?"

Ezra shoved his face with some more candy. "Did you see the car outside?"

"What car?" She already knew what car he was talking about: a black SUV, parked right on the corner. She'd noticed it in periphery as she'd walked up the steps to reach their building's lobby.

"The. Car."

"There are always cars on our street."

"The Car." She'd never seen Ezra this stressed before. "Did you see The Car."

"I saw a car. I don't know if it was The Car." Knitting her brows together, Juliet looked Ezra up and down. A cocktail of equal parts concern and suspicion churned in her stomach—she didn't want to ask, but she had to. "Did you take something?"

Ezra was too preoccupied to feel betrayed. "No." He shook his head almost violently. "It's Kingpin."

"Deep breaths, Savage. Kingpin's in jail, remember?"

"It's someone representing Kingpin. They want to talk to us. To you. I got a phone call just before you got in."

Juliet laughed, though the sound was hollow. "Funny."

"I'm not kidding, Jules, and it's not funny. Get dressed and go out there."

"How did they even find us? What do they want?" Juliet asked, but she indulged her roommate and did as she was told, sidestepping past him to reach her bedroom and pull out the Illusionist suit. Ezra followed, his hair tangled between his fingers as if he were about to rip out his scalp.

"They found me through the online auction I was setting up for the painting. And through me, they found you." A pause. He sunk into her armchair, his head in his hands. "I should've been more careful—this is all my fault. I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologise. I stole the painting, not you. Besides," Juliet shrugged, "What's the worst they can do?"

"Shoot out our knees?"

"Yeah, I don't know if crime lords actually do that." Juliet disappeared into her ensuite, changing quickly into her suit. She cleaned her face of makeup and began again, replacing her usual day-to-day look with the sharp lines and kaleidoscope colours of her Illusionist facade. Eyeliner, lipstick, the works. "Look, if it's about the painting, I'll just give it back."

"That won't fix things." Ezra was right. It probably (read: definitely) wouldn't. But Juliet liked the use of functional knees and she would attempt to trade a painting for it, Joseon period or otherwise, any day.

"You never know." She exited the ensuite, giving Ezra a semi-genuine pat on the shoulder before she scooped up the painting carry-case from where she'd left it in the hallway a week before. Removing the dining chair, she only realised Ezra had followed her to the door when he spoke again.

"So," he had managed to calm himself down a little, "you met a boy?"

"Mhm."

"Do I get to hear about him?"

"Maybe, when I get back. Assuming I still have my knees."

Finally, Ezra smiled. He looked kind of stupid, with his lips and gums tinged grape-purple, but now that he was calm Juliet could be, too. "Good luck," he offered. Juliet unlocked the door and left, heading down the hallway towards the elevator. Anxiety was a weight between her ribs, heavy on her heart, but she did her best to ignore the feeling. If worst came to worst, she could simply wipe Wilson Fisk's (or rather, Wilson Fisk's representative's) mind, and she and Ezra could continue on their merry, criminal way.

Juliet reached the SUV and knocked on the tinted passenger window. There was a moment of pause—in which Juliet wondered if she'd knocked on the window of the wrong suspicious-looking car—before it rolled down, revealing a bespectacled man with pale brown hair.

Juliet opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.

"The Illusionist, isn't it? Or should I call you Juliet?"

Silence.

"May I call you Juliet?"

Juliet said nothing. She was speechless.

"My name is James Wesley." The man smiled at her, though there was no mirth in his expression, no warmth. "Please, get in. On the behalf of Wilson Fisk, I'd like to have a chat."

✶

AUTHOR'S NOTE

me vs. writing my stories in a timely fashion so that readers don't lose interest and i don't lose motivation... who will win?

sorry for the wait with this chapter! if you got this far, thank you so much for sticking with this story. i appreciate it more than you know!

above are two playlists for this story i made in addition to the main one (its spotify scan code can be found in the introductory chapter!). as the labels say, the first playlist is a k-pop playlist compiled in honour of juliet's korean heritage, comprising songs that i (as well as my loves elysianfieId and gardenskies) think match the vibe of NOW YOU SEE ME! the second playlist is a typical ship playlist for peterjuliet. feel free to check these out and let me know if you have any suggestions!

with this update we are also honouring some beautiful graphics my amazing friends have made for this story. first, comicwhore, who made this gif for peterjuliet! lydia made a handful of these louvre-worthy pieces of Art, and you can check them out in the graphics gallery! this one just happens to be my favourite 😎😎

secondly, we have this amazing new opening gif by my love soulofstaars. if you've checked out the introductory page recently you'll have seen it was updated slightly!

i have the most talented (and most generous) friends. thank you both so much for taking the time to make me things!! i love you!!

anyways, i hope you (the reader) enjoyed this chapter! i don't know if it's just me because i'm viewing this story from the author's perspective, but it does seem to be moving slowly. i promise things will pick up soon, especially now that juliet is in kingpin's crosshairs.

feel free to let me know your thoughts!! votes and comments as always are very much appreciated!

🪞 GRAPHIC by SOULOFSTAARS 🪞