Work Text:
CLATTER.
The Spot shot up among his sheets; in the darkness of his bedroom he at first could not discern what had made the noise. But his window was open- in the dim light he saw a silhouette stand.
His hand found his lamp, and Spider-Man stood at the foot of his bed.
Suit torn, a strip of fabric peeling off the mask, failing to fully conceal the youthful face behind it. A single wide, unfocused eye peered between bloody cuts and clinging threads of fabric.
“Spider-Man?!" Spot cried, throwing the blanket off of himself. "What happened?! Are you okay?!”
“Hey…” came a horrifically weak, pained voice that he couldn't believe was coming out of his nemesis, “I need… a place to rest for a minute…”
Then, breath heavy, Spider-Man wavered on his feet, and collapsed forward toward the bed. He hit the corner with his chin and slid to the ground.
Spot had a strange track record, when it came to keeping his wits under pressure. He had earned a reputation back in the lab. It had always seemed that at random, bizarre things- loud laughter, an unexpected hand clap, even something as simple as lights flicking on- poor insane "schizo" (their words, not his) Dr. Ohn could scream. Panic. He was not a stranger to hiding under a table, something they all thought was strange, but he considered a very normal act in an unpredictable world that could decide at any moment to make him hurt.
But then- gunfire, explosions, near-catastrophic breakdown of delicate systems- as others would describe him, it seemed a switch would flip, and just like that, weird, panicky, perpetually twitchy Dr. Ohn's face and voice would be replaced by something eerily monotone, and as if a robot kicking into his programming he would act quicker than all the rest.
It was always one of those funny little stories co-workers told each other about him. A portrait of how odd and insane he was. How little sense he made.
It always made sense to him, though.
Even now, it made sense to him.
Without another word, he jumped into action. Window closed. Blinds re-drawn. An arm hooked under the hero’s belly gently aided him into sliding up more securely on the bed.
“Lie down here," he said at once. "Don't move."
That weak, horribly distant eye watched him, as Spot adjusted his legs and body so he was lying securely on his back. He said nothing, which felt wrong. It meant he was too in pain for quips. That was not good.
Spot's hands rhythmically tensed, as he glanced over Spider-Man's injuries, fleeting calculations of what to do next shooting through his head. In places his costume was stripped, he observed the red gashes in his chest, his torso, his arms. He itemized each of them like faults in an engineering system.
First, supplies. He hurried off to the bathroom. He flicked open cupboards and cabinets and poked around thoroughly until he managed to find an almost-empty package of bandages from when he still had blood to lose. But the bandages were too small to be of any use, so he tossed it to the side.
He had isopropyl alcohol among his collection of chemicals and substances, though. And with another cup from the kitchen he diluted it with water to make an effective wound-cleaning solution.
He returned to Spider-Man’s side. “I'm going to clean your wounds,” he said, as he lifted the cup of isopropyl alcohol and the cotton swab. “I have isopropyl alcohol here. I just diluted it with tap water, so-”
“I can do it myself," Spider-Man breathed, reaching a trembling butterfly hand toward it. "I do it all the time. Gimme.”
"Are you sure you can hold it?"
"Y-yeah."
His fingers slipped three times as they tried to wrap around the cup. Spot pulled it away from him. "Uh-huh, yeah, sure," he said, deadpan. Spider-Man's hand fell, and he seemed to accept defeat. In ordinary circumstances, Spot would've probably enjoyed even that small a victory over him, but in this moment it didn't even occur to him. "Hold still."
He wiped clean the dirt and debris clinging to his suit and to the wounds. Spider-Man twitched and squirmed, but didn't fight back.
"Sooo, what happened?" Spot prompted, as he cleaned him.
Spider-Man stared at the wall momentarily, eyes far away.
“... Scorpion broke out of jail,” he murmured. “Went after a bus full of people. I got him, but…”
The rest of his sentence was completed by the horrific bloody gashes that Spot was attending to. As Spot gazed at his injuries, a ravaging anger began to set ablaze in him. One hole to the top of the NYC skyline- the Scorpion would be dead. Yes, dead. Anyone- anyone at all (who wasn’t him, his rightful nemesis, of course)- who hurt Spider-Man would be dead.
“… And I can guess you didn’t want to go to a hospital because you didn’t want them to unmask you, right?” Spot surmised.
Spider-Man nodded weakly. “Yeah. Do you have gauze?”
“I was just about to go get it." He stood. "And by the way, I’ll have to steal it, and you don’t get to try and stop me, because you’re in no condition to do that right now.” He pointed a finger in Spider-Man’s face commandingly.
Spider-Man made the weakest chuckle. “Y’know what? For once, I’ll allow it.”
It was easy. A hole to a pharmacy. Gauze, but also butterfly stitches. Everything was ready... except he realized there was a suit in the way. Right. Awkward.
"Okay, trust me, this is going to be extremely uncomfortable and awkward for both of us," Spot said nervously, "but I'm going to need you to peel off your costume."
Spider-Man pushed a noise out into the bedsheets. Something like a whine and a sound of resigned discomfort and disgust. He was there with him.
"- Just the top half!" Spot amended quickly, apologetically. "Just so I can get to your wounds."
For a moment, he wondered if Spider-Man was considering taking his chances as a fragile wounded hero out in the cold big other-less-worthy-bad-guys-infested city. He kind of didn't blame him.
But luckily, he finally complied, his hands reluctantly coiling up to peel his suit down his shoulders. Embarrassed and uncomfortable, Spot tried not to look, even though he would have to anyway.
"Sorry-sorry-sorry-sorry," he whispered in a chanting cadence, as he only tried to only peek at his bare skin as much as was necessary while he dressed the wounds.
"S'okay," Spider-Man mumbled, muffled by the pillow. "I trust you not to be like, weird about it or anything. I mean, you're super weird about a lot of things, don't get me wrong."
"Thanks?" Spot snorted.
"But what I mean is, despite the weird, you're a, uh..." He pauses, as if trying to find the words- "a cool guy? A good friend. ... A totally chill and harmless person."
Spot regarded him oddly, not really knowing how to figure those words. "... I gather that's you trying to taunt me right now?" he prompted, flatly.
There was a beat. "... Man, I don't even know anymore," Spider-Man admitted.
Spot let it drop.
As he worked, Spider-Man tilted his face out from the pillow. "You're, uh... actually handling this a lot better than I thought you would," he mumbled.
"How did you think I'd handle it?" Spot didn't know why he was asking. He knew he'd find the answer insulting.
"Uh... with a lot more panicking. Generally. Yeah, just, a lot more of a panicky vibe." Indeed, insulting.
"Why would I panic?" Spot scoffed. He was finishing up by now.
"'Cause... it's like... y'know. Wounds. Big wounds. Gushing blood. All over you."
"You keep forgetting I'm a villain. You know-" He closed the box of gauze. "- evil? I'm not so easily fazed, you know!"
Spider-Man peered at him through the hole in his mask. "If you were actually a villain, you know you'd be using this opportunity to like, kill me or unmask me or whatever, right?"
He said that about as smugly as a maimed guy just fresh out of a life-or-death situation could get. Spot sighed.
"This really isn't the time to play obtuse, Spider-Man," he admonished. "We both know that if I were any old boring unworthy villain, yes, I would be killing you right now. But I'm your nemesis. It's different." He straightened, and said quickly, "Oh, by the way, you can put your suit back on." That was a relief for both of them.
As Spider-Man put it back on, he shook his head as if to dismiss the argument they'd been having; the gesture was minute and weak, and Spot was troubled by that. "I'm just amazed by how level-headed you're being right now, honestly," he muttered. "Do you... like... have experience with this kind of thing?"
It was a genuine question, softly spoken. As Spider-Man looked at him, his visible eye glittered with something almost- well, Spot didn't know how to describe it, other than it was certainly different from the smug superior disinterest he had grown accustomed to from Spider-Man and would've expected to fill his gaze.
Spot shrugged. "Not really," he answered. "It's just- y'know, even with the blood and everything- I don't really feel..."
... Bad? No, no, he definitely felt very bad for Spider-Man right now. Which was weird, because he rarely felt bad for anyone. Generally when people screamed in pain or got hurt nothing happened inside of him, at least not on an emotional level. That part of his brain had always been impaired; he supposed it just didn't come wired right. Oh, he definitely wasn't a sadist by any means, he liked people fine and generally tried not to hurt them, he just... well, whatever. Spider-Man was looking at him expectantly. Better answer.
"... I just don't get squeamish, I guess," he finally decided to say.
"...Oh," was all Spider-Man said. "... Huh."
"Well." Spot stood. He figured Spider-Man would want him out of here as fast as possible, and while usually his role as his nemesis meant that he'd stick around and annoy him, he figured Spider-Man got a pass given the fact he'd just gone through a life-or-death experience at a much-less-deserving enemy's hand. So, "I'll leave you be," he reassured him.
But just as he began to leave-
A thin, shivering hand caught him by the arm. Far less strong than it should be.
Spot looked down at Spider-Man- and was surprised to see the emotion in his eye. He couldn't put a name to it; it was wide, intense. Perhaps... pleading, he supposed?
When Spider-Man spoke, his voice was more weak, more vulnerable, than his nemesis's should ever be.
“Um… could you… stay with me? Please, I…” He swallowed. “I need y- someone to stay with me.”
… Spot lowered himself beside him on the bed.
He didn’t make a sound, didn’t utter a word. He simply paralleled him; laid beside. And Spider-Man did the rest; he curled up there by his side, sniffling.
For a moment, he marveled at what was happening right now. It was quite the development. A scientific curiosity, almost. This shouldn't be happening. It was so weird that it was happening.
And yet, he understood that it couldn't be avoided or denied.
Spider-Man was actively seeking his comfort.
And that... just didn't make any sense.
Was it insulting? No. He wasn't insulted. A duty he was asked to fill, and one he found himself complying with immediately, clicking into its place without complaint at once, like he was engineered to fit it.
“Um… so, just to let you know, I’ve never had to be comforting before, so you might have to walk me through it a little. Do I… hug you?” Spot’s hands wrung uncertainly at the idea. He was no good at hugs, even at the best of times. “Or… what?”
Spider-Man made a quiet half-laugh under his wavering breath. “You just have to be here. That’s all I ask.” He swallowed anxiously, burrowing his head a little into the pillow.
"Are you sure? I mean, do you want anything? I can get you anything. I mean, I can steal anything for you. Seriously, anything. In this whole city. I can literally just pop it through a hole to you. Easily."
Spot at least expected him to protest the idea of theft, but Spider-Man didn't say anything. He just stared into the pillow. Spot got more anxious by the second; he didn't like the glassy, far-off look in his eye. As if he was drifting elsewhere.
Wanting to do something for him, he pulled the blanket up over Spider-Man, dutifully making sure he was nice and covered. Spider-Man glanced up, eye blinking and widening slightly as if he was a little surprised.
"... What are you thinking about?" Spot asked him quietly. That was a stupid question, he realized. "I mean- I know it's probably about what just happened to you. I just... uh..." He sunk down a little into his shoulders. "... want to know what you're thinking."
Truth was, he always had an interest in what his nemesis was thinking, what was going on inside his head. He had never, ever been curious about that with anyone else, but with Spider-Man, it was a constant. But especially now, as he drifted even further out of his reach than he was accustomed to. Which was saying something, considering that for Spider-Man, swinging high out of reach of anyone and everyone was like, a requisite element of his existence.
Spider-Man’s shivering hands slowly reached up and curled over the edge of the blanket, almost like he didn’t believe it was there. They looked so fragile. A painful, twisty sensation rose in Spot’s chest, one he’d never felt before, one he didn’t know how to make sense of.
“Spot…”
Spot went quiet. He leaned in to show he was listening.
“…. I… I almost died,” Spider-Man finally whispered. Like a guilty confession.
Almost died. For a moment, he thought, could that really happen? - Of course it could. The last Spider-Man had been killed in action. As infuriatingly unreachable and untouchable as his often seemed... in reality, nothing was preventing him from being killed, too.
The thought... he didn't know how to even describe this feeling. A need to preserve- like when the collider was exploding and he ran in to salvage what he could. But more. A hundred times more.
It took Spot a while to gather his response. He sat there, silent, head a quiet hurricane of thoughts, some more distressed than others, building to and culminating in his eventual next words.
“I won’t let anyone get anywhere close to you,” he told Spider-Man. “If anyone tries to come in this apartment, they’re going through a hole and I don’t care where they come out. And I don’t have to sleep, so I’ll stay up all night watching out for you.” He said assuredly, pointing a finger in the air, “No one can sneak up on the Spot.”
Spider-Man shoved his face into his shoulder. Spot felt the wetness of tears against his skin, heard him sniffle. For a moment, Spot wondered if what he’d said was the wrong thing, but then Spider-Man said, “Wow, this really your first time comforting somebody?” He let out a shaky laugh, reaching up to wipe his exposed eye of tears.
“Um, yes?”
“You’re actually kinda good at it.”
“I am? Wow. I wasn’t expecting to hear that.” Oh. Wait. Spider-Man was crying. People probably did, uh, something for that. What did they do-? Oh. Tissues. Right. “Oh. Here. I think I have tissues around here someplace…” He espied them among the noise on one of his many shelves, and they fell through a hole and into his awaiting hand. “Here.” He pulled one free and handed it to Spider-Man, who used it to wipe his eyes, pushing the tissue through the tear in his mask.
"Thanks," he said softly.
“What else are nemeses for?” Then Spider-Man's gaze turned up toward him, eyes prompting and shrewd. He hesitated, then admitted: "Okay, yeah, I know, I know, this doesn't feel like a nemesis thing. Even I agree with that. I don't know what this is, to be honest."
A smile glowed on Spider-Man’s tear-stained face. “It's a friend thing, dude,” he said with a soft chuckle. “We're having a friend moment.”
"A friend moment," Spot repeated slowly, like he was testing it as a hypothesis. "Right. I see. Okay."
... He'd never really had a friend moment before, he didn't think. In fact, he was pretty sure he'd never had a friend. In general.
It was still an incredibly strange thing to get himself admit, that he and Spider-Man were friends as well as enemies. Yes, Spot considered it among his duties as his nemesis to protect Spider-Man from, y'know, dying, before they could have their big fight-of-their-lives- but comforting him... yeah, Spider-Man was right, as much as he was loathe to admit it.
He was here, not because this was his duty as a nemesis- but because he was Spider-Man's friend.
He didn't know how he felt about that- but at the same time... it didn't seem to matter to him, right now.
For a little while, they just rested in silence. Slowly, Spider-Man's sniffles died down.
"You know something?" Spider-Man's quiet voice sounded again. “… I bet you’re holding back.”
“Huh?”
“Sometimes, in battle, you’ll suddenly do stuff that is like, so smart- not that I never thought you weren't smart, I mean, you're a scientist and all- but like... I don't know, stuff that just… makes me think, if you wanted to… you could easily make my life a lot worse."
His voice quieted a little, and Spot's attention was on him closely. He almost couldn't believe it, the weight in his words, like he had actually, honestly done the math on how much damage Spot could do to him, and had been shaken at the resulting figure.
Incredible. He wanted to interrupt- shout, wait a minute, you REALIZED that?! This whole time?! What's with the "the Spot is a joke and barely a villain of the week" thing, then?! But he refrained, because he knew now was definitely not the time.
"But for some reason... you’re not. You're sticking with the cartoon villain things, even though I tease you about it." He shrugged a little. "It's just... interesting to me.”
“... I’m really surprised you noticed that,” Spot decided was his response.
“Why do you hold back?” Spider-Man asked.
His glittering eye peered up at him knowingly. Nothing could have prepared him for how arresting his gaze was. Like they could see right through anything. Sharp as diamond, tuned with an unbelievably rapid and electric cleverness that he demonstrated undeniably in every battle. And to think those eyes were always hidden behind those big deceptively adorable bug-like lenses in costume. For some reason, though, even though Spot had never actually seen them before, he felt like he always had- exactly as sharp as that.
Villains always underestimated Spider-Man. Never the Spot, though, no siree. Yes, Spider-Man was probably fairly young (17? 18? around there?, was his guess), and only a year into the gig at that, but he was still better than this predecessor, because he was just that awesome. He toppled most villains with ease, barely looking up over his phone- annoying and cocky as that was, it was true. Yes, his nemesis was the best of the best. You couldn’t find a better Spider-Man even if you tried. All the other villains in the multiverse should be trembling with envious rage. That’s what he would be doing, in their place.
... Ugh. Scorpion just had monumental dumb luck tonight. Spot felt another surge of hateful rage for him. Well, he would fix that later- but again, that was later.
“… I don’t know,” Spot finally admitted. “I guess I just don’t want to move this villain thing along too fast. Give it time, you know? There’s no need to rush. I mean, it’s not like there’s a deadline on finally engaging you in the most epic fight of our lives. That can happen any time we want!”
“Riiiight,” Spider-Man said, and wow it was unexpectedly quite uncomfortable seeing the knowing smile actually there on his face- well, only a slice of it, but still. Eyes were one thing, but he was accustomed to Spider-Man’s “face” not having a mouth at all. “And you're sure it’s not because by now you like me as a friend and don’t want to actually hurt me?”
The worst part was, was if that was what Spider-Man seriously thought was happening... then, unable to doubt his nemesis's shrewdness, Spot was forced to consider it probably was.
Outwardly, though, Spot sighed with annoyance. “No. That’s preposterous. I hate you. You’re my worst enemy. Of course I want to hurt you.”
“Right now, as we speak, you're literally here comforting me after dressing my wounds. You do know that, right?”
“There isn’t a contradiction there!” Spot argued.
“Yes there is!”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yeah-huh!”
This felt like something they were going to argue about all night if Spot didn’t put a stop to it. Maybe Spider-Man needed the distraction, but he also needed rest. He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh- you know what? Just go to sleep already!”
Spider-Man’s face- what little he could see of it- changed. Became grimmer, sadder. He nestled down into the bed, gazing half-lidded at the wall. “… I won’t be able to sleep,” he murmured.
At that, Spot, for some reason, found himself wanting to let Spider-Man argue with him about whether or not they were friends and he was a weak pathetic villain of the week for as long as he wanted. Let him tease and taunt him. Heck, he even wanted to let him win.
Perhaps it was because he recognized the pain in his voice, and he knew what that feeling was like. Dreading closing your eyes, because then nothing was keeping you from spiraling somewhere dark and cold.
... He began to wonder if Spider-Man felt it too. The holes. - Well- that's what he called this phenomenon, this horrible emptiness in his chest, that had appeared in tandem with the physical holes floating on his skin. He'd imagine Spider-Man would call it something else, though.
People always said they understood the feeling, when he tried to describe it, but then would always say something that revealed they literally had no idea. *"Oh, yeah, I totally get that like all the time. When my pet died, I was so sad for a few weeks. But you'll get over it."* Yes, sometimes it was more legitimate. Very real painful feelings, he was sure. Grief over close relatives. Spot couldn't say he understood that feeling- he'd never been close enough to anyone to mourn them, not even his own parents.
Nonetheless, though, not even the most intense sadness described to him could match it. Because this feeling wasn't sadness. This feeling wasn't anything anyone ever talked about.
He knew he wasn't human anymore, and this wasn't a human feeling. He was completely, and utterly, alone. But if there was anyone who'd understand... it made sense that it was Spider-Man.
He tried to think of what helped him with that, because maybe it would help his nemes- friend. (It was a friend moment). Unfortunately despite all the self-help advice there was only one thing that did literally anything at all to help, and that was obsessing over his nemesis and how to destroy him and make him feel it too. Ironically and quite frustratingly that was literally the problem right now. Ugh, he didn't want it to be like this!
Well, it could still point him in the right direction. Maybe knowing that vengeance was coming to the person who'd harmed him would help. So, "Later I'm going to find Scorpion and I'm going to drop him in a hole to the stratosphere," Spot offered hopefully.
He knew Spider-Man would protest, put up that stereotypical charade of nooo even the life of someone who tried to kill me is important you can't dooo thaaat- but he hoped underneath it all he would secretly gain comfort from it.
But to Spot's surprise, instead of heroically fighting him on it, Spider-Man only laughed a little. "Thanks, man," he said softly. "Appreciate it."
For a moment, Spot was confused- why was Spider-Man so cool with murder all of a sudden? But then he realized Spider-Man probably thought he was joking. Spot tacitly decided it was best to allow that.
"Yeah, he's not worthy of being your villain," Spot professed.
"Unlike you, huh?"
"Oh, of course! No villain is anywhere near as committed to you as I am. Besides, they're all the inferior Spider-Man's leftovers." He waved his hand dismissively. "You're a better Spider-Man, you deserve better villains."
"I'm a better Spider-Man? Come on, man. I mean, I think I'm doing pretty good, but I've only been at this job for-!"
"Oh, it's not flattery," Spot shut him down instantly, almost offended at the idea that he'd say such a thing with only the intent of flattering him. "It's just a statement. In fact I'm confident you really are the best in the entire multiverse. You could show off against literally every other Spider-Man out there and win." He could see Spider-Man opening his mouth, so he interrupted: "I'm not biased, by the way. So don't even say that."
Spider-Man tried to feign a flat sarcastic look, but his grin was wide. "Riiight. You're very objective."
"Of course. I'm a scientist, aren't I?"
Spider-Man chuckled. Then, adjusting the blankets, he nestled up against him.
Spot froze up for a moment; he was still quite unfamiliar with being so close to someone, let alone Spider-Man, in a neutral- positive- setting. Usually this meant getting his butt kicked, if it was anything at all. But instead it was just... happening. He didn't know how to feel about that. It made him want to squirm, but he valiantly resisted for Spider-Man's benefit.
"You know, you're such a nice guy," Spider-Man said. He yawned sleepily. "The nicest villain I've ever met." His masked lenses drooped. "Maybe we should just hang out sometime... maybe... when you're not... busy... being...acrimi...nal..."
... And just like that, Spider-Man's breaths deepened, his head fell against his shoulder, and he dozed off.
... Spot was pretty sure he had never felt this feeling he was feeling before.
Spider-Man had been through something terrible. Something so terrible he'd nearly died. And instead of anyone else, he came to him. Even though he was a villain- you know, a bad guy who meant him harm. Curling up on the street should’ve seemed the less risky option.
But Spider-Man clearly felt… safe around him. It should have been very frustrating. Obviously, that was literally the total opposite of his overall goal, wasn't it? But somehow, Spot found himself not minding- which he minded quite a lot. Kind of a weird, borderline paradoxical configuration of emotions.
The thing was, even Spot couldn’t muster up an argument against it. He couldn’t even begin to. Because obviously Spider-Man was indeed safe here. Possibly, safer than he might be anywhere else- at least in costume.
In fact, in this moment, all he could imagine wanting was Spider-Man to curl up and rest, feeling safe and protected and cared for.
A realization was gathering in Spot, and he did not like it. No. No, no no. He did not want this. He wanted to be Spider-Man’s worst enemy, his nemesis, his biggest threat.
… Spider-Man sleepily snuggled up to him.
… Ohhhh… oh, god damn it…
I hate you, he thought. And by that, he meant, horribly, to his despair: You're a wonderful, smart, incredible person and I want to protect you and never, ever, hurt you.