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There’s absolutely no way he’s handing this case over to anyone else, Jonah thinks as he stares at the pictures Peter just brought him. This is his chance to get the web-head off the streets for good. If he can word this right, and the public gets to see these, then there’s no way dear ol’ Spidey will ever cover this city in his disgusting webs again.
And maybe the Avengers can use him to get a hold of and lock up the green killing machine. So no, Jonah is not giving this to anyone else. This is his chance to save the day. To be recognized as the hero he is. Marla would be proud of him. It might be too late so save her, but at least he can save someone else’s family members.
The title is already flashing before his eyes, and he grins to himself, thoughts running wild with the thoughts of himself saving the city by some good old fashioned journalism.
SPIDER-MAN SETS GREEN KILLING MACHINE LOOSE ON THE CITY
His forehead is damp and his hands are sore from hammering on the keyboard, but he’s so absorbed in his work he can’t afford to take a break. Betty’s been stopping by with coffee at least three times already, and Bobby came to try and tell him something about the flying flameball that belongs to the fantastic four, but that idiot does stupid shit all the time. No one gives a crap about him. This, however. This is gonna break the infamous red and blue villain, and expose him for what he truly is.
He’s very abruptly and forcibly pulled out of his head by a knock on the window and whips around, almost tipping off the chair, because who knocks on the window of the top floor on the bugle building?
He can feel the steam pouring off him when he sees the wide, white lenses staring at him from the other side of the glass, and that disgusting, friendly wave. Trying as always to fool him into believing he’s a so-called friendly neighborhood hero.
He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, raising a challenging brow. It doesn’t seem to do much, because Spidey just points down at the hatch to open the window. And what the hell is his deal anyway? It’s not enough to intrude him at work from outside his office? He wants to harass him inside too?
He could sit there all day, just to see how long it would take the moron to understand that he’s not welcome, but he’s had a few too many interactions with the guy, and he knows that if he doesn’t open the window and let him inside, he’s gonna find another way somehow, and Jonah doubts he’ll pay for the damages he does if he can’t find an opening somewhere and decides to make his own.
“What do you want?” he barks, stepping away from the window and placing himself at a safe distance with the desk between them. He’s not scared of the wall crawler, but it’s best not to stand too close regardless. You never know with these unstable crazy maniacs. They might attack just for shits and giggles.
“Why are you so hard on yourself, Jonah? You know this isn’t what happened,” he says, and gestures vaguely to the computer screen. And what kind of bullshit is that? What is he even talking about?
The confusion might be showing through the pissed off and fed up expression he’s trying very hard to keep in place, because the acrobat in front of him sighs, looks between him and the screen a few times and shakes his head before he fishes something out of somewhere . (How is he able to carry anything at all in that thing, anyway? It’s painted on his body. He should send in a complaint about public indecency on this guy, for sure.)
A tiny piece of folded up paper is held between two fingers in Jonah’s direction, but he doesn’t step any closer, just stands there, waiting for him to step forward and take it. Jonah would be lying if he said he’s not tempted to see how long he can keep his hand in that position before he gets tired, but he’s got work to do, and he’s not particularly interested in having a masked vigilante standing in his office more than he necessarily has to.
It’s pictures. Two of them actually. And Jonah isn’t sure if he’s about to blow up or melt or pass out or have a heart attack when he sees them. Maybe all of them. Maybe none. Probably at least a few. Heart attack for sure, after he’s done trying to decipher the images and make sense of them.
It’s from the night before. The hulk is mirroring Spider-Man’s pose, crouching and holding his hands out towards him. In the next picture Jonah is cradled by Spider-Man, covered in a green tarp. “What the hell is this?!” he burst out, throwing them back at the sick, lying asshole. What is his goal here? Is he trying to frame him for this? Is this his way of getting back at him? What the hell does he want to come out of this? Is it some kind of sick blackmail?
“This is from last night. I just came by to remind you that Hulk isn’t as… resilient as you are. He has feelings, y’know. And he’s not some kind of brain dead killing machine. You of all people should know that.” Despite the mask, Jonah can see his face scrunch up in disgust, and he points in his direction, the white buglike lenses squinting and widening as he talks.
He doesn’t understand a single word coming out of his mouth, however. It’s all gibberish and nonsense, and a terrible way to try and blackmail anyone. “What the hell are you on? Get outta here!” He demands, already way past this discussion and ready to get back to his story so he can tell the world what kind of monsters New Yorkers have to protect themselves from.
He fists his hands by his side, tensing his shoulders and straightening his back, trying to tower over the threat in the room. He can feel his blood pumping and heating up, boiling under his skin and coloring his face. His heart rate is probably way too high, but if he has a heart attack right now, at least Spider-Man here will get the blame.
“Woah, there, calm down, will ya? I’m just trying to prevent another attack on the city, okay? It’s actually not one of my favorite things to do, cleaning up others' mess.” He holds his hands up, palms out, just like in the pictures, and Jonah is tempted to punch him. “Take a deep breath, yeah? No need to blow up. I’ll leave you the original film—” he points at his hip, and then slowly plucks out a roll of film from some hidden pocket he somehow manages to pack into that suit of his. Then he just as slowly places it on the desk.
Jonah flares his nostrils, baring his teeth, just about to scream at him to get the hell out and take his fabricated pictures with him. He’s got better things to do than to spread lies around the city.
He doesn’t have to say anything, though. Spider-Man carefully steps back, still holding his hands up, white lenses so wide they take up most of his disgusting red mask, as he crawls out the same way he came in.
Stupid fucking vigilante bullshittery. He glares after where the red and blue blur disappears over the rooftops, counting his breaths and opening and closing his fists in time with the air leaving his still flaring nose.
When the idiot is gone, and the danger of a heart attack is temporarily dismissed, he sits back down, calls Betty and gives her the screaming match instead for being late with his coffee, swirling the roll of film between his fingers, clutching it in his grip. There’s no way. There’s absolutely no chance whatever Spider-Man insinuated is true.
He glances down at the floor, at the picture of what looks like him, held in Spider-Man’s arms. That can’t be him. He would have remembered this. He would have known if this was true. He wasn’t anywhere near the construction site last night. He was… where was he? Asleep? He must have been. He woke up in his bed this morning, after all, and as far as he knows, he’s not a sleepwalker.
He feels the anger bubble up again, beads of sweat prickling out of his skin, veins moving and muscles tensing. Instinctively he tightens his fist, and feels the film crush in his palm like it’s made of foam.
Looking at it, his brain shuts off as he stares at his usually pale skin, his familiar clunky hand, with specks of green moving with the blood that pumps into his fingertips, making them bigger and wider. He’s mesmerized by how the prickling feeling in his fingers transforms into the visual of his hand blowing up like a balloon, the sickly color spreading and moving with every heartbeat.
What the fuck?