Chapter Text
By mid-October, the air in New York had begun to lose the last warmth of summer. Smoke drifted between the towering brick buildings, mingling with the cold breath of pedestrians and the steam rising from street grates. Streetcars rattled over steel tracks, their bells cutting through the noise of traffic, while newsboys shouted headlines at hurried pedestrians and taxi horns competed with the distant whistles of tugboats moving along the Hudson. The city seemed to grow louder as the weather grew colder, as though New York refused to slow down simply because winter was waiting around the corner.
Robbie Roberson leaned against a lamppost outside a modest office and checked his pocket watch for what felt like the tenth time.
"He’s late," he muttered.
A voice answered from directly behind him.
"I have been standing here for nearly three minutes."
Robbie jumped and spun around.
"Damn it, Ben!"
Ben Reilly stood with his hands tucked into the pockets of his trench coat, wearing the faintly amused expression Robbie had learned meant that he had unintentionally startled someone again. There was no malice in it, and Ben seemed genuinely puzzled by Robbie's reaction.
"You really have to stop doing that," Robbie said.
"I was attempting to approach quietly."
"You succeeded."
Ben considered that for a moment.
"I see."
There was something almost apologetic in his expression.
"I apologize."
Robbie sighed before a smile crept across his face.
"It's alright."
It had been nearly three weeks since Robbie had discovered Ben's impossible secret. Not because Ben had confessed it, and certainly not because Robbie had been given any kind of official explanation. He had discovered it the same way he'd uncovered most worthwhile stories. By simply being in the right place, watching carefully, and refusing to look away when something didn't make sense.
He had witnessed a dark figure racing across the rooftops after a mob heist had gone wrong. He had watched that figure leap nearly thirty feet between buildings before disappearing straight up the side of a warehouse as easily as another man might walk up a flight of stairs.
Later that same night, Ben had approached him.
The conversation had been tense. There had been questions, threats that weren't quite threats, and eventually an agreement neither man had expected to make. From that day forward, Robbie had become one of the very few people who knew the truth about Ben Reilly.
He still didn't know everything.
He had never pressed Ben for an explanation about where the abilities came from. Ben had offered vague answers when the subject came up, but Robbie had learned quickly that some doors weren't his to open. There were things in Ben's past that he clearly wasn't ready to discuss, and Robbie had enough experience around people carrying old wounds to know the difference between secrecy and pain.
So they had developed an unspoken agreement. Robbie would protect Ben's secret, and Ben would occasionally tolerate Robbie's questions.
It wasn't exactly friendship.
At least, not yet.
"You've been sleeping?" Robbie asked as they started walking.
"Some."
"'Some' isn't an answer."
"I slept four hours."
Robbie stopped and looked at him.
"Ben."
Ben continued walking as though the exasperation in Robbie's voice had nothing to do with him.
"It was adequate."
"It wasn't."
Ben glanced away.
"I lost track of time."
"You always lose track of time."
"I become..." Ben searched for the right word. "...engaged."
Robbie laughed.
"That's one way of putting it."
Ben offered a sheepish smile. He genuinely appreciated Robbie's concern, even if he still didn't entirely understand why the reporter worried about him. Concern was one of those human behaviors Ben had spent years trying to understand from the outside, and Robbie seemed determined to demonstrate it whenever possible.
They continued through Midtown, weaving between crowds of workers, shoppers, deliverymen, and children darting between adults. Robbie had started noticing things about Ben that most people would probably never see. The way Ben automatically chose the side of the sidewalk with the clearest view of the street. The way his eyes moved whenever a sudden noise broke through the crowd. The way he occasionally tilted his head toward sounds Robbie couldn't even hear.
Ben didn't seem to notice any of it.
That was what fascinated Robbie most.
Ben wasn't pretending to be strange.
He genuinely believed he was blending in.
A pigeon suddenly burst from the sidewalk.
Ben's head snapped upward before Robbie even had time to react.
His eyes tracked the bird through the sky with impossible precision.
Left.
Higher.
Banking right.
The pigeon landed on the steeple of a church nearly a block away.
Robbie stared at Ben.
"...Ben."
Ben's gaze immediately returned to him.
"...Yes?"
"You did it again."
Ben frowned.
"I did?"
"You followed that pigeon all the way across three blocks."
Ben blinked, then looked down at the pavement as though the answer might be written there.
"...Right."
A faint flush touched his ears.
"I apologize."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I know."
Ben rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
"I simply... forget."
Robbie grinned.
"The Spider instincts?"
Ben winced.
"...Please do not call them that in public."
"I didn't."
"You said it rather loudly."
Robbie laughed.
"I'll try."
"So will I."
They walked another half block before stopping at a hot dog cart. The vendor recognized Robbie immediately.
"Morning, Mister Roberson!"
"Two with mustard."
Ben quietly added, "And relish."
The vendor smiled.
"You got it."
A few moments later, Robbie handed one of the hot dogs to Ben.
"Now..."
Ben looked at him.
Robbie chuckled.
"I know."
"What do you know?"
"...Chew," Ben said with a sigh.
Robbie smiled.
"Exactly."
Ben carefully took a bite and chewed. Once. Twice. Three times. He swallowed, then looked at Robbie with an expression of genuine concentration.
"...How was it?"
Ben considered the question with complete seriousness.
"The flavor persists longer."
Robbie stared at him.
"That's generally the idea."
Ben nodded thoughtfully, as though he'd just been given useful scientific information.
"I understand why humans enjoy this."
Robbie burst out laughing.
Ben frowned.
"What?"
"You said humans."
Ben froze.
For several seconds, neither man said anything.
Then Ben buried his face in one hand.
"...I meant..."
"I know what you meant."
"No." Ben sighed heavily. "I truly did mean people."
Robbie was still chuckling.
"You've got to stop saying things like that."
"I am aware."
"It's like you're trying to convince everyone you're an alien."
Ben looked genuinely horrified.
"I am trying to do the opposite."
"I know."
Ben took another, much smaller bite. This time he chewed carefully, almost exaggeratedly, as though he were determined to demonstrate that he had mastered the procedure.
Robbie smiled to himself.
Ben really was trying.
That was something Robbie had begun to understand over the past few weeks. The odd behavior wasn't an act, and it wasn't some elaborate attempt to make himself mysterious. Ben genuinely had trouble with things most people never thought about. Eating. Conversation. Knowing when to smile. Knowing where to look. Knowing how long to maintain eye contact before it became uncomfortable.
And yet he kept trying.
That mattered.
As they continued walking, Robbie pulled a folder from beneath his arm.
"Business."
Ben accepted it.
"Mrs. Eleanor Vanderhaven," Robbie said. "Wealthy socialite. Her necklace was stolen three nights ago."
Ben opened the folder and began reading.
Robbie watched him for perhaps ten seconds before speaking again.
"You already read all that?"
"Yes."
"You've been looking at it for thirty seconds."
"There were only six pages."
Robbie shook his head.
"Right."
He had stopped questioning Ben's reading speed after the first week.
"You think it's another rooftop burglar?" he asked.
Ben shook his head.
"No."
"You haven't even seen the house."
"I do not believe the report."
"Why?"
"The conclusions are premature."
Robbie smiled.
"You already have a theory."
"I have questions."
"Such as?"
Ben closed the folder.
"Why would a professional burglar climb into a crowded mansion during a dinner party..."
Robbie finished the thought.
"...instead of waiting until everyone was asleep?"
Ben nodded.
Robbie considered it.
"...That's actually a good question."
"I believe the answer is inside the house."
"You think it was an inside job?"
"I suspect it."
"You always this confident?"
Ben glanced thoughtfully toward the street.
"No. I simply notice when something does not fit."
Robbie smiled faintly.
That was Ben's real talent, he was beginning to realize. The impossible strength and the strange abilities were impressive, certainly, but they weren't what made Ben a good investigator. It was the way his mind worked. He noticed details other people dismissed. He caught inconsistencies before anyone else realized there was a contradiction. He could look at a room and somehow make sense of it as though every object had a place in a larger equation.
The Vanderhaven brownstone dominated the block.
Officer Sullivan met them at the door.
"Reporter," the officer said disdainfully.
"Sullivan," Robbie replied curtly.
The officer looked at Ben.
"Detective."
Ben nodded politely.
"Officer."
Mrs. Vanderhaven and Officer Sullivan soon led them upstairs to the study. The room was large and richly furnished, with dark wood furniture, heavy curtains, and enough expensive objects to make Robbie nervous about breathing too hard.
"My pearls were inside that velvet box." Mrs. Vanderhaven pointed toward an ornate writing desk. "When I returned after dinner... they were gone."
Ben said nothing.
He slowly circled the room.
His fingertips hovered inches above the furniture without touching it. He studied the fireplace, the curtains, the bookshelves, the carpet, and finally the open window.
Then he crouched.
Robbie watched him carefully.
Ben balanced effortlessly on the balls of his feet, perfectly motionless.
Like a spider waiting on its web.
"...Ben."
He immediately looked over.
"...Yes?"
Ben glanced down, then around the room.
Only then did he realize what he was doing.
He wasn't kneeling.
He was perched.
Balanced on the balls of his feet in a position no normal human could comfortably maintain for long.
"...Ah."
He stood so quickly that he nearly knocked over a side table.
"I apologize."
Mrs. Vanderhaven blinked.
"Is... everything alright?"
Robbie hid a smile.
"Our detective has unconventional methods."
Ben quietly straightened his tie.
"...I'm working on them."
Robbie heard the muttered admission and smiled to himself.
Ben had come a long way in three weeks.
A month ago, he probably wouldn't even have realized he'd been acting strangely. Now he caught himself, even if Robbie sometimes had to point it out first.
That was progress.
Small progress, perhaps, but progress all the same.
Ben walked over to the window.
He examined the brass latch, the sill, and the muddy footprints visible outside. His expression changed as he studied them, the faint amusement disappearing as his attention settled completely on the evidence.
Robbie had seen that expression before.
This was the part Ben understood.
The room stopped being a social puzzle and became a case.
After nearly a minute, Ben turned toward everyone gathered in the room.
"The burglar," he said calmly, "did not come through this window."
Officer Sullivan frowned.
"What makes you say that?"
Ben pointed toward the latch.
"The dust was disturbed from inside the room only."
Then he indicated the footprints below.
"The mud contains fireplace ash."
Mrs. Vanderhaven gasped.
"But..."
"Someone carried ash outside," Ben explained, "then stepped in the mud."
Silence filled the room.
"They wanted investigators to believe a burglar entered from outside."
Robbie slowly smiled.
"So..."
Ben looked around the room.
"The thief was already inside this house."
Everyone in the study looked at one another.
Robbie watched the realization spread across their faces. Servants, family, guests. People who had arrived believing they were witnesses were now beginning to understand that any one of them might be a suspect.
Ben stood quietly in the middle of it all, his hands folded behind his back, his expression composed and his posture perfectly ordinary.
At least...
As ordinary as someone with spider instincts could possibly manage.