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“You are late,” said Edwin. He didn’t even look up from his computer screen.
Charles huffed out a laugh as he collapsed onto his desk. He knew he was late, he had been late most days this week and the one before. He’ll probably be late next week as well, it’s terminal at this point, but what was he supposed to do, exactly? Not help the people?
“She’s going to kill you,” Edwin continued in a sing-song voice, opposite him.
“I can deal with Nurse,” Charles muttered and pulled out a notebook from his backpack—it was wet, dripping from where his thermos of coffee had apparently leaked. “Shite.” He shook the notebook off, cold coffee splattering across his desk.
Edwin didn’t say anything, though Charles sort of wished he would. He loved it when Edwin said things, even if it was things he didn’t understand, or complaining about Charles and what he would probably deem as his “poor decision making skills.”
He and Edwin had both been on contract as Junior Reporters for the Daily Bugle for close to a year now. There was one permanent position up for grabs, and it was Edwin’s point of view that they were going head to head for it. Charles, on the other hand, operated on no illusion that he would ever be getting the job over Edwin at this point.
Even with his chronic tardiness, Edwin was just…better.
“Did you see ‘the Spider-Man’ while you were out and about?” came Edwin’s next question.
Despite knowing better, Charles’ stomach bottomed out. “Huh? What? Why?”
Edwin fixed him with his steely glare. “Because that is our assignment, remember? We are to track down and reveal Spider-Man for what he truly is.”
Charles crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Kind of an insane job to give to two contract workers, don’t you think?”
“That is beside the point,” Edwin said, looking back to his screen. “It is our assignment, and so I intend to complete it.”
Charles pursed his mouth together, biting down on the inside of his cheek just to keep himself in check. “Right.”
Keeping himself in check around Edwin proved to be more difficult by the day. If he was being totally honest with himself, he was painfully obsessed with the guy. They met, obviously, on the job and immediately Charles could see how much they had in common: they both moved to New York City from London for school, both got journalism degrees, and then they both lucked out and ended up getting a contract at the Daily Bugle almost immediately out of graduation. That sweet, sweet work visa letting them stay in the country just a little bit longer.
The similarities sort of end there, which now that Charles reflected, it really wasn’t much, was it? But his point still stands. They are alike, he could sense it, and they were not complete strangers.
It’s worth mentioning that Edwin had been an enigma since day one. Charles only knew some of the barest facts about him, but they only pulled him in deeper. So much so, that Charles began to keep a list of the littlest things he did know about Edwin.
Like that Edwin was overly pragmatic, and logical. He took his coffee black with a dash of sugar—no milk, because he’s lactose intolerant and all other dairy substitutes have proven to be such a disappointment to him that he’s sworn them off altogether. Most importantly, Edwin was a hard worker, he ducked his head down and got the work done by hell or high water, which meant a lot of late nights (of which Charles would stay with him, if he could. But sometimes, danger was afoot and he had to—you know.)
All in all, Charles would consider them friends, though he’s not sure Edwin would extend the same sentiment to him—yet. One day, though. Charles had always been good with people, and he had a certainty about him that he would be good with Edwin.
(Then there was Charles’ ever growing attraction to the guy, but that was neither here nor there. Whatever. He didn’t want to think about it.)
“We should go over the facts again,” Edwin was saying. He leaned back in his chair, too, with one leg crossed over at the knee and looked at Charles. “What do we know about Spider-Man?”
Charles groaned. “We’ve been over this.”
“Yes, but I want to make sure you know,” said Edwin.
Charles sighed. He leaned forward over the desk and started listing things off on his fingers. “He’s young, probably in his twenties. He showed up about a year ago. Has some sort of, like, spider-like powers from an undetermined source. Maybe he’s an alien.”
Edwin raised an eyebrow. “We have nothing to even hint at the fact that Spider-Man is an alien.”
Charles shrugged. “He has to get his powers from somewhere. Why not space?”
Edwin pointedly ignored this. “What else?”
Charles’ bounced his leg. “He’s from New York.”
Edwin hummed, and sat forward now leaning over his notebook and scribbling something down.
“What?”
Edwin didn’t look up, and began flipping through pages of his notebook. “We don’t really know if he’s native to New York. This city is home to over 3 million immigrants—and those are only the documented statistics—he could just as easily be among that population. Look at the two of us, for example.”
“He speaks with a New York accent, though,” Charles blurted out. Then pretended to flip through his wet, coffee-stained notepad. It made a sad sort of plopping sound. “I had an account from someone…somewhere.”
“It’s unconfirmed then. We’ll need firsthand experience,” Edwin said. Then, a slow realisation seemed to wash over him. “I shall need to speak with him.”
Charles got a strange feeling in his stomach. “What? You’re just going to go and put yourself in danger to get his attention?”
“Not exactly,” Edwin said. “But where there is crime, the more likely Spider-Man is to show up; and crime happens all over this city, so.” He stood, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. “Let us go find some crime.”
“What? Now?” He had barely stopped sweating from rushing here this morning.
Edwin doesn’t wait for him to answer before he’s headed out the door.
They stopped for coffee first, because of course they did. When Edwin got to the front of the line, he ordered his typical americano and then turned around to Charles.
“Flat white, correct?”
Charles stared at him for half a second. “Yeah.”
Edwin’s smile could almost be read as friendly, it made Charles duck his head and smile all the same.
He paid for Charles’ coffee and everything.
Only a little while later they were walking the streets of New York City with their coffee cups in hand.
Edwin was right—Charles would always be the first to admit it—they walk around the city long enough and they’re bound to run into some sort of criminal something-or-other. And lately, give or take the past two years, anywhere there was some crime in New York City, there was a pretty good chance New York’s own Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man would be, too.
The issue being (and it’s sort of a big one) was that Charles knew Spider-Man wouldn’t be showing up wherever he and Edwin were, and most definitely not where Charles was. Because, well—if Charles’ unsubtle hints in his internal monologue didn’t do the trick—Charles was sort of Spider-Man.
Charles would not say he recommended being bitten by a radioactive spider.
It had been stupid, really. He had still been in uni, and went to interview a scientist guy for an article for the school paper he was doing. They were in the lab, he was getting a tour of everything. He knew that they were experimenting on something or other, and he could clearly see the glass terrariums filled with spiders and other miscellaneous buggy things.
He hadn’t thought to say a word when he felt something sting the back of his neck. (Didn’t want to be a nuisance, did he?) He hadn’t thought to say anything when he went back to his student accommodation that night, feeling a bit queasy, and he hadn't thought to say anything for the next two days when he broke out into a fever so strong he sweated through anything he put on.
At the other end, he had stumbled outside—without his glasses for the first time since he was five but seeing fine. Everything was too strong: the light around him, the texture of the road under his feet, his own physical strength, he had practically ripped the door off its hinges on the way out. Everything he touched stuck to his hand with a strange web-like substance—which was so gross, was that coming out of him?!
It was a bloody superhero origin story, like he had always read about growing up, but it was happening to him. And it was real.
It didn't take him long to figure out what he was going to do with all this newfound power. It actually came easily to him, in the end. There would always be people who needed saving, people who needed help.
He would be the one to do it, this time.
Edwin walked way too fast. Charles scrambled after him in an almost useless attempt to keep up.
Their coffees were long finished and it was well into the afternoon with—from Edwin’s point of view—nothing to show for it.
“I’m just saying we haven’t stumbled into a single crime!" Charles cried out, practically chasing after Edwin. “Don’t you think it’s time to head back to the office? Get some—other things? Done?”
“Such as?” Edwin shot back at him, tossed over his shoulder as he continued down the street.
“Literally anything else, Edwin,” said Charles.
Edwin spun back on him. “This is the assignment, Charles. Are you not willing to do what you must to complete the assignment?”
Oh, he seemed annoyed with him now, Charles thought. (His brain unhelpfully added, and he looks proper fit when he’s mad.) He bit down on his tongue, and took in one of his infamous calming breaths and held his hands up in surrender.
“I just think that wandering the streets hoping to run into Spider-Man isn’t worth our time. Not to mention, probably extremely dangerous?”
Edwin scoffed, his jaw shifting and he looked away from Charles for a beat, before his eyes snapped back onto Charles, loaded. “I would have you know that I would much prefer fighting for this promotion with someone who actually gives a damn.”
Taken aback, Charles said, “I give many damns.”
Edwin took a step forward, annoyance radiating off of him. He started to list points off on his fingers. “You are late nearly every day of the week. Your work lately has been sloppy, mediocre at best. Quite unlike the work of the man I searched on the web when I first started.”
On the web?! Charles thought, deliriously.
“When you are at work, you’re exhausted. Unable to perform even the most menial of tasks; and now we are finally putting in some honest work—something I only suggested for us to do so that Nurse wouldn’t know you were late yet again and fire you for it—and you are dismissing it entirely!” Edwin finished up his lecture with an angry flourish of his hand before settling them on his waist and glaring at Charles with the fury of a thousand suns.
It made Charles feel a little like a teenager again, with the way Edwin was looking at him. His brain, also, half distracted by the seemingly inconsequential things Edwin let slip, like: he had Googled Charles? But he hadn’t used the word Google, so does Edwin even know what Google is? And he was protecting Charles? Then he got distracted by the red flush that was spread along Edwin’s neck, maybe from anger, or even the lack of oxygen going to his brain, Edwin had spoken pretty fast just now.
Edwin snapped his fingers right in his face. “Charles. Focus.”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Do you even want this job?”
“Of course I do,” Charles said, though the admission was starting to sound false even to his ears.
“Then why for the love of God aren’t you fighting for it?”
“Because it's already yours, Edwin!” Charles cried out, incredulous.
The look of confusion on Edwin's face was almost comical.
“What on earth are you—”
Suddenly, turning the corner, like some sort of sign sent from above, was a giant, red fire engine with its siren and lights blaring. They each grasped each other, and stumbled backward from the corner giving the truck some leeway as it drove down the road, turned the corner and then—at least from the sound of it—stopped.
Edwin sniffed the air like some sort of hound. Charles could smell it, too: smoke.
An apartment building was on fire on 7th Ave and West 23rd. Charles stared up at it in blank shock, Edwin noticeably close to his side. For what it was worth, Edwin seemed to be legitimately scared, too. People were beginning to pour out of the doors, coughing. Charles could also hear the sounds of the firemen getting ready to go in themselves, but even more so he could hear the panicked voices of everyone around him.
“I couldn’t find my cat, she might be hiding—”
“—does anyone have a phone I could borrow to call my dad?”
“My grandma is in there—I just left for the bodega—”
“I—” Charles took a stumbling step back. “I have to go.”
Edwin turned to him in shock. “Charles, you cannot be serious.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just—I’m terrified of fire.” Not his best excuse. But the next one was worse— “Oh and my mum, she’s calling, I forgot it was her birthday, so I should—”
A roar from inside the building makes everyone’s heads spin toward the apartment, fire pools out of a window and rolls up the side of the building. Screams and gasps rang across the street, and Charles took advantage of the turned heads, including Edwin’s, and booked it into an alley.
If he could choose one thing to claim as a load of rubbish from all the superhero media, it would be the concept of a “quick change.” He stumbled out of his clothing, a foot getting caught in his pant leg, he practically ripped off his jumper. Everything was shoved back into his backpack—damp, and still smelling like coffee, by the way—and stored away safely (stuck to the side of a wall with webs.)
Then, he shot off into the air, swinging himself around and arriving from the opposite direction he would have run off to as Charles. Because he’s smart. He landed in front of the fire warden—who flinched violently in surprise—and put on his best New York accent—he’s been perfecting it, after all.
“Need any help here, fellas?”
He’s fixed with a glare. “City says you’re not allowed to help.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a liability.”
Charles laughed, rubbing the back of his head. “No silly, I’m not a liability. I’m a Spider-Man!” Then, he shot a web toward the burning building. “Don’t you forget it!” he called, as he swung himself through the burning window.
An apartment fire was practically small fry to him at this point—he’s fought off a giant fish named Angie in the New York Harbor, so he can deal with one nasty fire. Not to say it was easy, but it wasn’t hard for him to move quickly throughout the building. He could almost forget about being Charles Rowland and the impending demise of his career at the Daily Bugle. Even Edwin became something that only lurked in the back of his mind, rather than the frontal lobe where he liked to hang out most of the time.
The scene was tense. From what Charles could piece together, the fire started in one apartment but then seemed to spread quickly throughout almost the whole building. He managed to get a few more people out of their apartment windows. He found a woman’s cat, passed it over to her outside and then carried an older woman so she could reunite with her grandson, all the while the FDNY could focus on putting the fire out—something which seemed to be a harder task than they imagined it to be.
“Thank you, Spider-Man.”
“It’s not a problem,” Charles said. “You know, my pleasure and all.”
He swung back over to the fire warden, who still doesn’t look too pleased to see him. Anxiety, also, ridded all over his face.
“Is that everyone?”
“Some fucking reporter just ran in.”
Charles’ heart plummeted to the depths of Hell. “Wait what?”
A shrug, way too flippant for a guy who was supposed to save lives. “Slipped right past us. Some little white guy. Looked like he belonged in a Jane Austen movie or something.”
Charles wanted to correct him and say Edwin actually gave off a sort of Edwardian vibe, for some inexplicable reason, but obviously he didn’t do that. Since instead Edwin shot back into his frontal lobe—actually took up all his brain, really. He spurred back into action, and shot a web up to the top window he had just crawled out of and back into the burning building.
The smoke was as suffocating as ever, but he took in what air he could and managed to force his way through the building to the bottom floor where Edwin would have had to enter. He couldn’t have gotten too far, so Charles quieted himself, tried to force himself out of his own mind, and listened. Where would Edwin have gone? Why would he have willingly entered a burning building?
If it was to try and meet Spider-Man, Charles was going to kill him.
Charles spotted Edwin down a hallway running into an apartment building, he swung after him, landing awkwardly beside him in the middle of a burning apartment building.
Edwin gaped. “Spider-Man?”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Charles barked.
Behind a door, there was a scream, and a child calling, “Help!”
Their heads snapped to the door. Edwin ran forward, and reached for the handle, before pulling back and hissing. “Fuck!”
Charles reached for him, but Edwin pulled away. He banged a fist on the door. “We’re here to help you! What is your name?”
“B-Becky,” came a voice from the other side. “Becky Aspen.”
“My name is Edwin Payne. I heard your mother talking about you—I’m going to get us out of here.”
A little girl? Edwin came in for a little girl?
Charles was going to kiss him, the tosser.
Charles stepped forward. “Becky, stand back! I’m going to break the door in.”
He pushed Edwin out of the way, and shot a web to the ceiling, tugging it a few times to make sure the roof wouldn’t come down on him, and then giving himself enough leverage, he broke down the door with his feet by swinging into it.
Coughing, they find her. The little girl—Becky. Edwin dove toward her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. Charles’ heart does something annoying at the sight of them.
“We have to go!” he yelled, the smoke was getting to be too much. Both Becky and Edwin won’t stop coughing, now. He picked Becky up and held her in one arm. Then grabbed Edwin with the other, and swung his arm around his shoulder. “You have to hold on, and don’t let go,” he said.
He half expected Edwin to argue with him, like he usually did. But Charles was not Charles right now, and Edwin wasn’t usually in life-threatening danger around him. Still, Edwin wrapped his arms around Charles’—Spider-Man’s—neck, pressing himself to Spider-Man’s back, legs wrapped around Spider-Man’s waist, as he swung through the building, kicking open a window, and getting them outside.
Little Becky, the moment Charles set her down, was running off to a woman who is sobbing at the sight of her. Her mum, no doubt. Edwin, though, kept clinging.
“You can, uh,” Charles said. “You can let go now.”
“We are on the ground?” Edwin muttered.
“Yeah, man, we’re on the ground.”
Gingerly, Edwin set his feet down. Shaking, and covered in ash, he looked Spider-Man in the face, shocked. Before he could say anything else, an EMT dragged Edwin by the elbow and made him sit, practically shoving an oxygen mask over his face.
Charles looked around the scene. Everyone was out, which was good. Always the goal, with these kinds of things. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of Edwin, though, who stared back at him with wide eyes. Charles couldn’t read them to figure out what they meant, exactly. Once the EMT stepped away, Edwin stood up, removed the mask, and—
“Spider-Man!” Charles’ head swung around to the group of FDNY guys. The fire warden was headed toward him. “What did I tell you about being a goddamn liability?”
Yikes, Charles thought, and looked around for a getaway. He shot a web into the air, not even caring what it landed on and prepared to swing.
“Spider-Man!” called Edwin, who was approaching him from the other side.
“Listen, dude, I gotta go,” Charles called out to him.
“I need to speak with you,” said Edwin.
Charles blinked. Not that anyone could see that, what with the mask and all.
“Okay,” he said. He wrapped an arm around Edwin’s waist, tucking him in close—far too fucking close—and swung off.
Edwin wouldn’t stop yelling as Charles swung them through the streets. To be fair, they were pretty high up, and one could probably say he kidnapped Edwin; but also: Edwin did say he wanted to talk. What was he expecting?
It was only a few minutes of swinging. Just so Charles could get them to one of his favourite spots. A quiet roof-top overlooking Brooklyn Bridge. Not accessible via any means other than Spidey-powers, or maybe a really long ladder. He had sort of always thought about bringing Edwin here.
Once Edwin had foot on the ground again, he shoved away from Charles, running over to the side of the building and looking over. He was trying to figure out where he was, the movement was so obvious to Charles. But maybe it shouldn’t be to Spider-Man.
“So,” Charles said. “You wanted to talk?”
Edwin was still taking in great gulps of air, so at least that was something. “Why the hell did you bring me here?”
Charles shrugged. “I don’t know. I panicked.”
“You panicked?” Edwin breathed. “You’re fucking Spider-Man.”
Charles thumped a hand to his chest. “Still just a guy. Human heart, human idiosyncrasies.” Fuck that word was harder in an American accent, let’s hope that Edwin’s still too fucked from the swinging to notice.
“So not an alien then,” Edwin muttered under his breath.
And Charles—clearly having decided the hole he was digging for himself wasn’t quite deep enough—stepped forward. “Alien?”
Edwin waved him off. “It’s nothing.” Then, suddenly, “Charles—”
“Who?” His heart beat heavy in his chest.
“My—my coworker, my…friend,” Edwin said. Charles’ froze at the word, and thank God he had this mask, because he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face even if he tried. “He was with me—and then he left. Right. Perhaps I should—” he dug his phone out of his pocket. He tapped a few times on his screen and brought it to his ear.
Thank bloody fuck Charles left his phone in his bag, otherwise this would be really embarrassing.
“He doesn’t answer,” Edwin said with a sigh. “Of course.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
“I suppose…” Edwin muttered. Tapping out a message—texting him? “We are supposed to be doing this together. But if I am stuck on a roof…”
“Do what?” Just keep bloody digging, Rowland.
Edwin reached out a hand. “Edwin Payne. Junior Reporter at the Daily Bugle.”
Charles swallowed. He reached forward, gripping the hand that had become entirely too familiar to him. “Nice to meet you, Edwin. I’m your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.”
“I—along with my partner, currently missing in action—have been tasked to write an article on Spider-Man,” Edwin said. “Also possibly revealing his identity.”
Charles snorted. “That sort of goes against the whole man in a mask thing, though, doesn’t it?”
“That would be your problem,” Edwin said. “Not mine. Let me just—” he reached for something in his bag, and then pulled away with a hiss. He looked at his palm. “Oh dear,” he said.
“What?”
“I appear to have burned my hand rather badly on that doorknob in Becky Aspen’s apartment,” he said.
“Oh, fuck. Hold on.” Charles went over to a corner of the rooftop and grabbed a first aid kit. He pulled Edwin over to sit on the ledge of the roof, and opened it up.
“What is that?” Edwin demanded.
“It’s a first aid kit,” Charles said.
“Yes, what is it doing up here?”
Charles shrugged. “I can’t always do the hospital thing. Might risk exposure.”
Edwin said nothing, as Charles brought out something to clean the burn. Charles focused on his palm and didn’t dare look up, afraid of what he would see in Edwin’s eyes.
“Is this your…hang out?” Edwin asked.
Charles nodded. “I like the view up here.”
Edwin hummed. Charles held his wrist and Edwin’s hand folded open before him. It’s the closest Charles has ever been to him, probably. Edwin wasn’t a big touch guy—he had learned that the hard way when he gave Edwin a friendly pat on the shoulder and Edwin had flinched, bad.
Charles felt so bad about it he apologised later, but Edwin told him to pay no mind to it.
Edwin doesn’t flinch away from him now, though. Edwin’s wrist was delicate, though strong, blue veins visible against pale skin. Charles wished he wasn’t in the suit, wished his fingertips could feel the softness of Edwin.
“You should probably get this checked out,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Do you have a profession outside of this superhero business?”
“Not answering that,” Charles laughed. Edwin thought he could be so sneaky. He grabbed an ointment and dabbed it gently on Edwin’s palm. He expected Edwin to hiss, and jerk away or something—the burn was really red. It must hurt. He looked up.
“I have a high pain tolerance,” Edwin explained. “For the record, it does sting.”
“Sorry,” Charles said. He grabbed some gauze and started wrapping it around Edwin’s palm. “So, why the hell would you run inside of a burning building?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“Try me.”
Edwin’s eyes rolled—it was good to know he could be a bit of a bitch to anyone, even someone who literally saved his life. “A young mother came out, certain that the fireman was behind her with her daughter. The fireman in fact, had not even known there was a child in the apartment with her. An unfortunate miscommunication, I am not quite sure what occurred. Regardless, she was—of course—hysterical, the firemen were trying to understand if the building was close to imminent collapse—”
“So not only did you go into a burning building,” said Charles, “but you went into a burning building that could have collapsed down on you?”
“I thought of the child in danger, and did what had to be done.” Edwin raised his eyebrow. “I can only assume you understand that motivation.”
“Yeah, but you’re just—” he cut himself off, and finished off tying the gauze.
“Just a man? Are you saying that without superpowers, you wouldn’t care about other people?”
“No, of course not.” Charles said. “But you can’t deny the superpowers help. What you did was stupid, it could have gotten you killed.”
Edwin glared. “One could say the same to you.”
Charles tilted his head forward. “But I’ve always been stupid.”
Edwin pulled his hand out of Charles’ grasp—he hadn’t even known he was still holding on. Oops.
“Why do you do this?” Edwin asked. “No one told you to become a…superhero, you would had to have decided on your own. You could have used your powers for…nefarious reasons. You could have simply not used them at all.”
Charles shrugged. “I just wanted to.”
“To?” Edwin prompted.
“Help people,” Charles said. “Police are shit, and well, before this I wasn’t any good at keeping anyone safe, so—”
“Oh?” Edwin said.
Charles froze. It was too easy to forget who he was here, too easy to open up to Edwin. If only Edwin pried into Charles’ life the way he wanted to dig into Spider-Man’s. Maybe they could have gotten to know each other a bit better.
“Nice try, reporter boy. You can write this in your fancy column: No comment.”
“That is not how this works.”
Charles covered his ears and sang. “La-la-la-laaa.”
“Spider-Man is a crazy person.” He could still hear Edwin mutter, muffled.
Oh, how Charles wished Edwin could see him smiling, now. He removed his hands, and met Edwin’s eye again. Edwin responded, by rolling them, again. Charles wondered if he was prone to headaches.
“I notice you have an American accent,” Edwin said, suddenly.
“What of it?”
“Are you native to New York City?”
Charles swallowed. The thing was—he did make a sort of back story for the whole using an American accent while being Spiderman thing. He had made it up to throw people off his scent—figured he would be easier to track down if people knew Spider-Man was a British expat. He could tell it to Edwin now, very easily. Spider-Man grew up in Brooklyn, orphaned by the time he was ten, raised by his extended family who were also all gone by now. But if he did, he would be lying to Edwin.
He really, really didn’t want to lie to Edwin. Not more than he had to by nature of the secret identity thing.
“Sure,” Charles said. “If that suits your narrative.”
Edwin raised an eyebrow at him.
“How’s the hand feeling now?”
Edwin opened and closed his fist. “Better, thank you.”
“You really should see a doctor,” Charles repeated.
“I’ll be fine,” Edwin said. Then he leaned closer, Charles held his breath. “Do you need medical assistance?”
“Nah,” Charles said. “I got this handy dandy first aid kit, don’t I?”
“You do,” Edwin said, carefully. “You aren’t injured? From all of that?”
Charles stands, Edwin’s gaze is too much. “I’m all good.”
“If you say so…”
“I do.” He does finger guns—mother fucking finger guns, this may be the worst afternoon of his life.
Edwin reached into his bag and brought out his notebook, beginning to jot notes down.
“So, you’re British,” Charles said. Digging, digging.
“I am,” Edwin said. “I don’t imagine you’re going to tell me anything about yourself.”
“Nope,” said Charles. “Do you have any siblings?”
Edwin stared at him. “I have two older sisters.”
Charles hadn’t known that. He tucked the information away. “Do you miss them?”
Edwin did not meet his eye. “Yes,” he said quickly.
“Yeah, I miss my family, too.” Mostly just his Mum. Really only his mum.
Edwin’s eyes snapped back to him. “They are not in New York?”
Oh fuck. He really swung into that one. “They’re dead,” Charles blurted out. At least he’s maintaining the back story, right?
“Oh,” Edwin breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
Charles waved a hand. “It’s fine.”
“You’re an orphan,” Edwin said, a realisation more than anything.
“It’s not like I’m fucking Annie or something,” Charles muttered.
“You don’t have anyone. Do you?”
The question hit him in the jugular, and he was almost tempted to take a step back to manage the blow. Charles had friends, he did—he had his friends back home, but then again he hadn’t spoken to him much in the past year or so, had he? His Mum was there, he spoke to her when he could but it was hard with the time difference to find a time to call when Dad would also be out of the house. He made friends while at school here, too, but since graduation he’d fallen off attending their monthly pub nights in favour of, well, saving lives and whatnot. Crystal—his closest friend from uni—had reamed him out on multiple occasions for ditching them.
So, day in and day out, all Charles really had was himself. All he really had was Spider-Man.
Edwin stood, and put his notebook back in his bag. “I apologise. That was an inappropriate question. I would like to return to the ground now, if you please.”
Charles cleared his throat. “Yeah. You—you work for the Bugle? I’ll drop you off.”
Edwin narrowed his eyes. “Does that involve more swinging?” he asked, dubiously.
“Well, yeah.”
“No thank you. I will hail a cab.”
“I’m faster than a cab,” said Charles. “And cheaper.”
Still, Edwin shook his head. “No thank you. I have done enough swinging around the city with a complete stranger for today. Please return me to the ground.”
He at least managed to convince Edwin to let him drop him off by the nearest subway station. Charles leaned against the rail, as Edwin dusted himself off from the brief journey. There were people pointing at him, but that was usual when he deigned to walk around the city in the suit.
“Well, thank you for saving me from a burning building,” Edwin said. “And bandaging my hand in the aftermath.”
“Any time,” Charles assured him. “You’re going to write an article about me, aren’t you?”
Edwin stuck his chin out. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said, a devious glint in his eye.
He tilted his head to the side. “Can you at least rave about how cute and charming I am?”
The corner of Edwin’s mouth twitched. “Goodbye, Spider-Man,” he said.
Charles’ heart did a painful little clench. “Goodbye, Edwin Payne,” he said.
Edwin adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, and disappeared down the subway entrance.
In the end, it allowed Charles to swing back over to the scene of the fire, grab his clothes and get back to the office and Charles Rowland-ify himself in enough time for Edwin to think it’s where he had been all along.
He was over by the water jug when he saw Edwin slip back in through the door, and spotted him immediately. He had a look of wonder on his face, his eyes widening when he locked eyes with Charles, a bright smile crawled over his face—teeth and all.
“Charles!” Edwin rushed toward him. He gripped his arm, and pulled him toward their desks. “I have the most remarkable story to tell you.”
“Oh?” Charles sucked in a breath. “Tell me, mate. I’m all ears—what the bloody hell happened to your hand?”