Chapter Text
Miguel and Gabriella O’Hara were a lovely, single-dad-and-daughter family. They were very pleasant to live next door to: always polite in passing, courteous of curfews (unlike some neighbors), and—best of all— they minded their own business. You would pick them as neighbors in another life, any day.
You knew a very surface-level of their lifestyle: Gabriella was nine years old and an extremely talented soccer player. Miguel was hot a geneticist over at Alchemax Co. and held a very high position there. What exactly he did it was, you did not know—and you were fine with that. You were a single, full-time college student in her twenties chasing down a law degree—there was no time (nor patience) for drama. Peace, quiet, and kind neighbors were more than okay with you.
That’s why, when Miguel approached you with tired, pleading brown eyes and clasped, calloused hands (geneticists must be hard workers), asking you if you would please watch his daughter for the evening while he was at work, you were reluctant. Sure, it was summer break and your workload was lifted significantly, but you had other obligations that left you little-to/no time to treat yourself, which is what you had planned for tonight.
“I’m sorry, Miguel,” You tell him earnestly, “really.” He sighs.
“I am not usually one to push,” He says, reaching for his wallet. “ Por favor, miss [Last name].” Miguel thrusts you a crisp one hundred dollar bill, “I have no one else to ask.”
Never let money change who you are, your mother’s words echo in your mind as you stare at Benjamin Franklin. What really pulls on your heartstrings, though, are Miguel’s eyes when you look back up at him.
Sighing as your mom’s advice wins you over, you politely turn him down. “It’s okay, Miguel,” You smile kindly. “I can watch Gabriella, free of charge. What time will you be home tonight?”
The smile he gives you is worth more than one hundred one hundred dollar bills, financial debt be damned.
And that’s how you ended up with a side-ponytail—makeup done as well as any nine-year-old can do—singing Taylor Swift at the top of your lungs with tiny Gabriella who matches your hairstyle (and has much better makeup than you do) at nearly one in the morning, a batch of cookies ready to be thrown into the oven. Miguel had still not returned, and on account of Gabriella’s tirelessness and persuasive skills, you decided to let your inner child come out for the night and enjoy time with your neighbor’s daughter. You were aware of the lack of a mother-figure in Gabriella’s life, and the fact that she was an only child meant that moments like these were rare, hard as Miguel might try. You knew he was a good dad by the way Gabriella smiled and laughed as she talked about him, but that did not mean there was not pain hidden deep down inside of a little twelve year old girl missing her mom.
Your oven whistles out a friendly tune to let you know that it has finished preheating. You look at Gabriella, who beams back at you. Carefully, you help her place the tray of cookies onto the oven rack, showing her how to set the timer on the kitchen appliance. She claps excitedly, immediately pulling you back into the living room for dance party number fifteen starring Post Malone and Justin Bieber. You did not know what Miguel would think if he were to walk in right now, but you weren’t too concerned—what Miguel did not know wouldn’t kill him.
Your flashmob is interrupted by the sound of a loud THUD coming from the next room over, Gabriella jolting when it happens. You yourself feel your heart rate incline, standing straight as you pierce the closed door with a deer-in-headlights stare.
“What was that?” Gabriella whispers after pausing the music, immediately grabbing onto your hand. You glance down at her momentarily and squeeze . Quick to act, you guide her behind the kitchen counter, making sure to hastily grab the iron skillet sitting on your countertop during your retreat.
“Stay there,” You murmur, creeping towards the room—your bedroom—that was eerily quiet now. With a pounding heart, you count to three before slowly creaking the door open, quick to wield your cooking utensil. What you don’t expect is a tall motherfucker picking himself up off the floor, causing you to cry out in surprise and bash the living daylights out of his skull. He falls unceremoniously onto the carpet, your blow being enough to knock him out.
“[Name]??” Gabriella calls, fear evident in her voice. You rush out of your room immediately, snatching your phone off the floor first before you collect Gabriella in your arms, making a fast escape to her apartment. Miguel is on speed dial, though to your surprise, he does not answer.
Nor does he pick up after the third, fourth, or fifth call and text.
Gabriella gasps as if she has been burned, making you jump. “The cookies!” She realizes with concern. Your heart drops along with your jaw.
“ Shit! ” You curse underneath your breath, pausing to inhale deeply.
Okay, [Name]. Focus. The smartest thing to do here would be to stay put, call 9-1-1, and wait for the police to arrive. Good. Okay .
Just as you begin to dial the three-digit number, your thumb hesitates as your brain brings up another valid thought.
But what if they take too long to arrive? It reasons. The next best thing to do would be to return with your weapon, turn off the oven, make sure the burglar is still in place, and then call .
You make a noise of frustration. What was the right move here?
“I’m scared,” Gabriella whines, bringing you back to reality with sobering numbness. You kneel down to pat her on the back, offering your best reassuring smile.
“We’ll be okay,” You encourage her, making up your mind. “I’m going back to turn off the oven, okay? You stay right here with my phone. You know how to dial 9-1-1, right?” She nods. You nod back, “good. Hold tight, okay?”
You stand up after handing her your phone, instructing Gabriella to lock the door behind you. She does so with great hesitancy, but you promise to come back as quickly as possible, which steels her nerves. Yours, however, are on fire , no pun intended.
All you can think about is how fucking crazy this is as you reopen the door to your apartment, having picked up the frying pan once more. All is still and quiet as you tiptoe back in, first making your way to your bedroom to confirm that the intruder was still there—and he was. With a big huff, you stare down at the man you now realize was masked and clad in a skintight suit, making your eyebrows furrow and eyes harden. What the hell …?
Spider-Man, your brain points out, and you feel a weight like a ton of bricks fall on top of you.
You just knocked out Spider-Man with a skillet.
The timer for the cookies go off, and you wish more than anything that college taught you what to do in a situation like this.