Chapter Text
Warnings: Slight violence, mature language
You sigh angrily, throwing a decorative pillow with all of your might at your new headboard. It bounces pitifully on the bed before it lands on top of one of the many cardboard boxes you have yet to unpack. You didn’t want to be here.
“Hey now,” your mom scolded jokingly, appearing in the doorframe of your new bedroom, “what did that pillow ever do to you?”
You didn’t smile, despite her teasing. You were mad at her, at Dad, at the whole situation, and you wanted her to know. Ya know, just in case the screaming tantrum you threw when they broke the news of your move wasn’t enough of a clue.
“Where’s Dad?” you ask in a monotonous tone, crossing your arms and sitting on your window sill, avoiding her eyes and looking out over the begrudgingly-nice view you had.
“He’s just gone into the new office, sweetie,” she answered, her tone guarded. She crossed her arms as well and leaned against your doorframe. “He wants to make a good first impression with the new director.”
“So he drug us here and isn’t even going to help us unpack?” you spat. You knew you weren’t being entirely fair but right now you didn’t care. Your father’s new job offer uprooted your entire life - not that you didn’t want to be happy for him, but your own misery was a monster that was quickly growing. With every minor inconvenience since you’d crossed the New York state line, the monster devoured it as fuel.
“I realize you’re not happy, and that you don’t want to be here,” your mom said quite suddenly, all traces of lightheartedness gone from her voice, “but this change is happening. It’s happening right now. We’re a family, and this is the opportunity of a lifetime for your dad. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the people you love, Y/N.” You still refused to look at her, eyes glued to a colorful clothesline hanging a few feet below you. “Look, you left your friends, your life… I know. I had to, too. But Y/N, if you want to make the most of this, you’re gonna have to change your attitude. And you are not - I repeat - you are not making your dad feel even more guilty than he already does. This makes him happy. Alright?”
You sighed again, knowing she was right, chewing on your lip as if nursing your broken pride. You hummed in acknowledgement, refusing to give her the satisfaction of apologetic words coming from your lips. She was right, but that didn’t change the fact that you’d been wronged.
It was a mere three weeks ago when your dad made the announcement at dinner over a cold box of pizza that you were moving. At first, you weren’t upset - a new house a little further away wouldn’t be so bad. People moved all the time. You could still see your friends. But then he said those two words: “New York”. As in, halfway across the country New York. As in, you’d be lucky to see your friends once a year New York. As in, every person you knew, every nearby family member, every road you knew like the back of your hand was gone New York. It was all gone. Replaced with skyscrapers and traffic jams and the occasional alien attack.
As soon as the words “New York” fell from your father’s lips, your heart detached itself from your ribcage and fell into the dark pit your stomach had become.
“We’re gonna freakin’ die, Dad. Haven’t you seen all of the alien attacks in New York City?! What in the hell makes you think moving there is a good idea??” you had insisted, hysterical.
He sighed, suddenly looking ten years older. “That’s just it. That’s why we’re going. The Department of Defense has a lot of positions opening up there, Y/N, and they headhunted me. It’s a huge raise. It could be really good for us.”
“No, it could be really good for you,” you corrected through slitted teeth. Both of your parents regarded you with shock. You were a good kid, a respectful daughter. You rarely talked back and they almost didn’t know how to register your sudden hostility. But your dad bounced back first.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought, Y/N,” he began, and you could see the vein popping in his temple. “Your mother and I thought long and hard about this. We know it’s scary, we know it’s a big step. *We know*. You’re in shock, we weren’t expecting you to take it well. But you will not be disrespectful.”
“Disrespectful? You wanna talk disrespectful?” you yelled, shooting up from the dinner table with a clash of glasses and silverware. Your hands were fists on the tabletop. “Disrespectful is having no consideration for anyone but your wallet. What about me? What about my friends? What about Grandma and Pop? What about all of your friends? This - this is all I’ve ever known! I was just voted captain of the soccer team this year!”
“Now, Y/N, calm down,” your mother tried to coax you, but it was in vain. You were fuming.
“No, I will not calm down, Mom!” you cried. “I’m graduating in two years! Can’t - can’t you just wait??”
“The job offer is now and it’s fleeting,” your father said. His voice was rising, too. “And I’ve decided to take it. You don’t have to like it, but you do have to deal with it.”
Before you said something that would get you in serious trouble, because you could feel the hot-worded anger boiling in your throat, you stomped out of the dining room and locked yourself in your bedroom. You’d screamed into your pillow until your voice was gone, you’d cried until there were no tears left, you’d thrown every pillow and punched every blanket until you were out of breath. None of it dulled the ache in your chest and the ice in your stomach.
With tearful goodbyes to your friends and family, and death glares at your parents, you’d hopped into the enormous white moving truck and watched your entire life fade away in the rearview mirror. All of it was gone, and you were empty except for the prickling coals of anger heating your veins. It’s all you could feel.
“I’m gonna finish unpacking the living room and order some take out,” your mom stated, pulling you from your memories. “Eat or don’t eat. Pout in your room all night. Or come out and get some of your favorite food and maybe calm down for a second.”
You didn’t reply, and after a few minutes, you’d turned to see that she’d disappeared. You fully planned on locking yourself in your new room, but your growling stomach disagreed with you. Trying to ignore it, you grabbed the TV remote out of your nightstand drawer and clicked it on. The cable had been set up a few hours beforehand, and you hoped that a nice sitcom might take your mind off of your disintegrating life.
The screen came to life and before you could change the channel, a man swinging from webs in a bright red and blue suit overtook the screen, a news woman’s voice urgently reporting as much as she could without running out of breath. You immediately sat up in bed, crawling closer to the TV screen as if you needed a better look. It was him, the guy you’d heard about all over the news for the past year. Not living in New York didn’t make you ignorant about superheroes, especially ones that had anything to do with the Avengers. They all fascinated you, to be honest.
You watched in amazement as the suit-clad Spider-Man swung through buildings, landing on top of an eighteen-wheeler with ease and stopping a large-scale bank robbery. The entire account was filmed by a mixture of news cameras and blurry cellphone cameras alike. One thing was for sure, you’d forgotten all about your bad mood.
“Spider-Man, despite his less-than-legal way of scooting around police, was the reason these criminals are behind bars right now,” a news correspondent insisted. “Police had lost the trail halfway through the chase! Without Spider-Man, these guys would probably be leaning back with their feet up in an abandoned warehouse somewhere, fanning themselves with their stacks and stacks of stolen money, Grace!”
The interviewing news anchor, apparently named Grace, nodded. “On a different note, let me ask you, Mr. Blair, what do you think of all these rumors that Spider-Man is officially part of the Avengers?”
“It’s possible, Grace,” Mr. Blair conceded. “I mean, not long ago he was swinging around in a hoodie. Now he’s got a full-on suit, looking pretty spiffy if you ask me.” He laughed. Grace smiled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this guy, whoever he is, got some kind of backing from someone. Whether it’s the Avengers, who knows? All we know is that he helped out Tony Stark during his little, uh, dispute with Steve Rogers.”
Grace’s grin widened. “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Blair. We appreciate your input, as always.”
The words of the newscasters faded from your ears as you focused on all of the different clips playing of Spider-Man. He was pulling people out of a burning building, then he was taking on at least five different guys twice his size, letting a frightened mother and her two small children run to safety. He was so quick, knowing what the men in ski masks were going to do seconds before they did it. You sucked your bottom lip underneath your top teeth.
You’d done your research on New York, and it wasn’t long before Spider-Man became the answer to almost every Google search. Besides the occasional random story on a new construction piece or movie being filmed in Times Square, Spider-Man was all over the internet. You’d heard of him, of course, but it’d slipped your mind that you’d be moving to a city with its own bonafide superhero. If there was one tiny thing you didn’t mind about moving to Queens, it was that. As much as you wanted to meet the web-slinging hero, part of you hoped you were never in a situation where you had to.
“Y/N,” your mother called from the kitchen. “Please do me a favor and walk to the corner store right down the street and get some of that soy sauce that your dad likes so much. I wanna have it ready when he gets home.”
You groaned. “Why can’t you go get it?”
“Because I’m not sitting around watching TV,” she called back. “Now go.”
You groaned loudly and slipped on your tennis shoes, grabbing your purse and speed walking out the door. You avoided your mother’s eyes the whole way.
While walking through the apartment building’s lobby, you begrudgingly admitted to yourself how nice it was. You’d lived in a house back home, but the apartment was the same size at the very least, and ten times fancier with a large kitchen with granite countertops and large bedrooms. If you didn’t hate the move so much, you might even feel like you’d upgraded.
You asked the clerk at the desk where this corner store was, and he pointed out the window to your left. “Go down a block or two and it’s on your right. It’s called Sherman’s.”
You mustered up a smile and thanked him, and it must’ve been convincing because he smiled back. You walked through the double doors into the noisy cityscape, taking a deep breath and smelling less car exhaust than you’d expected. You began your trudge to the corner store.
You passed by people on your way, none of them looking up to smile at you or even nod a greeting. You even accidentally bumped a guy’s shoulder and he barely glared at you before walking off - you didn’t even have time to apologize. Maybe the whole New-Yorkers-are-rude thing wasn’t so far from the truth.
By the time you’d found the corner store, which took longer than you’d expected, went inside, found Dad’s favorite soy sauce (which also took longer than expected), and grabbed a few small things for yourself, it was almost dark outside. You shivered at the breeze as you stepped out of the door, hearing the faint jingle of the bell. The sun was quickly retreating. You looked around, noticing the sidewalks had emptied considerably. You decided to hurry home, not liking the dark in this new place.
With your hands full of groceries and your purse hanging limply by your side, you struggled to walk as quickly as you might have liked. Your building wasn’t even in view yet and it was getting darker by the second; the street lights were turning on. You sighed heavily and tried to pick up the pace.
An apple that you’d stuffed into the bag last minute before approaching the check out counter suddenly slipped from your bag, along with a pack of cookies and your dad’s soy sauce, which thankfully was in a plastic bottle and didn’t break.
“Fuck,” you cursed, probably more loudly than you should’ve, rolling your eyes and setting down your belongings to pick up your mess. Five second rule with the apple, you wanted the damn thing.
You stood up after picking up the cookies and soy sauce, looking for your neglected apple. It wasn’t on the ground.
“You drop something?” came a hoarse voice from behind you. You turned around and jumped, a filthy-looking man smiling teethily at you; and it didn’t look kind. The apple was in his dirty, gloved hand. He did not extend it to you.
“Uh… you can have it,” you said quickly, your voice sweet and obviously frightened. His smile only grew and it did far from comfort you.
“I’ll tell you what,” the man said, and you suddenly caught a whiff of his vile breath, “you give me your purse, and I’ll keep my little buddy here in my pocket.” Every muscle in your body froze. He pulled his tattered coat back to reveal a handgun, gleaming black and threateningly in its dingy pocket.
This couldn’t be happening. On your first night in New York, in all the places you could be, you were here, a block away from your very nice and seemingly-safe apartment building, being mugged. Of damn course. This would only happen to you.
Your mind was racing a million miles per second. Could you run? Would you make it? Could you scream for help? All of your options seemed like a bad idea as his menacing grin grew even larger, the gun still gleaming threateningly in his visible pocket. He could see you working out all of your options.
“I wouldn’t run if I were you, baby,” he chuckled, even though it sounded more like a wheeze. A shiver ran down your spine at the sound. “Even a pretty thing like you can’t outrun a bullet.”
Your purse and it’s belongings weren’t worth your life. You fully intended to hand it over, but you were frozen. Your muscles wouldn’t move. Fear nailed your feet and hands right where they were. And the menacing figure towering over you was growing angry.
“Are you deaf or somethin’?” he demanded, and suddenly the barrel of the gun was being waved in your face. “Do I gotta spell it out for ya? Give me your God damned purse or your brain is gonna be scattered all over the sidewalk!”
You were shaking. Tears were flowing freely down your cheeks, and you don’t even remember when they started. Your groceries lay forgotten on the ground.
“I - I - please don’t -“ you stuttered, but he didn’t let you finish. He yelled obscenities at you as he pushed you forcefully to the ground in the adjoining alleyway, pointing the gun right between your eyes. You sobbed on the ground, no way out. Your purse was in his grubby hand now, he had what he wanted. But you’d pissed him off.
“You dumb bitch,” he spat at you, and you heard him click off the safety. “All you had to do was give me your fucking purse but you’re gonna stand here and cry and waste my fucking time?! I should shoot you in the fucking head.”
You couldn’t see through your tears now. The streets were deserted, there was no one near enough to save you from a gunshot before they heard it. You were gonna die in this stupid city before you were even here 24 hours, and you were gonna die alone. Your lifeless body would end up in a dumpster somewhere with half of your skull blown to bits. You suddenly weren’t angry at anything or anyone anymore, you just wanted to go home.
He rose the gun, indifferent to your tears, and put his finger on the trigger. The damn heathen looked excited.
BOOM
You screamed, flinching, squeezing your eyes shut, waiting for the pain to come. But it didn’t. You gasped, opening your tear-filled eyes, to find the would-be-murderer on the ground, groaning, the gun knocked out of his hand.
And standing over him was none other than Spider-Man.
“Now that’s no way to treat a pretty lady,” the masked hero shook his finger, kicking the man’s face when he tried to sit back up. You stared in wonder, your tears forgotten. His voice was higher than you’d expected, almost like he was young. Much younger than you’d thought. His frame was lithe, thin, but muscular. You couldn’t believe your eyes.
“Fuck you, freak,” the mugger spat at him, blood running from his nose earnestly. Spider-Man seemed more disappointed in this comment than angry.
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” he asked, shaking his head, but didn’t wait for a reply before he shot a web directly over the man’s chapped lips. He kicked him again, and the mugger slumped over, out cold.
You watched in amazement, everything almost moving in slow motion, as Spider-Man stepped over the criminal’s body and turned toward you, approaching. He was even more glorious in person. He knelt down, now eye level with you since you were still sitting on the ground in shock, hands and knees bloodied. His large white eyes auto-focused, squinting, like he was looking you over for injuries. You couldn’t help but smile a bit at how damn cool that was.
“Are you okay, miss?” he asked, extending a hand to you to help you up. You gladly took it, your mouth hanging agape at the sight of him. You held to his other arm to steady yourself, and you were surprised at how soft the suit was, but it looked invincible. You suddenly remembered the newscasters’ conversation about his upgraded suit.
“You - you’re - you’re him,” you stated dumbly. His mask’s eyes squint like he’s smiling.
“That’s me, just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,” he said, spreading his arms and making a little turn. He somehow made it seem humble.
“He was gonna shoot me,” you stated, again, dumbly. Your mouth hadn’t caught up to your brain yet, you were still reeling. You felt lightheaded, adrenaline weaning away.
“I wasn’t gonna let that happen,” he said with a little shrug, like it was the simplest thing in the world. His voice was kind, it was like honey.
You hastily wiped your tears, suddenly incredibly self-conscious. You felt like a damsel in distress, which was exactly what you were, and you didn’t like the feeling. You felt weak.
“I’ve only been here 8 hours and I managed to get mugged and meet the famous Spider-Man?” you laugh, almost to yourself.
“Whoa, 8 hours? You’re not from around here, are you?” His voice was painstakingly sincere and curious.
You were in an alleyway, with an armed mugger knocked out cold, having your first conversation in New York, with Spider-Man. This was your life?
“Just moved here actually,” you smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. The attention he was giving you was making your cheeks very red and there was no way he wasn’t noticing.
It was evident he was smiling under the mask. He was definitely noticing. That just made you redder.
“Well, it sounds like you’re a magnet for trouble. What’s your name?” His voice was so damn sweet.
“Y/N,” you said a little too quickly.
“Why don’t I make sure you get home okay, Y/N?” he suggested, bending down and retrieving your groceries and purse for you. Your apple looked positively pitiful. You gladly took your purse and one of the grocery bags, while he insisted on carrying the other.
“Probably not a bad idea,” you laugh lightly, and you felt even more lightheaded. Your stomach was full of butterflies. “Who knows what else could happen to me in the next block?”
Then it all happened so fast. Just as you turned to head for the sidewalk, Spider-Man pushed you behind him, web slinging from his wrist toward the mugger that was supposed to be out cold. During your conversation, he’d managed to sneak toward his gun and aim it toward you two. But before any shot was fired, his wrist was webbed to the brick wall, along with his other wrist, his mouth still covered in the white sticky substance as well. He yelled and cursed unintelligibly underneath the web gag, his face pink in anger.
“Come on, man, really?” Spider-Man asked exasperatedly, rolling his eyes. Your heart was pounding but Spider-Man was as calm as if he were just talking about the weather. He was strong and lean in front of you. You tried your very hardest not to stare or enjoy his hold on you too much - after all, ogling him after he’d saved your life twice was hardly polite.
He turned to you again, much closer this time considering the fact he’d been your human shield - was he human? - and ran his hands up your arms before settling at your shoulders. For someone so strong his touch was very gentle.
“Sorry about that,” he apologized, almost sounding bashful. “Are you okay? Again?” His masked face was so close, you could see the tiny, tiny lenses that made up the whites of his mask’s eyes. You gulped.
“Uh, y-yeah. Totally fine,” you lied. Your heart was thumping so hard it was like it was trying to escape the prison of your ribs.
Spider-Man’s head suddenly turned, as if listening to something you couldn’t hear. A few seconds later, you barely heard it - sirens in the distance. Someone must’ve heard the gunshot and called the police.
“Aaand that’s my cue to go,” he told you, shrugging in an apologetic way as he backed further into the shadow of the alley.
“Wait!” popped out of your mouth before you could stop it. What did you want him to wait for? So you could hug him? Kiss him? Thank him? Grovel at his feet in appreciation? Some combination of all four? He’d already shot a web at a nearby fire escape and was readying to swing away. He turned at your sudden outburst.
You ran toward him, wrapping two arms around his neck and hugging your face to the side of his own. The mask was so soft and you could feel his cheek upturn into a grin. After a moment of shock, he returned the hug with the arm that wasn’t holding his web.
“Thank you,” you whispered as sincerely as you could.
“Y-yeah,” he replied softly, a little embarrassed, and you felt satisfaction seep through you. You were grinning like a fool when you pulled away, and he looked at you for a second more before disappearing with a few flips and jumps over a nearby rooftop.