Chapter Text
You weave through the crammed aisles, choosing suitable blind shots so that the cameras cannot see the way your eyes flicker side to side, the way that your free hand moves abnormally slow, or darts out abruptly fast. The empty plastic bag crumpled in your left fist gradually becomes slightly heavier. It only takes a couple minutes before you are shuffling out the doorway, sticking close to a pair of two actual customers who’d just paid for their order.
Your hood is drawn over your head, despite Mumbattan’s heat — but twilight has fallen upon the city, the last light of the blazing sun seeping between the cracks of packed buildings. The air is thick with scents, but a familiar whiff of masala chai catches your attention the most, more tempting than even the smell of butter chicken that’s carried from another street vendor. It reminds you a bit of one of your old friend’s.
You duck into an empty side alley at the first turn, the corner store disappearing from your sight. Done.
Your shoulders finally relax. You smoothly shove the bag into your pocket and with a disappointed sigh to yourself, you begin to reach up to remove your hood.
“Whatcha doing?~”
You stop in your tracks.
Not-done.
Your head cranes back to see just what you’d anticipated — a colorful mask with a full head of hair. Mumbattan’s very own ‘Spider-Man’ peers down from where he is perched, the white eye lenses of his mask practically beaming at you.
You’d be an idiot not to immediately recognize him. But while you’ve glimpsed him swinging around the city on many occasions, you’ve never met him or planned on it. So it’s safe to say that you hadn’t really expected him to currently be precariously balanced on a pole that juts sideways out of the third floor of some random apartment building — situated above this exact alley, seemingly completely relaxed, one leg dangling down.
Well, he was completely relaxed. Then he sees your face more clearly and is instantaneously all widened eyes and flailing arms — barely able to stop himself from losing his balance and falling.
… Okay then.
You arch an eyebrow at his blunder, but you’re mentally too focused on getting out of this situation to dwell on it. With a deft movement you finish pulling down your hood and lean casually back against the brick wall, eyes remaining on the hero situated twenty feet above you.
“Oh you know just, passing through this random alleyway,” You finally quip. You cast a fake grin up at him, your cheeks already beginning to hurt from the strain. “What about you?"
For someone whose face is completely hidden by a mask (although somehow his hair isn’t? you’ll have to google that later), everything about him is strangely expressive; from the realistic movements of his eye lenses, to the way he moves his hands around with each and every word. The hero seems to get ahold of himself, and is soon once more grinning down at you — although his voice comes out more high-pitched than before, and he lets out a laugh that sounds almost nervous.
“Oh me? How kind of you to ask, am personally just getting some fresh air and enjoying the views,” He chirps as he makes an odd sort of hand gesture, his left index and middle finger pointing upwards. He wraps his legs around the pole and moves so that he is hanging upside down from it — his hair falling in waves — and then he crosses his arms across his chest.
“This view’s nice,” He adds with a deliberate wink, eyes never leaving yours.
… This is really his tactic for me to let my guard down?
At first you’d been thinking that the self-acclaimed hero had caught you in the act of stealing, or at least that he was suspicious you might have. Maybe that spider sense he’s rumored to have kicked in or something. But now, you aren’t so sure. If he does suspect that you’re a thief, why is he still talking to you like this? Why hasn’t he valiantly webbed you to the wall, or commanded you to ‘hand it over!’? You haven’t even heard a 'halt, thief!’ yet — not once.
And to think, several minutes ago you’d been worried about your first (and, decidedly, last) stealing experience. This is… so far, almost more underwhelming than not getting caught would’ve been. Not that you are just doing this for the fun of it or something.
You finally blink up at him.
“… Well then.” You lean off the wall, casually taking a few steps to the side; a bit awkwardly jerking a thumb in the direction of the opposite end of the alley. "I guess I better get going then, so that you can, y’know…” You turn around as you speak, beginning to walk away. “Do hero stuff.”
The figure suddenly jumps off the pole and does a somersault mid-air, landing right in front of you. His movements are graceful and acrobatic, clearly showing off a lot of skill and practice.
“So soon?”
For some reason, his voice sounds almost disappointed at your preparation to leave.
But behind the mask, he gives you a cheeky smile as he stands in front of you at a respectful but still somewhat close distance. He leans against the wall in a chill pose very similar to your earlier stance, crossing one foot behind the other.
…
Alright yeah. He definitely knows.
“Fine, I get it you caught me,” You at last relent, not even seeming to care about it. You readily pull out the white plastic bag from your sweater pocket, now just wanting to get out of here and find some other way to take care of your current needs. “Just take it back to the corner store, I guess.”
You carelessly toss the small parcel of stolen goods at his chest, not sparing him another glance as you begin to walk away. Behind his colorful mask, Spider-Man's expression turn’s smug at first as he catches the plastic bag.
But once he looks inside it, the smile quickly fades from his face.
Footsteps soon trail after you. A moment later, there’s a tap on your shoulder.
“Excuse me?” He says with a more serious tone in his voice. “You are forgetting something…”
Uh oh.
You turn around while taking a conscious step away from the boy — man? nah, he’s gotta be like, a teen — tensing up a little as if expecting some sort of retribution for your wrongful deeds. You shouldn’t have hoped that he’d just let you go without at least reporting you.
But the meaning of his previously ominous-sounding words become a bit clearer once you take in the sight before you.
Spider-Man holding the (now open) plastic bag in his right hand — extending it out to you.
It takes a moment of you blankly staring at the object before what he is trying to do clicks in your head. You furrow your brows. Are you missing something here? What kind of hero stops somebody from stealing stuff, then goes ahead and gives the stuff back to that person immediately after?
When you look back up at the superhero’s face, for a split moment it feels like you can see straight through his mask. How his forehead is creased. How his lips are carved into a slight frown. How his eyes glint with unease and concern — carefully scanning your minimally exposed skin as if searching for something, something.
You take another step away. His hand holding the bag falters.
"No thanks,” You scoff quietly, turning to go. “Can deal without them.”
It’s silent besides your own footsteps for several seconds afterwards, and you almost bring yourself to believe that the hero has actually left you alone. But then you can once more hear his soft and quiet footsteps following after you like a lost puppy, the sound of his movements only amplified by the crinkling of the plastic bag still being swung back and forth in his hand.
3… 2… 1… No? Okay. 3-
“There are several reasons why someone might steal something.”
Anddd there it is.
But this time when the masked hero speaks, he sounds a smidge tired as he keeps walking behind your unresponsive form. He is talking again before you can even consider replying.
“You could take stuff because you're poor, or you have some kind of sick, twisted thrill.” He pauses for a moment, before continuing. “I've dealt with my fair share of petty thieves,” He adds on with an expression of disgust. He grimaces and rolls his eyes.
But then his gaze softens again — settling on the back of your head.
“… And none of them ever took anything medical-related.”
Your face hardens, but he can’t see it — though he maybe can see the way your shoulders grow even more tense at his last sentence. You had slowed your walking as a sign that you were listening to him, but now you don’t hesitate to return to your normal pace, nearing the end of the alleyway. Your reply is indifferent, and spoken almost coldly over your shoulder, a hopeful means to end this (mostly one-sided) conversation.
"Cool.”
He catches up to you with a big, soft step; once again standing in your path and bringing you to a halt. He stands confidently, holding the plastic bag out towards you more insistently this time. The kindness and empathy and worry that you don’t want in his eyes somehow so powerful that it’s visible even through his mask.
Then it comes.
“Are you hurt?”