Chapter Text
The ax murderer is waiting in the shadows. My lips are dry, but even the slightest bit of movement could alert him to my presence. Not just a breath in, but a parting of my mouth, even infinitesimally small, could spur him into a frenzy. My hands creep, torturously slowly, around the corner, sticking one finger out.
The ax murderer pounces.
He misses, because he’s actually rotten at this game, skidding past my fingers and landing on all four paws, skidding against my shitty parquet flooring. I laugh.
“Oh, poor kitty! Still can’t aim, can you?”
The ax murderer moves like he’s about to pounce again, wiggling his little butt in the air and aiming for my fingers.
“Uh-uh! I need these fingers—I gotta work tomorrow!”
I scoop him up, scratching under his chin, which gets him motoring a purr. This leads to the unpleasant discovery that he’s managed to get some wet food there, so I set him on my bed and go to wash my hands. It’s a very quick task, because my tiny bathroom is about three feet from my tiny bed, currently occupied by my tiny cat. I’m not complaining, though; it suits my tiny salary—and my tiny social circle.
Hands washed, it occurs to me that the ax murderer might still have some wet food on his chin. I flop down on my bed beside him, coaxing him to lift his chin and wondering if this foul, fishy smell is his breath or more leftovers. I’m undergoing this unpleasant investigation when there is suddenly a deafening clang from my fire escape, some scuffling, and then silence.
Fucking hell. There’s probably a real ax murderer out there. Or a Chitauri alien coming to kill me. Or another Tony Stark evil AI from beyond the grave. Or one of those purple guys that caused the Blip. Or a shadow demon about to turn me into a void. Why the fuck do I still live in New York?
I glance at the ax murderer—the fluffy one on my bed, not whatever’s outside—and decide he’s sleepy enough to stay silent. Slowly, I creep towards the windows. Something—or someone—is definitely out there.
I press myself against the wall, trying to stay out of sight, hoping to God or anything holy that I locked the window. My mind is racing through a million memories of me slamming it shut and flicking the lock, but of course I can’t remember which one is the last.
I get my answer when I hear the grinding sound of the old sash being pushed upwards.
Oh, fuck.
I need to grab a weapon. Except I don’t have any. And I’d be hopeless at using it. Should I just play dead? Or does that only work for possums?
I’m distracted from my imminent demise when whoever has slid the window open crashes against it, messily falling into the apartment, and groaning faintly. I stop pressing myself against the wall and just stand and stare. Because Spider-Man—literally Spider-Man—is crumpled on my floor.
“Hey, Blondie,” he mumbles.
I am aware of three discrete things, in a distinct order.
Firstly, that Spider-Man has crawled through my fire escape calling me a nickname that only six people on earth know, and isn’t something you can call me by accident, because I’m not actually blonde.
Secondly, that Spider-Man has crawled through my fire escape window battered and bruised, with a nasty gash extending across his torso.
Thirdly, that the bit of exposed skin I can see contains a strong, smooth V of muscle arcing downwards, hot and sweaty, and filling my stomach with butterflies.
“Hey,” someone says, and then I realize it was me.
He tries to push himself up against the wall, but gives up, whimpering and sliding back down into a weak little heap.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” he pants. “I couldn’t think,” —he winces— “of anywhere else to go.”
I’m stuck, slack-jawed and mouth agape, staring at him. “Spider-Man?”
This bizarre thing happens where he picks up his hands and does finger-guns at me. The combination of shock and confusion finally bubbles up into a mildly hysterical laugh, so I just end up giggling at him. He starts laughing, too. At least he starts to, before his head falls back against the wall behind him with a dull thud.
My laughter dries up, too. “Hey, are you okay?”
There’s no response. He is totally still and silent, and with the mask on, I can’t see anything.
“Um, Spider-Man? Spider-Man, can you hear me?”
Panic finally frees my feet from their frozen position, and I rush to him, kneeling beside him. The uneven floor is hell on my kneecaps, but I barely register it, cupping his face with my hands.
“Oh my god! Are you okay? Wake up! Please, please, please!”
He mumbles something, leaning into my hand, or maybe just collapsing in that direction.
“Hey, stay awake! I’m—I’m calling 911, okay?”
I push myself up, trying to work out where I left my phone, but he grabs my wrist, pulling me back. I yelp, surprised, and my weight shifts forward too quickly. I end up falling nearly on top of him, catching myself just in time.
“Don’t—” he mumbles, and then moans in pain. “Don’t call 911.”
I’m so close now that I can hear his shallow breaths catching under the mask. Whatever fight he’s just fought has left him hot with exhaustion, enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his face to mine, inches apart. His panting has got to be a mix of exhaustion and pain. The injury to his torso is steadily leaking blood.
“Oh my god,” I mumble in horror, fully taking it in for the first time. Even the meagre movement of crawling in my window seems to have worsened his injuries. “Please let me call…”
“Just you,” he murmurs, grabbing my hand again, weakly. “Please, Blondie. Just you.”
I let him grab my hand, for the little comfort it can offer. “I’m not a professional. I just work in criminology—usually in an office!”
“Your basic training’s enough. I’m tougher than I look.” He coughs weakly. “Promise.”
He squeezes my hand, so faintly that I can barely feel it. I glance back at the bedroom, trying to spot my phone, trying to calm my panicked breathing while I’m at it. I’ve just worked out that it’s on my nightstand when I realize his grip has slackened entirely.
“Hey, Spider-Man?”
No response.
For a few heartbeats I am frozen there, on my knees, leaning over my local superhero, wondering if he’s about to die in front of me. Then, by some miracle, adrenaline shoots through me. I stumble to my feet, skidding over to the cluster of counters that counts as my kitchen, and yank open my junk drawer. Rummaging desperately, I come out with a little pack of steri-strips for first aid. Holding it so tightly in my hand it hurts, I shove my other hand back into the drawer, trying to find something to sterilize his wound. The only thing I can feel and see are spare batteries, cords, and band-aids. My eyes flick back to the crumpled figure by my fire escape, sending even more panic coursing through me. I can feel my pulse in my teeth.
The bathroom! I skid across my floor, crashing into the bathroom, where my little hoard of skincare is clustered on the counter. I grab the special gentle cleanser, eyes darting across the ingredients. Fragrance-free, preservative-free, gently cleanses…whatever! Dashing back to the window, I crash down to my knees again, setting down the strips and the bottle heavily.
“Please, please be okay.”
My shaking hands dither on top of him, above his chest. I’ve got to be brave. Carefully, I pull at the fabric of his suit, ripping it to better open the wound. He moans softly.
“Thank God,” I gasp. “That you’re still alive, I mean—not because you moaned—oh, shit, okay.”
I blink a few times at the wound, then grit my teeth and pick up the cleanser.
“This might hurt a little bit, I’m sorry.”
I unscrew the cap and tip it over the nasty gash. He makes another pained noise, quietly at first, and then it grows, building in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I have to clean it.”
I dribble out a bit more, and this time he writhes, arching his back, flexing his core muscles. I can even see his jaw clench in pain under the mask.
Deciding that’s enough cleaning—because I can’t bear to hurt him anymore—I close the bottle, tossing it aside. Now to stop the bleeding. I tear open the pack of steri-strips.
“I’m going to try and glue it shut,” I tell him. “These strips have a glue that’s safe, and they can hold it closed.”
Or something! Now feels like a bad time to burst into tears, so I won’t remind both of us how little I really know.
I remove a steri-strip from its package, attaching one side of it to his skin, stretch it across the bloody wound, and attach the other. The little strip contracts slowly, pulling the sides together, hopefully long enough for it to heal. He whimpers, balling his hand into a fist, shaking with pain and exertion. Still breathing much too hard, I put on another one, then another, until the wound is properly closed.
I swallow, discovering that my mouth has gone dry, and stare at him for a few seconds.
“Please be okay,” I say, in a very small voice. “Please say something. You can even do those dumb finger-guns again.”
He makes some garbled sound that’s nowhere enough to convince me he’s fully conscious.
My trembling hands reach up to the mask. The puckering at the top of his neck leads me to believe there’s some sort of opening around here. My fingers find the edge of the fabric, brushing against the warm skin of his jaw, and I carefully pull the mask back.
It’s just his jaw, at first. He doesn’t have stubble, but a faint idea of body hair, reminding me almost of the fuzz on the skin of a peach, before your lips brush it off. But even here, he’s battered and bruised, with blood decorating his jaw. I pull the mask further, holding my breath, and now his mouth is freed. At least he can breathe. It turns out the blood here is coming from his busted lip, swollen and sore. I touch it gently, gauging how bad the wound is, my cool fingers meeting the plush of his warm lips. Then, satisfied that it’s not too bad, my fingers pull the mask back further.
His hand grabs mine, and I gasp.
“Mask on,” he mumbles. “Keep the mask on.”
“I’m sorry—I didn’t—”
He tries to pull it back down, but I gently push his fingers away.
“Please can we keep it here?” I say. “No further, I promise. I just want to make sure you can breathe. And that you don’t choke on your own vomit, or something.”
For a moment, he says nothing, just breathing heavily. Eventually he nods.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
He starts to laugh, then stops, wincing. “I should be thanking you. Profusely.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I don’t know how good that first aid was.”
“It’s great. Amazing.”
I sit back on my heels, relieved that he can finally speak. “Uh-huh.”
The little sliver of his face that I can see is smiling at me. “You did really great. Super.”
“I think you’re delirious, or something. I’m going to get you some water.”
“No, it’s fine! I can get it.”
I’ve already gotten up and turned to get him a glass, but I turn back around. He attempt to sit up a few times, and then sinks back to the floor, panting.
I suppress a smile. “I’ll get it.”
He gives me a weak thumbs-up.
In the kitchen, while I wait for the glass to fill, I sneak another look at him in my periphery. He’s trying to sit up, again, and achieves some equivocation of it, examining my attempts to treat his wound. He rips his suit a bit more, pulling it more open as he moves upright.
I realize the glass is overflowing and slam the tap shut.
“Here,” I say, walking back over and handing him the water. “Be careful.”
He takes it, his fingers grazing mine, and I’m suddenly aware of how intensely he’s looking at me. The mask still covers the top part of his face, but I can feel his eyes on me, tracing my face. Our fingers slip away as he takes the glass, first sipping, and then gulping it down. A rivulet of water runs down his chin, over his jaw, and down his neck. He sets the half-full glass down beside him, wincing as the movement disturbs his wound.
“Oh my god,” I say, just because I need to let another one out. I think my heart rate is almost back at normal.
“Sorry,” Spider-Man says again, weakly.
I let out a breath of laughter. “Yeah, you said. It’s fine. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“You definitely could’ve swung into the apartment of someone better. With actual first-aid training. Pretty average luck to find me.”
His chest rises and falls as he breathes hard. In the lamplight of my apartment, the beads of sweat on the ripped part of his suit glisten. His mouth parts slightly, before he clears his throat. Then it parts again, like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.
“You were great,” is all he finally says.
I stare at him for a moment longer. I wonder what he looks like, under there.
“I’m, uh,” I say, “I’m going to get you some pain meds. I think there’s Tylenol in my work bag.”
“That’s super nice of you.”
“You can thank me by not dying.”
He laughs, which only makes him clutch his stomach and whimper. I go to my pile of work stuff by my bed and retrieve the Tylenol blister pack after minimal bag rummaging.
“Here,” I say, popping one out for him.
He takes it, swallowing it down dry, even though the glass of water is right beside him. I think I’m ultra-focused on his mouth, jaw, and neck because it’s the only exposed part of him—other than the horrible gash. I’m definitely focused on the way in which he swallows. I hope it doesn’t hurt him too much.
I crouch down on the floor, at his level. “Please let me call 911. Or someone. Do you have, like, a medical guy on call?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I got a whole team.”
“Okay!” I sigh with relief. “Great, let me call them.”
“I don’t have a whole team. I don’t know why I said that. I really screwed that up. I’m sorry. You literally can’t call anyone.”
I stare at him for a second. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I’m—I’m out of it.”
He leans back against the wall, head thudding against the exposed brick, and winces again.
For a second, I just watch him, almost in perfect silhouette against the dusk window view, with only the lamplight of my apartment from this angle.
“Um, Spider-Man? Can I ask you something?”
He tries to sit up straighter, but fails again, coughing in pain and sliding back down the wall. “Yeah. Yeah, Go on.”
“Why did you call me ‘Blondie’?”
He stops trying to sit up. “Hm?”
“‘Blondie’. You called me ‘Blondie’.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah. Twice, actually.”
“Oh, yeah. That.”
He glances down at his wound, rubbing a bit of blood from his hip. Whatever muscle is there arcs smoothly down, disappearing as his waist narrows into hips.
He finishes rubbing the blood. “You’re not blonde? You just looked blonde, before. In the light, you know. Must be a weird trick of the light. And plus, I was, like, bleeding out.”
“Oh my god, don’t say tha—”
“I mean, I had a scratch!”
I rub my forehead, remembering the blood and the thud and the silence. “Yeah, the scratch that I had to glue shut.”
“Great job, by the way.”
“Saying it won’t make it any truer.”
“No, you really killed it. No! You didn’t kill it! Me! I’m fine!”
I am now rubbing both hands against my forehead, which is not enough, so I just put the heels of my palms into my eyes and hold them there. The absurdity of the situation finally leaks through—or maybe this is more hysteria—and I start giggling. When I take my hands away, I discover Spider-Man smiling at me.
“You have a cute laugh.”
“Yeah, dude, I’m losing it.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
I hear the soft landing of paws behind me, and turn to see the ax murderer cautiously approaching us, having decided to quit my bed.
“He hates strangers,” I pre-emptively apologize. “And men.”
I watch my little tuxedoed kitty hug the wall, carefully approaching the bloodied stranger. He pauses via my legs, doing an efficient figure-eight, before approaching Spider-Man. I wait for the certain hissing.
It doesn’t come. The ax murderer pads over to him, slowing, but then decides everything is okay, rubbing against Spider-Man’s legs. Spider-Man reaches out a hand, and the ax murderer, incredibly, butts his head against the outstretched palm.
“That’s incredible!” I exclaim. “He must sense you’re a hero,” I add, smiling.
The lower half of Spider-Man’s face is smiling warmly at the ax murderer. It’s especially cute because the cat is so small compared to Spider-Man’s muscly arms.
“What’s his name?” he asks.
“Um. The ax murderer.”
Laughter bursts out from the bit of face I can see, which is quickly followed by a grunt of pain, as Spider-Man doubles over, clutching his wound again. The ax murderer, spooked by the sound and sudden movement, disappears back to my bed, most likely to hide under it.
“Sorry,” he pants, straightening up gingerly. “That’s really funny, though.”
I smile, tucking some hair behind my ear. “I’m in social science—criminology, actually. So, it’s like, a joke on that. He was actually supposed to be Mittens, but it never stuck. So now he’s the ax murderer.”
“Maybe I’ll have to web him up and take him in.”
I snort. “Yeah, you look ready.”
He leans back against the wall, glancing back down at his stomach. “It’s not so bad. I’m pretty tough. That’s like, the superhero deal.”
I frown, concerned. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing himself unsteadily to all fours. “Yeah, I got it.”
I watch him move the weight of his right leg from his knee to his foot, then do the same to his left, and then slowly straighten to a standing position. He turns to open the window, and manages to push the sash up—slowly. As he starts to pick one leg up, to step out, he gasps in pain, crashing down to the floor.
“Spider-Man!” I gasp, running at my patient, wishing for a second I had an actual name to call him.
I’ve managed to get there slightly before him, and he falls half on top of me, almost sitting in my lap. He’s curled over, clutching his wound, and I realize I can see a little bit of a soft brown curl peeking out the back of his mask. I have the strange compulsion to reach out and twist my finger in it.
I’m pulled back to reality by the pained whimper he lets out, followed by quick, shallow breathing.
“I’m okay,” he manages, not at all convincingly. “Just—just—you know, missed.”
“You cannot swing away in this condition.”
“No, I can! Just one second. Hang on.”
“There’s no way.”
He sighs, wincing again when even that seems to hurt him. “There’s no way.”
He pushes himself up slightly, off me, and I can feel his chest expanding with his breaths, warm and solid. I watch him brace himself with one arm, still cradling his stomach with the other, anonymity betrayed by that misbehaving soft curl at the nape of his neck.
“Can I use your phone to call an Uber, then?” he asks.
“Absolutely not. You can stay here for the night.”
He twists around, scandalized, before the pain of twisting catches up to him and he doubles over, gasping.
“I don’t even think you could make it to the elevator, in your state,” I say. “Look, just crash on my couch for one night. I promise I don’t bite. Only the ax murderer, and only sometimes. And I can wear an eye mask while I sleep, so you can take your mask off.”
“I can’t do that,” he mumbles. “I pr—that’s crazy.”
“It’s not! It’s just one night, and it’s your only option. And you can have more Tylenol.”
His chin lifts slowly, and I am sure he is looking me in my eyes.
“Thank you,” he says, in a small voice. “I appreciate it more than you know.”