Work Text:
A mutated ex-crazy-scientist walks into a coffee shop.
It sounds like the beginning of a joke. And maybe it is, The Spot thinks, burrowing deeper into his trench coat and hat as he waits in line, I guess I would’ve been the punchline. Not anymore, though, am I right?
He stared at the bright colours of the clothes of people standing in front of him, the distinct shapes and hues of the furniture and coffee shop at large, all the saturated tones and bold lines of this universe’s existence.
Not anymore. Not just a villain of the week now, am I, Spider-Man?
I’ll make you pay for everything.
“Name?” the barista asks the woman standing in front of him. She answers, but The Spot isn’t listening. He’s too busy having an identity crisis of his own.
A name. I used to have one of those. I used to have a whole life. I don’t even remember it anymore.
It’s just another thing you took from me, Spider-Man.
I’m coming for you.
Right after getting some coffee, of course. He hasn’t eaten in days, and he’s starving.
At least, theoretically he’s starving. Truthfully, The Spot hasn’t felt hungry since he became… well, The Spot. Which raises the important question, is he even capable of consuming food anymore? Where does it all go? Would it just fall right through him? How would he even eat it, he doesn’t exactly have a mouth anymore? And what does that say about him and his metabolism, that even though he isn’t hungry he still craves stuff like coffee? And what about –
“Hi my friend, what can I get you?” a cheerful voice shakes him out of his reverie. The Spot coughs, not daring to look up at the barista in case they saw his face, freaked out and threw something at him. That kind of thing never ends well, at least not for the people around him, The Spot knows from experience.
“Uh – can I just get a chai tea latte please? With whipped cream on top?”
Now, The Spot doesn’t have a spidey-sense or anything. But somehow he gets the feeling he said something wrong.
The barista doesn’t miss a beat, just keeps talking brightly,
“Oh, sure, buddy, I’ll just stand here and make you a tea-tea-milk with 80%-air-cream. Would you also like a sugar-sugar to go with that, or maybe some biscuit-biscuit?”
“I – sorry, what?” The Spot glances up at him, and oh crap.
“No no, it’s fine, you walk into a coffee shop, of course you want a coffee-coffee with some milk-milk right? Can I get you some banana-banana-cake too?” the vibrantly-coloured Spider-Man of this world says, not even pausing in his rapid-fire talk as he flaunts his annoyingly perfect hair and juggles with some three different cups, “Of course, we also have ice-ice-cream-cream if you like, we do get that in India, shocking I know! Or maybe you prefer chocolate-chocolate?”
“Um – uh, never mind, it’s fine. I can just leave.” The Spot starts backing out slowly.
“Arre, now you’ve come, you should get something to eat! It’s not good to go hungry, bro.” Spider-Man slings over the cups he was handling to a table on the far side of the shop, and winks in response to the answering “Thanks!”. He leans on his elbows, and somehow The Spot can tell the dude is smiling brightly at him. That does not make him any more comfortable. “Come on, even bad guys deserve some food.”
“He’s right, mate. You should get something in your system, especially before a surprise adventure, hey?”
A lanky arm wraps around his shoulders suddenly, and The Spot goes rigid, a startled squeak escaping him.
“I – I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It’s another spider-person, because of course it is. This one has a patch-adorned leather jacket, a guitar strapped to his back for some reason, and spikes on his mask, and his entire body flashes popping colours and sharp cut-out silhouettes with every movement.
“That’s the whole point of a surprise adventure, innit? Come on, make it quick, you’re holdin’ up the line.”
The Spot sighs. He wasn’t looking for trouble today, but it appears he has no choice. Alas, such is the life of an acclaimed and dangerous supervillain.
“It didn’t have to be like this, you two,” he cracks his neck, and says as menacingly as he can, “I wasn’t predisposed to hate you, unlike my Spider-Man. You shouldn’t have messed with me.”
“Aw, but it’s such fun to take the piss out of you, bruv.” Spider-Punk’s arm tightens around his shoulders in a fraction of a second, pinning The Spot in place. The other Spider-Man nods vigorously, his stupidly pretty hair bouncing with the force of it.
“Yeah, I mean for example, I personally would have reconsidered before making “bipedal cow” my brand, but you should be your truest self!”
“How is that an example?” The Spot throws up his hands in frustration, then, “Wait, did you just call me a cow? I’m not a cow! Are Spiders just assholes everywhere?!”
“Hey, that’s considered a compliment around here! Cows are the best!”
“Ugh! That’s it, I’m done with this interaction. Time for death.” The Spot expands the hole on his back, letting his trench coat be sucked into it and revealing his full villainous glory to the civilian world. He bellows, “Scared? You should be. I’m much more powerful than you could ever imagine now.”
Spider-Man and Spider-Punk just stare at him, amused.
A train whistle blares in the distance. A pigeon coos. The sound of fingers tapping their phones and pen scratching paper from a group of teenagers “studying” in the corner drifts on the air. Some Bollywood song plays on the café speakers. Not a single head turns towards them.
“Arre yaar, kitni der lagaayega ye dhakkan? Jaldi kar, you’re holding up the line!”
A woman in a sari glares at him from behind.
“Told you, mate.” Spider-Punk shrugs, patting his shoulder. The Spot growls, opens a hole behind the guy and kicks through it, aiming for his knees, when –
“OW!”
A shock passes through him like a pulse of lightning, and the whole world fuzzes out of focus for a minute. Every molecule (and lack thereof) in his body feels like it’s been taken for a spin and then rearranged haphazardly. It’s sharp and sudden and almost-painful, and The Spot stumbles forward, disoriented.
Before he can do anything else, a web is wrapped around him in a blur or red and gold, binding every inch of his body from the shoulders down. The bangle glints innocently at him as Spider-Man hops out from behind the counter and catches it back on his wrist.
“You want anything to eat, dude?”
“Nah, I’m good, let’s get a move on!”
The taller spider effortlessly tosses The Spot over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and Spider-Man cheerfully waves goodbye to the actual barista as they leave, practically vibrating with energy.
He tries to make a hole, but everything in his body feels rattled. The atoms refuse to obey, dark matter refuses to form.
“How did you –” he starts to ask.
“Sonic pulse.” Spider-Punk says, “Took a while to develop the right frequency to stun you, Spotty. Your welcome.”
“Thanks for helping us out, yaar, Spot! This will be so much fun!”
“It’s The Spot. THE Spot!”
“Okay.” The guy agrees cheerfully.
“So, Spot, you got the plan?”
“For the last time, it’s THE Spot.” The Spot groans, rolling over and flopping heavily onto his back. He’d given up struggling pretty quickly, just wallowing in his pit of misery. The twilit sky is as dark as his holes, and he’s been bitten by so many mosquitoes he’s lost the will to live. “And no, I didn’t get the plan. You never told me anything.”
“That’s the spirit!” Spider-Man punches his arm playfully, sitting criss-cross applesauce next to him. “Hobie, all set?”
“Just give ‘em a minute.” Spider-Punk calls, his back to them, foot perched on the edge of rooftop they’re on as he looks down. “The last tourist’s almost gone – c’mon, mate, no one needs those many selfies with a door. Get outta there or I’ll web your phone.”
“Let him live! You don’t believe in selfies or something?”
“They’re a tool for capitalism to exploit human vanity.”
“You take pictures with us when we hang out!”
“Cuz you lot force me to, don’t you, you utter wanker?”
“Aww, you love me.”
“And what of it?”
“I love you too!”
“Okay, tourists are gone.” Spider-Punk declares, and Spider-Man jumps up with a whoop of glee.
“Finally! Chal, Spot, let’s go!”
“It’s THE SPOT!”
“Shall I take him this time?”
“I’ve got it.”
And he’s hoisted onto Spider-Punk’s shoulder again, the spikes digging into his stomach but not enough to cut the webs. The Spot has an upside-down view as they careen across the sky, over a whole bustling complex of bright buildings, and his stomach turns, someone shrieking shrilly in his ear.
“Would you stop screaming, you dickhead?” Spider-Punk grunts as they land on a glass dome. The Spot gets a hold on himself, and stops screaming. He’s not some terrified third-rate villain of the week, after all.
“Where are we?” he hisses.
“I’m glad you asked, my friend!” Spider-Man’s grin is audible in his voice, and he says with a flourish, “This is where the British stole all of our stuff!” and then in a bad imitation of a British accent, “Welcome to the British museum!”
“I reckon we’ve got about twenty minutes before the night guards come in. The time’s now, Pav.”
“Alrighty!”
“What are we –”
The Spot stops midsentence, gaping, as Spider-Man rears back with his bangle. He whips it around to build momentum, and tosses it at the dome, smashing through the glass and taking him with it.
An alarm just barely has the time to sound out before Spider-Man’s already at the circuit box, disabling it.
“All good!” He gives them a thumbs-up. Spider-Punk nods, and gracefully drops in through the hole, depositing The Spot on the floor.
“Alright, where should we start, then?”
“Just head in any direction and we’ll find it, there’s rooms and rooms of the stuff!”
“Why are we breaking into the British museum?” The Spot whispers loudly, apparently the only one bothered by this, “I thought heroes were supposed to stop crimes, not commit them!”
“Crime is subjective.” Spider-Punk says wisely. Spider-Man chirps in agreement.
“We’re just getting our history back.”
“This is insane!”
“Well yeah. And it’s fair.”
And just like that, Spider-Man has picked him up, holding him bridal-style as the two of them practically prance through the museum. The Spot would stop to admire the historical artefacts around them, comparing them to the culture in his universe, but he’s a little preoccupied by the fact that Spider-Punk is casually shattering the glass of the first display case they arrive at.
“Alright, this is where you come in, my friend.” Spider-Man says gravely. The Spot stares at him, the hole on his face wide with apprehension. “Stay still.”
“What –”
Then his face is stretched out wide as Spider-Punk shoves a five-foot stone sculpture of a woman into it.
“Easy does it.” He huffs, “Alright, next thing.”
“Wha –” The Spot splutters, “Did you really just –”
“We didn’t hurt you, did we? I’m so sorry, I told you to do it more gently, Hobie!”
“I was gentle! What, you want me to break it into lil pieces and spoonfeed him?”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
“Why did you even do that?”
“Well,” Spider-Man shrugs, “There’s so much of our stuff here, we won’t even be able to lift it all. And we can’t take it all in one go, immediately pakde jayenge. And you have the whole extra-dimensional-pocket deal with your holes, so…”
“You could’ve just asked.” The Spot sighs. “Here, I could just –”
It takes a lot more effort than it should, but the effect of the sonic pulse must be wearing off, because The Spot is able to make a hole appear next to him, big enough for a short human to walk through.
“Cool.” Spider-Punk nods, wiggling his hand through it, “No funny stuff though, or you get the shock.”
“Got it.”
It takes way more than twenty minutes to pull off the heist. The Spot didn’t even know there were these many artefacts here to begin with – Spider-Man had practically sobbed for ten whole minutes, hugging some huge panels of beautiful rock carvings, declaring, “It’s okay, sab theek ho jayega, we’ll get you back to Amaravati, bhagwan kasam!”
The guards did appear in the middle, but Spider-Punk webbed them harmlessly to the walls, and they eventually just stayed stuck there and chatted about their co-worker’s baby shower.
It’s honestly endearing how excited Spider-Man is throughout the whole trip, proclaiming his love and promising his protection to almost everything he sees, smashing through glass cases with a cathartic kind of delight. Spider-Punk whoops and cheers him on, doing less collecting and more carefully-depositing-stuff-into-the-holes. The Spot even finds himself nodding along to the guitar riff he belts out for no apparent reason except that it makes the whole thing even more fun.
By the time they’re done, The Spot is almost genuinely worried he’ll run out of extra-dimensional space – a thing that’s supposed to be infinite – but finally, Spider-Man and Spider-Punk high-five, giddy with success. Their joy’s contagious, and The Spot cheers and gets an excited slap to the back that almost sends him crashing into the wall.
“A’ight, peace!” Spider-Punk yells loudly, swinging out of the museum’s dome the way they came in, The Spot under his arm.
“FUCK COLONIALISM!” Spider-Man whoops as he follows.
“Aw man, that was awesome!” Spider-Man laughs as they drop into an empty warehouse.
“Coolest thing we’ve done yet.” Spider-Punk chuckles, putting The Spot down way more gently than he ever had before.
“Thanks so much, Hobie, I couldn’t have done it without you.” Spider-Man tackles Spider-Punk in a hug that must be painful, right? Spider-Punk just pats his head and then proceeds to wrestle with him, the two of them giggling like children until the taller spider wins, giving him a noogie.
“Nah, first of all, you would’ve done it anyway, and second of all, there’s nothin’ else I’d rather spend a night doing than robbing a colonialist museum with you.”
“You guys are too sweet.” The Spot says, and immediately regrets interrupting them. The two Spiders turn to him, and just when he’s prepared to be properly arrested, Spider-Man engulfs him in a hug.
“You were great too, Spot! Thanks so much!”
“It’s The… nevermind. Don’t mention it,” he laughs, a little nervously, “Like. Seriously. Don’t mention it. I can’t be seen working with two Spiders, how do you think that’s going to look on my nemesis angle? And besides –”
“You weren’t working so much as captured, mate.” Spider-Punk says, busily making a sort of safety-net out of webs across the warehouse, “Come on, open up your hole now. Get it all out.”
“Ooh,” Spider-Man begins, his teasing glee obvious even through his mask, “Yeah, talk dirty to me, baby –”
“Shut the fuck up before I make you, Pav.” Spider-Punk groans, and the other cackles.
The Spot does open a hole above the net, not too big, carefully dropping out the artefacts, one by one, while Spider-Man watches each one with almost terrifying protectiveness.
The heist was pretty quick, he realizes. This will take until morning.
Judging by the amount of snacks and magazines Spider-Punk retrieves from a stash webbed on the wall, he’d expected it.
“What are you two gonna do now?” The Spot asks, propped up against the wall, more than a little tired.
“Return everything to its rightful place over the next few weeks,” Spider-Man shrugs, his mask pulled up to his nose as he stuffs some kind of burger-like food into his mouth, “You sure you don’t want any vada pav, bro?”
“No, I’m – I’m good. I meant, what are you two going to do with me?”
“I dunno, I s’pose we could always torture and kill you.” Spider-Punk says, completely deadpan. Spider-Man kicks his shin, and he squirts capri-sun at him in retaliation, making him squawk indignantly.
“Very funny. I’m so glad my fate gets decided by the two of you.” The Spot sighs.
“I mean, that’s a valid question, though. What do we do with him?” Spider-Man looks at his partner wide-eyed.
“I guess the thing to do would be to take him to HQ, innit?”
“Yeah…” Spider-Man sucks in a breath, face scrunched up thoughtfully, “But like… I wouldn’t want to interfere with Miles’s personal journey and stuff… this would technically be cheating, na?”
“Well…” Spider-Punk shrugs, “Suppose we were to accidentally let him out of our sight for a bit, and he took that chance to escape… I mean, that’s no one’s fault, right?”
“Right!” Spider-Man perks up, and swivels around 180 degrees without question, “So, what the hell is a capri-sun anyway?”
“Try some if you want,” the other one turns his back to The Spot too, tossing an unopened packet to his friend, “Not touchin’ mine though.”
The Spot stares at them in disbelief for a full minute. Then he jerks himself out of it.
“Okay then…” he mutters to himself, straining against the webs with renewed energy until he feels them loosen. He seems so have recovered enough from the sonic pulse to use his powers again, too. He looks up at the turned backs of the two Spiders.
“Bye, I guess.”
And he slips out through a hole in the wall
Pavitr and Hobie consume their food in peaceful silence for a few minutes, watching the sunrise paint the sky and shine across all their heisted stuff.
“CRAP!” Pavitr sits up suddenly like he’s been electrocuted, “I should’ve made him fix what he did to my universe!”
Hobie laughs.
“It’s alright, Pav.” He pats Pavitr’s back in consolation, “No one remembers it anyway.”