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You know what you are. Petty thief, cat burglar, larcenist, sneak, lowlife, scum. You’ve heard it all; some shape, iteration, form meant to put you down.
But the thing is, you’re really fucking good at what you do. It’s the only thing that your critics can levy your way, edged with a cutting angle of annoyance or irritation at the fact that not once have you ever been caught. By the law, that is.
As for other like-minded constituents? Maybe. Usually at the tail-end of a job or as you return back with your mark, ready to trade it for a dishonest day’s wages. You’ve gone face-to-face with Fisk in a shady, smoky meeting room in gilded towers to drop off a ‘parcel’ of unspoken contents.
You’ve palmed innocuous envelopes to Norman Osborne when he dares to go to the ground floor of his penthouse apartment where the mortals dwell. Hell, you’ve even done an odd job for J. Jonah Jameson when he needed some dirt that he wasn’t willing to send his usual errand boys out for.
And for all their posturing, for all their vaunted spots at the tops of their pecking orders, they’ve all been hypocrites cut from the same cloth. It’s rich—how they deride you for your services with something they assume is a cutting remark, while they slid you a very thick billfold for a job well done.
You don’t let it get to you. You take it for the compliment it is, that even if you are a lowlife like they say—at least you’re a lowlife with an excellent resume.
The only time that you actually enjoy the insult, however, is whenever you’re beating someone to the punch. Case in point, tonight.
It’s an easy job for some easy money, on behalf of some anonymous employer who rescinds their name in exchange for some dirty money that you never turn your nose up at. It spends all the same.
Grab a computer chip from some vault, dispatch some security guards, bring one of them close enough to the retinal scan to pry their eye open before it, secure the goods, exit out the AC through the ceiling and crawl through the ventilation. Above all, bring it back to your hire intact. Yadda yadda. You’ve done worse.
The only thing you didn’t realize, however, was that this job was for a product sorely in demand.
“Tell me, my dear,” Otto Octavius asks, all but cornering you in the cramped room—little more than a glorified safe, a vault to keep concealed things hidden, “Is there some satisfaction that you receive from getting underfoot like this?”
“I don’t know, Doc,” you say, from where you’re poised on top of the glass case that once held said object of contention. An object, you note, that motivates him to step further through the door, four little birdies with steel-tipped claws scratching along the frame to accompany him.
“But we really gotta stop meeting like this.” You add, watching as two of the coiled tentacles, brutal and implicative in all their power, graze down the wall. A warning and promise to you. Good thing you’ve skated by on ignorance this far.
“You don’t even realize what you’re holding, do you?” He asks, and his voice is a bored drawl. It’s an act, you think, if he’s going to such pains to regulate his voice, maintain composure when you’re holding what he’s arrived here for as well, beat out by seconds. By you. “The invaluable power that comes with something so small.”
“The price tag I was offered to grab it seemed pretty invaluable to me.” You reply sleekly. “I think that gives me a pretty good idea.”
“Money,” he sneers at your obtuseness. “A suitable prize for a petty thief. There’s priceless importance in that chip and you reduce it down to what it can be bartered and sold for.”
“You’re here too.” You reply with a smirk. “Or am I imagining the four chaperones that tagged along with you?”
“I don’t intend to sell it to the highest bidder.” He replies, a disparaging purr at your assumption. “I intend to use it for what it was meant for.”
“Seems to me like it was meant to collect dust here in this vault.” You return easily. “So maybe we’re both in the wrong—let’s agree to disagree, Doc.”
“Yes, let’s agree we keep that pretty head on your shoulders,” he retorts, and one of those claws snaps a little closer to you, “And give me that chip while you still have a choice in the matter.”
“See, that’s the problem, Doc,” you smile, “There you go again, giving me mixed signals.”
The tentacle closest to you swipes out, at the chip—you snap your head back just in time to avoid it, and miss the second one that click-clicks from the ground up at your hands. You make a hiss of surprise, the hand that holds your prize instinctively moving behind you as you ratchet your legs down for a jump. Thank god you had the foresight to climb onto the podium.
It’s a short jump from the stand to the vent—you had enough time before your gentleman caller arrived to knock out the mesh—but one of the claws tears at the spandex of your catsuit around your ankle, ripping through the fabric and the tender flesh. You gasp in pain but it’s enough of an adrenaline-fueled shock to motivate you through the rest of the outlet and out of the grasp of those claws.
You hear him snarl in fury as you shimmy up through the vent, and hope that you won’t have to cross paths with him again anytime soon. You’re not even cognizant of the triumphant smirk on your face, nor the way that “your pretty head” continues to pinball around your consciousness.
“You again.” He says, displeasure all-too-clear on his face. You’re in a familiar position, caught in between a rock and a hard place—but my, how the rock loves to talk to you.
“Me again, doc.” You say, holding the—ore? Mineral? It’s shiny and it was a cinch to grab from its coffers, so it doesn’t really matter.
“What will it take to keep you from interfering in my plans?” He asks, and the fact his voice returns to articulate fluidity is a warning sign to you. What was once anger is now incensed fury chilled to a flashpoint.
“You have a couple thousand on you?” You inquire, inching closer to the open hallway signifying freedom—if you time it right. If you keep him talking long enough.
“I have four very excellent reasons why you should reconsider.” He replies, and those four excellent reasons are already creeping closer to you, ready to lash out at any given second.
“Mmmm, and still not the reason I’m looking for. Try again.” You say, and this time you take a visible step back, widening the gap between him and your freedom.
“As you wish.” He sighs, weary of this game. You dodge the next swipe of his claw, which angles for your hip—the other, a coarse grab for your neck. Your breath hitches in your throat as you retreat.
“Ask—a person out first, will you?” You gulp for air as the two of you continue this dance, as you bob and weave to avoid his ever-increasing assault. He continues to advance.
He is dry in his reply, but the fact he even replies—you’re getting somewhere in this relationship. Progress is progress. “And here I thought Spider-Man was the epitome of annoyance.”
“I live to please, doc.” You press against the wall, avoiding a swing of the arm that rips out strands your hair—you hiss involuntarily. “Besides—I’m easier on the eyes than him.”
“It appears to be the only thing you have in your favor.” He growls. As you duck and roll out of the way of an arm that slams into the concrete hard enough to crack it, you resurface with a breathless grin, aimed up at him.
“Why—you do have taste, doc.” Then you turn and run, with him hot on your heels. It’s a miracle you get away unscathed this time—part of you wonders if he let you go free. But that’s only a hypothesis.
Unfortunately, as business so often does, your next hired role is also intercepted by unwanted guests. Thankfully, there’s a bit of downtime between your last encounter and this one.
But it seems to make little difference as you crouch in the window with the specific parcel of machinery you’ve been tasked to retrieve, watching him as he stands in the doorway, again.
There’s a stronger degree of irritation, beset by something else as he regards you, the obstacle preventing him from his victory. But the advantage is on your end. You have the open window and the city below you, and he has a whole room to cross if he wants to get his hands—or his claws—on you.
That’s why you’re mildly surprised when he chooses to speak to you, rather than rush to attack, in a last-ditch effort to retrieve what you’ve so rightfully denied him. But you’re not one to look a gift conversation in the mouth.
“Does it chafe for you to have no greater purpose than being a…courier?” He asks, interest layered in his voice. So, insults it will be. But it doesn’t sting the way that it would, were it JJJ or Fisk mocking you. “To have no greater reckoning of the things you’re ordered to fetch and bring back to master?”
“I’m good at what I do, Doc,” you reply. “I didn’t know I needed a lot of fancy degrees to be a good thief.”
“Yes, I suppose you have other…assets in your wheelhouse,” he purrs, taking another step into the room—not that it matters. But you still refuse to take flight—the shadows are to his back, so you can’t quite discern his face, but you know his eyes are squared upon you. “But what a life without ambition. With no greater purpose than to be a good dog.”
Your grin grows. That’s a new one. Why does it sound so appealing when he says it like that?
“I don’t know,” you shrug. “Life of leisure sounds like a pretty good ambition to me.”
“How base of you,” he says. “Spoken like a true lapdog, my dear.”
“Easy,” you’re unfazed by the insults, “I don’t like name-calling until the fourth date.”
“Yes, I’m certain you have extensive criteria in your ideal partners.” He returns, “Similar to the jobs you take in your employ.”
“I’m easy like an open book, Doc,” you breeze, “It’s just too bad you never get the chance to catch up.”
“And what will I do with you when I have?” He asks, and something, just something, makes you think he’s talking about more than simple revenge. But you don’t let it occupy too much mental space. After all, you’re still on the clock.
“Thought you were the one with all the answers, Doc,” you grin, “Why don’t you tell me?”
You turn to leave—to your continuing surprise at the situation, he makes no move to follow you. He only continues to watch.
“Ta, Doc,” you say, and leap from the window, away from that rather interesting interaction, and the feelings it inspires within you.
You’re on this rooftop at two in the morning, trying to fight the shiver that’s wracking up your spine. Your new would-be contractor is twenty minutes late, and it’s not like you’ve never had a fella stand you up—but you’re not fond of being kept waiting.
You take a look at your phone, checking the time—twenty-one minutes now. Maybe this was just a dead end.
“Good waste of time,” you grumble, pocketing the phone.
“Or,” says a voice from the shadows—you turn, whipping your head around at the noise, defenses instantly raised—“—An excellent exercise in patience.”
You feel an instinctive suspicion that melts away into a stronger dread as you watch the object of your competition emerge from the darkness, a ghost of a smile on his face as those four menacing beauties slink alongside him. Their claws drag and skitter on the concrete of the floor, radiating menace.
But you try not to let your worry show, much.
“Evening, Doc.” You say, taking a step back—business is business and you haven’t punched your time card in yet. You’re not looking for a fight, yet. “I’m not here to take anything that’s wrongfully yours—I’m just here for a job.”
“Indeed,” he replies drolly. “With whom, do you think?”
“Great question,” you return—his face remains imperiously impassive—and then you blink. “Oh—you? Really?”
One of his claws does him the service of removing his glasses, allowing him the opportunity to clean a lens on his jacket—not a bad looking face revealed, you think to yourself. As he replaces the glasses to his face, he speaks.
“As much as it pains me to admit it,” he begins, “The excursion I have in mind is a tad…cumbersome for myself. It’s a job that requires someone with a little more finesse.”
“You mean me?” You ask, dubiously—you smell a trap, and let this bleed into your voice.
“Precisely. Unless you’ve become terribly afraid of heights since the last time we met?” He asks, and your memory harkens back to the conversation in the window, stories above the city streets.
“Sure, but I’m not sure if I can believe my ears—are you complimenting me, Doc?” You ask, letting a smile cross your face at this.
“Sometimes, even I must be forced to admit the merit of something.” He returns, and the black lenses of his glasses prevent you from seeing exactly what he looks at when he says “merits” in that specific delivery. You’re fighting a shudder for other reasons now.
“It must be eating you alive right now.” You can’t help but pour a little salt in the wound at this, taking the opportunity for all it’s worth. He’s quite reticent in his disappointment, if he has any.
“Positively consuming me, my dear—”—He takes a step closer, bringing those weapons with him, but also bringing himself closer into your personal sphere—“—But let’s focus on the conversation at hand, shall we?”
This is quite possibly the closest you’ve ever let him come to you. It’s interesting, seeing how he shapes up, towering over you.
“That is, if you’re interested.” He says, his voice a furrowed note in the quiet around you both.
“I’m interested in seeing if you’ll be up to paying me.” Is all you offer back, amused and curious despite yourself.
“Then let me give you my humble proposal.” He says, holding out his hand to your awaiting audience—which you readily provide.
It appears, according to him, that the New York City Natural History Museum has a special meteorite shard on loan from NASA. A specific shard that, if it fell into the right hands, would be an extremely valuable source of energy for enquiring minds.
It sits under protection of lasers and the glass dome of the building, but while it is on loan for the next six months, every week there will be a ten minute window in the early hours of the morning where an electrician will disable the lasers, security cameras, tripwires, and do a maintenance check on all the technology.
“I will handle security,” he explains, “And you will handle the electrician as well as the retrieval of the shard, when I lower you through the dome to retrieve it.”
He looks at you carefully. “Does this seem too difficult for you?”
“No,” you reply honestly. A thought comes to mind. “But why don’t you do it yourself? This doesn’t seem out of your wheelhouse.”
A smirk crosses his face at the callback to previous conversations.
“I’m…more cumbersome than most. My darlings—”—At this, the claws snap and click at their mention, as though they are totally autonomous—“—Are quite flexible, but sometimes have a mind of their own. I need someone who has proven agility and ability.”
“Why, you’re flattering me.” You put a hand to your chest and bat your eyelashes in a pseudo-coquettish affectation. “I didn’t know you were such a gentleman.”
“Don’t let it get to your head, my dear.” He replies dryly. “I’ll lower you and you’ll have a window of ten minutes while all security measures are disabled to collect the shard. I’ll bring you back up—”—at this, his hand raises up into a clenched fist—“—And then we can go our separate ways.”
“Sounds too easy.” You reply with a grin. Because it is—this is child’s play.
“You seem quite capable when you’re stealing things from under my nose.” He says, nearing you again—you let him do so, unafraid—but interested to see what he will say next. “I’m confident you’re up to the challenge.”
“Maybe I’m more motivated when you’re aggravated—flustered is a good look on you, doc.” You return drolly.
“As humility would be on you.” He’s not without his own wit. “But do we have an agreement?”
You hesitate before voicing the underlying question you have. “How do I know this isn’t some trick to get me caught?”
“I would rather pluck the wings from a butterfly than cage you, my dear,” he replies, and it’s honest enough you’re left speechless, “Though I would rather you stay out of my way altogether.”
“We run in similar circles, doc.” You say, recovering as quickly as you can—not quick enough, if the amused smile on his face communicates volumes, “We’re bound to brush up against each other every now and then.”
“Then better we ally ourselves,” he returns, “Than pit ourselves against each other, hmm?”
You squint, trying to read his face—nothing reveals itself. So you go out on a limb.
“Alright,” you say slowly, “Then I’ll see you tomorrow at 11:45.”
“Excellent,” he says, turning to go back into the darkness from whence he emerged—a touch of humor in his voice as he adds on, “It’s a date.”
It’s a similarly cold night as you climb up the slope of the Nat, wind whipping at your sides while you scale the glass dome. When you make it to the zenith, taking care to trace the circumference of the dome that reveals all the pretty baubles locked away yards below, your company is already there. Waiting for you, with gifts.
“Our electrician,” The good doctor says, turning the metallic claw that holds the unconscious technician by the collar, head rolling limply on his neck, “Arrived early.”
“Hope he wasn’t too much trouble for you,” you say glibly. He extends the arm out to you for you to shoulder the man’s weight. You’re careful to roll him over to an alcove where he’ll wake up without plummeting a few hundred feet—but, of course, without his set of keys to give him an easy way down to sound the alarm when he awakens.
“And the rest of the security?” You ask, taking a cursory glance at the utility belt you’ve donned for the occasion.
“Dispatched,” he informs you in a monotone. “Do you have what you need?”
“Always do,” you say, and make a quick glance at the key ring for the one you need to open the panel—sure, smashing in the glass would work, but professionals have standards. The panel swings open easily once unlocked, letting a tepid gust of museum air out, washing over you both.
“Now what?” You ask, turning to him, and finding that his answer is already provided, in two of the claws that hold out a fastening cable—with an attachment that will cinch and close around your torso.
“Tying me up?” You ask teasingly as you reach out for it, mercifully ignoring the way that he seems to be momentarily taken off guard by your assertion. It’s fun to rile him up.
“Most men buy me dinner first,” you continue, but oblige to strapping yourself in.
“Dinner and a show, my dear—”—he replies calmly, having had a moment to compose himself—“—The show merely comes first today.”
You let a touch of humor into your voice as you click the final buckle over your chest, making sure it’s at the proper tightness. “I just didn’t know I was going to be the show.”
“Exactly.” He says, his voice low. “For me.”
And for once, you look up to him in a rare moment of astonishment. It’s a battle to ignore the warm, wretched heat that snakes under your skin as he speaks. And as you see the smirk on his face that makes it clear that this was all part of his grand design, he gestures to the panel—and job—below.
“I believe we have nine minutes left in our window, unless you wish to keep staring.” His voice is taunting now.
“Very well,” you say, trying to produce an affectation of him that will stave off some of the embarrassment—and pleasure—you’re currently feeling. “All set?”
“One final thing,” he says, reaching into his coat pocket—when it returns, you see an earpiece produced in between his forefinger and thumb. “So we can talk.”
You use this to recover. “Show and gifts? You know how to spoil someone.”
“I live to serve,” he’s droll as you hook it around the curve of your ear. “Eight minutes now.”
“I got it,” you playfully gripe, and, making sure everything is secured, you go over the edge of the dome, slowly but surely into the building.
It’s an odd feeling, being lowered by someone else’s volition, to put your trust in their strength and capability like this—you have no choice but to believe in them. You make a quick cursory glance of this anteroom—no security to be found—the doc was diligent. And the velvet cushion that you see the meteorite shard sit upon, under its own personal glass dome, comes ever closer.
“Anything out of the ordinary so far?” His voice is like velvet in your ear as you continue to descend.
“Nothing yet.” You reply, affecting your voice at a lower volume even though it’s only you here. Now seems like the perfect time for a jape. “What are you wearing?”
“Focus on the task, please.” He replies tightly, and perhaps a degree rattled? You let your smile speak for itself. The meteorite is mere feet away. Jackpot—you reach out with one hand and for the perfect tool in your belt with another.
“Working on it.” There’s a quiet that elapses at this—this won’t do. “What do you even need this for, doc?”
“Does it matter to you?” He asks as you carefully carve through the glass—just enough to reach through and snag it.
“Can’t help but be curious.” You return, taking pains to remove the pane without letting it slip to the ground. “Especially considering you would stoop so low as to ask me for it.”
He’s silent for a moment, but when he speaks it’s with resignation. “It’s but a piece. I need more than just this before my final plan can be executed.”
“Sounds expensive.” You return sardonically as you wipe the glass of any trace of you. Never hurts to be careful. “How’re you going to get the other parts?”
A pause. Then, in your ear, “If you are willing, it might be a task that requires your additional services.”
“Why, a second date? I didn’t know you felt so strongly.” The cable twitches upwards around you, a warning. “Alright, alright. Almost there.”
“Excellent. There’s still three minutes left.” He says as you find purchase around something so small, yet so infinitely prized by so many.
“Then it looks like you’re the happy owner of this hunk of rock. Pull me up.”
It’s a quick, efficient ascent that feels like it takes millennia, as you find yourself pulled upwards by a willpower that is not your own. The moon winks at you through the glass, looming ever nearer—you can’t help but feel the need to swallow as you think of who waits for you at the top.
And then, you’re pulled through the entrance of the glass, a gloved hand reaching for yours that you find purchase upon, use it to steady yourself as you find your own footing onto the solid support of the ground beneath you. With your other hand, you palm the shard into his own that awaits his prize—you take a second to walk around the limited real estate, get a feel for using your legs of your own accord.
And then you turn back to him, finding, with minute surprise, that he holds the shard in his hand—but is staring directly at you. And the silence, heavy with words unspoken, continues between you both.
Silences you can’t stand, so you take it upon yourself to break it, thoroughly displeased with how breathless you sound as you say, “So—is this goodbye, doc?”
“For now,” he says, as though he’s thinking similar thoughts to the ones running haywire within you— “—If you wish to take me up on my offer.”
You let a real, genuine smile break through. “I think I’ll consider it.”
“Don’t mean to interrupt, guys,” says Spider-Man, from where he’s perched at the top of the dome, “But I think this is the part where I have to take you both to jail.”
The two of you react instantaneously. The good doctor finds purchase with one of his convenient arms to heft a loose slab of concrete at the webhead, while you throw something that you nicked from OsCorp Labs the last time you did a stint there—well, you are a thief, aren’t you?
Spider-Man has enough presence of mind to dodge both, but is inevitably thrown off by the double-team, leaning vertical on a flagpole jutting from the building.
“Hey! That’s private property,” Spider-Man chides you both, wagging a finger in both of your general directions. “Municipal Court doesn’t smile on that kind of uncouth behavior.”
“Leave,” the Doctor commands you, over his shoulder—refusing to tear his eyes away from your shared enemy. “I’ll find you later.”
The protective edge to his voice, the urge to cast himself as some sort of sacrificial lion on your behalf—while it certainly does inspire certain emotions within you, you’re not one to cut and run. At least, not in this situation.
“And lose my paycheck if he sends you to jail? Not a chance,” you grin, hucking another bomb in his direction. The two of you dodge a slew of webs that would surely pin you both to the wall; one finds purchase on a claw, though it does little to stop the talons from spreading wide and ripping open the sinewy substance.
“Careful, dear,” The Doctor smirks sidelong at you, “They warn about mixing business with pleasure.”
You duck a web aimed for your face. “Good thing I’m bad at following advice.”
“Are you two flirting? While we’re fighting?” Spider-Man seems a little miffed, disgusted, and kind of tickled pink at the idea. “I did not consent to be a part of this dynamic, guys.”
“Allow me to help you, then,” Your temporary partner in crime says, and although you don’t totally enjoy the tactic, it certainly works as the doctor’s tentacles dive for the still-unconscious technician and heft him in a direction pointedly away from you both—off the building.
You watch Spider-Man’s lenses go wider still as he leaps after the man who is hurtling down to earth, but only for a second—there is a metal, cabled tentacle wrapping around your waist with an iron grip, working to spirit you both to a different location.
You always (for scientific reasons, of course) wondered what it would be like to be trapped in its grasp, as the two of you traverse enough rooftops to give Spider-Man the slip. When you turn your gaze back up to the Doctor, you note he is very pointedly avoiding your curious, watchful eyes.
He does not, in fact, return it until the two of you have stopped several blocks away. You almost miss the coil of the tentacle around your ribs as it slips from you. Or at least, you would if not for the burgeoning bruises that are probably blossoming around you already, and the air that returns now that you are not constricted by its embrace.
“I hope you were not…jostled too greatly,” he apologizes, an apparent lack of better word escaping even the most erudite under enough duress, “I had no other alternative at the time.”
“I’ve had worse,” you grimace. “And by the way—I will.”
“You will what?” The doctor asks, the briefest instance of confusion flitting over his face.
“I’ll take you up on that offer.” You grin. “Let’s discuss it over dinner tomorrow. What do you say to Birdie’s at 8?”
You smirk, adding on to the seal the deal, “My treat.”
There’s a real, palpable hesitance on his face, instigated by surprise—then it smooths itself over into a raw, pleased smile. “Very well, my dear. I will see you then.”
“Great,” you say, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the warmth that burns like a brand—a warmth you’re certain you’ll grow more accustomed to with passing time, “It’s a date.”