Chapter Text
Christmas Eve.
You could hear the chatter through the walls, the laughter. You could hear endless Christmas playlists and jingling bells on doors as they opened and closed. You could hear the buzz outside of your slightly cracked window; the Rockefeller Center was, as always, a grand source of commotion around this time of year. You'd come to expect it, after years of living in New York and experiencing it yourself. And yet, every year, it didn't get much easier to see it all and pretend like you could bury the childlike love that came with Christmas time. Like anyone, you longed for connection during this time of year, and every year, you were dramatically reminded of how unlikely that would be.
There had certainly been people who'd invited you to their holiday parties. Coworkers, mostly. But you were quiet and shy, you did your work, and usually ran out of there. It was like you couldn't help it—you felt embarrassed anytime someone tried to talk to you, you stuttered, you didn't make sense, you didn't think, and so, you stayed quiet. You certainly couldn't handle yourself at a coworkers holiday party, nor would you want people to witness that.
So, your own tradition commenced. You slid on your favorite Christmas outfit: a black fleece sweater with a mistletoe on the chest of it, a pair of jeans, and moccasins, then threw your puffy jacket over it, shoved a Santa hat on your head, grabbed a cup of hot chocolate, and climbed through your fire escape.
Bundled up, the mug warming your fingers, you listened to the Christmas tunes carry through the whistling wind, and watched people ice skate, watched tourists snap photos with the giant tree.
"Sleigh bells ring, are ya listening?" you sang softly, tapping your fingers along the mug. You leaned forward on the rail of your fire escape, the mug loosely in your hands. "In the lane—"
You gasped as something attached to your mug. Your head flew down to see a white substance with a long string attached to it, and then your head whipped to your right as your mug was snatched from your hand and into the night.
Hands empty, mouth agape, you heard Spider-Man's brief panicked scream, then watched his body free fall a few stories. Another web shot out from his body. He threw himself to the wall of a building down the street, his head whipping back to where you were, your mouth still wide open, and your hands still empty.
You climbed back into your window as fast as you could. You slammed it shut. You stood there, for a moment, your eyes wide, thinking about how embarrassing that brief moment was for both of you, and briefly about how much you truly liked that mug.
The moment you aimed to turn around and pretend as though that had never happened, was the moment a knock on your window came.
It was Spider-Man.
You stared at his white eye slits, and he presumably stared at you. His hand was raised slightly at the window, and the longer you stood there staring at him in disbelief, the slower his balled fist moved to knock on the window again, until he did, and you decided you should probably interact with him instead of staring in disbelief.
Slowly, you inched forward. You opened the window and there you were, face to face with Spider-Man.
”Did I break your mug?” he whispered, horrified.
You could only nod.
"I am so sorry," he stumbled out, his hands flying up to speak with his words, "I'm really sorry about your mug, I made these new web shooters, and I'm taking everything out for a spin and they're not quite tweaked correctly—and I'm sorry again, especially on Christmas Eve, so—"
"It's ok," you mumbled. You were barely looking at him, finding his eye slits rather alarming. Instead, you looked at his suit. It must've made it brand new, you thought loosely, as this looked different than the one plastered all over the news. It was brighter, bluer. Shiny.
Your calm response and timid demeanor caused him to retract his wild hands. He became a little more timid, too, and crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands into his armpits.
"Can...Can I buy you a new one?" he asked softly. "Or...I can try, if you know where you got it, or—"
You couldn't help but raise your eyebrows at him as he humbled on. Who knew he talked this much? Or was so awkward? The picture painted in your mind about Spider-Man was so vastly different than the person in front of you. He was smaller than you’d thought, his voice was higher, he was… Or, well, he seemed quite normal, all things considered.
“Ma’am?” he asked.
You snapped back to reality. “I’m, like, twelve, don’t call me ma’am,” you rambled. “Er-I’m not twelve, but I’m young, but anyway, uh, no, it's alright. I'm pretty sure they don't sell them anymore. Christmas exclusive. Limited edition and all that—“ Your words, as always, seemed to make the situation worse. His hands flew to his head, his white eye slits widening.
"Oh, God, I feel even worse," he moaned. "Can I do anything? I'll go right now and get a mug, any mug—"
Your hand flew out, too finally, your open palm signaling for him to stop. You couldn’t stop your worried brow—he really did talk a lot. "It's ok. Really."
You could tell he was probably frowning under his mask. He looked around, up and down the fire escape, and you didn't miss how he noticed your empty studio apartment.
"What are you doin' out here, anyway? Kinda cold, no?" he asked.
There you were, making conversation with Spider-Man. Or, he was making conversation with you, rather.
You shrugged shyly. "I...always... I, uh, I always come out here to watch. I like people watching. I like Christmas time. I just... I just kinda hang out alone. I guess."
His shoulders sagged, minutely, but enough that you noticed. Could he relate to you? Spider-Man, the hero/menace of New York had something in common with you?
You don't know what convinced you to stand out there, or look at him, or talk to him, but you did—"You hang out alone, too?" you stuttered out.
He moved from crouching on your fire escape ledge to sitting on his bottom, swinging his feet loosely. His mask moved away from looking at you, his arms crossed over his chest. The question made him uncomfortable, or upset, and you kicked yourself for asking it.
"I'm sorry. Don't worry about the mug—"
"Yeah," he interrupted you, turning to meet your eye. "I do hang out alone. Even on Christmas Eve, which I bet you think is sad, but it's not, I mean, crime never stops, and maybe it's better someone's out here to...To... To, uh, yeah, stop crime on Christmas Eve, 'cause it's not like everyone's inside with their families—"
"Do you want hot chocolate?"
He stared at you, and you stared back. You felt out of your body. Had you asked that? Seriously? Or did you think it and he heard? Was he a mind reader, too? Could he seduce people like the Daily Bugle had suggested?
"Yes, please," he whispered.
Okay, so you had offered. You turned around and went to work. Your body moved without your mind necessarily thinking about it as you grabbed a cup of hot chocolate, certainly glad you didn't have to think about it, as your mind was going Spider-ManSpider-ManSpider-Man repeatedly in disbelief.
You passed the mug out of your window, he grabbed it, and then you found yourself taking a seat on your window ledge. You were both sort of close for strangers, as there wasn't much room on the fire escape. The intimacy of the situation dwindled as you lowered eyes to your shoes out of respect once you saw his hand move towards his mask.
"Is there a lot of crime on Christmas Eve?" you wondered softly.
He chuckled, but there was no humor to it. “Not really."
So, he must've been alone, too. You felt bad. You had your excuses for being alone on the holidays, and you had time to cope with it and adjust to it, but it certainly seemed like he didn't. You weren’t going to pry. You could imagine what circumstances had to happen or decisions he might have had to go make in his life as Spider-Man that would’ve left him feeling alone. But the thought that the protector of New York City was alone in a time of love and joy hurt your heart, especially when you could so clearly see he was trying to hide it.
"I don't believe Jameson," you said quietly, hoping to provide him with some solace in your brief time together. "All the pressure for you to reveal your identity is ridiculous. And, for the record, I don't believe him on any of it, really, I do think you’re probably a good person. You have to be.”
He seemed curious. “Why’s that?”
“Because you hide your identity,” you said as if it was obvious. “I mean…” you mumbled, unsure if you should continue your thought, but you decided to when he nodded slowly. “I guess I just think that before you were alone on Christmas, you probably had people to protect in your real life. You probably still do. And you can’t do that when people know who you are.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” he told you, and the shaking of his head with disbelief told you there was more to that story than you probably could have guessed. He breezed past it, though, knowing you wouldn’t inquire. “ You know, for a second I thought you were gonna call in to the Bugle and call me a menace for breaking your mug," he joked softly.
You laughed, accidentally raising your head, and you saw the briefest glance of lips curving into a smile before you lowered your head quickly, closing your eyes.
"It's alright..." he trailed off. "Um, what was your name?"
You kept your eyes low as you told him.
You could hear his smile as he said your name. "Right. Well, hey, no harm in sharing a smile, yeah?" he asked gently. "Thanks, though. I appreciate a fan."
"I never said fan—" you started to defend, raising your head again, until you realized he did it just to initiate eye contact again. You frowned slightly, squinting suspiciously at him, before you decided to indulge with him. After all, who would believe this anyway? And who would you have to tell?
"Ouch," he mused, holding the mug to his chest.
"You did break my cup," you reminded.
He gasped. "And you declined a new one!"
"As if you have money?" you joked lightly, and he gasped again. "I'm just saying. I imagine you only get paid in hugs or something for all the good you do."
"Which is a shame, 'cause I am doing it for cash. Would you mind spreading the word?"
You laughed. "Sure, if you ever save me, I'll see if I have a few bucks, alright?"
"Fair," he agreed. He took another sip from the hot chocolate. "Man, this is good. Care to share the recipe?"
"Yeah, there's Schnapps in it," you said casually, and then gasped as Spider-Man turned and spewed it out.
"Are you serious? I'm undera—"
"It was a joke," you consoled, slapping a hand over your mouth. He reeled his panic back as you tried to stifle your giggles.
"If you, uh, wanna forget the fact that I just said I'm underage, heh," he said, very not casually, as you still giggled.
"Uh, yeah," you agreed. "Maybe you should be careful who you share cocoa with there, kiddo. I'm getting the real scoop about Spider-Man here. Jameson is just a dial away…”
"First of all, you can't be that much older than me," he mocked, wagging his finger at you. You shrugged, agreeing. He did certainly sound quite young. "Secondly, I can't be drunk and swingin' around the city or I'll do a lot worse damage than a mug and Jameson will have my head."
"I won't snitch," you promised.
Before you realized it, your pinky was out and reaching towards him, and before he realized it, his was, too. There was a brief moment you both sort of tilted your heads at each other, suspicious of the comfort at which you pinky promised and trusted each other, but you both recovered quickly.
"I can't tell you my hot chocolate secret. Took me years to perfect. Sorry."
"Understandable,” he agreed. “But this is your Christmas tradition, then?"
You nodded slowly. "Yeah. Me and hot cocoa and the Rockefeller Center. I usually go walk around down there , but the view here is nice. Sort of why I chose this place."
He hesitated before he said it. "And... You don't have anyone, either?"
"Foster kid," you said with such ease that you surprised yourself.
This was more talking than you had almost ever done. You paused, surprised with yourself, surprised with the situation as a whole, but then you started to understand it as you looked at him: Spider-Man was otherworldly. He was so far out of reach, a celebrity, almost, and he was masked, anonymous—he didn't know you, and you didn't know him. Despite him being literally in front of you and speaking with you, you wouldn't know him after this night, probably, and that was more than you could say about anyone else you knew. You existed together tonight and for one night only, and the anonymity behind him and your future was comfortable to you to indulge. And given by how comfortable he seemed with you, it almost felt as if he thought about your interaction the same way. There was a small possibility he drank hot chocolate with every lonely girl on a fire escape. Could you honestly think you would see each other again after this?
"I aged out," you continued to explain. "So, no. I don't have anyone."
He didn't make you feel uncomfortable, although you waited for it. You hadn't admitted that out loud to anyone outside of your old home, solely because you didn't want to hear peoples responses, or their guilt or sympathy at what life dealt to you. But he didn't say anything. No apology, no questions regarding it—he seemed to understand, oddly enough.
"It's a nice tradition," he admitted to you. "I'll have to start one. Maybe break a mug every Christmas."
"I'll make sure to only put out ones I don't care about," you said with ease. You paused, surprised with the unintentional flirt from you of all people. But when you glanced at him, he was smiling, nodding.
"Well, I know where you live now," he said. He paused, realizing how creepy that sounded, and frowned, tilting his head. "Uh, no, wait, I meant like in a fun way I know where—oh, God, no, like I can come back and—"
"Yes," You interrupted, waving your hand. "I get it. Although, maybe you just come for hot chocolate and we don't break any mugs."
"Or that, too," he agreed quickly. He looked down at his mug, then tilted his head back to finish the remainder of his drink.
You reached across the small space to take it from him. He held you there for a moment, a small smile on his lips, and the white slits where his eyes were staring right into your own eyes.
"Thank you," he said sincerely, and you felt true gratitude behind his words.
A shiver ran up your spine, and you had a good feeling it was not because you were cold.
"No problem, Spider-Man," you said quietly.
"You can call me Spidey, if you want," he offered lightly. "Thinking about making that my new nickname. Fans only, though."
"I told you I'm not a fan," you chastised, standing.
He went back to crouching on your fire escape, reaching his arms above his head. You couldn't help your eyes run along his arms before you caught yourself and moved your eyes back to his lips, before you caught yourself again, and just stared directly into his white eye slits. If he noticed your eyes dart around at all, he did a grand job of not letting you pick up on it.
"You broke my mug, you crashed my Christmas Eve pity party, you convinced me to give you hot chocolate with your mind control powers," you said jokingly, shrugging. "Jameson might be right about you after all."
"Is it in the cards to use my mind control powers to get you to come back out here tomorrow?" he asked.
You froze. He froze, too, and you could imagine his eyes wide at you, as yours were at him, until your voice decided to not work and you just nodded at him. Nod, nod.
"Yeah?" he asked hopefully.
Nod. "T-tomorrow," you stuttered out.
You were seeing Spider-Man again tomorrow. He asked to come back tomorrow.
You saw his smile again before he reached up and pulled his mask back down over his face.
"Cool," he breathed out excitedly, then he stood up, banging his head directly into the fire escape above, and you both gasped. "Oh, not cool, not cool," he muttered, grabbing his head.
"Do you want—" you tried to offer.
"No, nope, I'm good, I'm good," he said, waving everything off, crouching once more to avoid hitting his head again. He started to climb over the railing. “What's that? Sirens? Ope, gotta get goin' now—"
And although you didn't hear a single siren, you found yourself agreeing. "Oh, yes, big crime happening, better go get swinging, Spidey."
He turned back to you, the awkward ruse gone from his mind, as a breathy chuckle leaving his lips. "Not a fan, huh?" he asked you.
Your face flushed red, but before you could insist, he raised the hand on his (probably) bruised head and saluted you. "I'll swing by tomorrow, okay?" he said, then laughed at himself, and said: “It’s funny 'cuz I'm literally going to swing by—"
"Oh, my God, go," you giggled, a genuine smile breaking out across your face as you pushed him gently away from your fire escape. You leaned on the rail as he now stuck to it horizontally by the bottoms of his feet, his hands placed by yours. "I... I will be waiting for you out here, Spidey."
You could almost see his smile through his mask. "See you tomorrow," he said again, this time, ending it with your name.
And then he flipped off of the railing, letting out a whoop as he let himself fall stories down, before he shot a web and took off swinging down the avenue.
You watched him until he disappeared, and then you were left to where you were before: outside, listening to Christmas music from Rockefeller Center, but this time, with one less mug to your name and someone who knew a part of your life few others did. This Christmas Eve, however, you oddly didn't feel as alone.