Work Text:
Four civilians.
Frank had them mapped by the second night. He'd been watching the building for three weeks before the kid showed up and ruined it.
Five-person crew running stolen networking hardware out of a commercial warehouse near the Queensboro approach. The hardware was not the point. The buyer was still only a voice on a burner and a name behind a wire transfer, but he was coming in person tonight because holiday freight cover only came once a year. Crews came and went. Routes, schedules, and the crew's holiday delivery pattern had narrowed the handoff to today, and Frank was sitting in a dead office on the fourth floor waiting for a sedan.
Four wide-angle feeds on Frank's laptop covered the street approach, the loading dock, the third-floor corridor, and the fifth-floor landing. Enough to track movement, not identify a face. The scoped rifle at the cracked window gave him four seconds of the buyer's walk from the car to the dock. No recording. Frank had to be behind the glass.
The building was supposed to be closed. It was not. Security guard on the ground floor, northeast desk, twelve feet inside the lobby entrance. An office worker on five who came in on holidays because somebody's supervisor didn't care what day it was. Two cleaners on three with a yellow cart and a portable radio that played the same six songs. Frank had built the whole operation around keeping those four clear of the loading dock. East stairs dropped to the dock. West stairs ran the long way down to a utility exit on the far side, three fire doors between the fifth floor and the alley. Over the dock, a fire shutter on a manual pull so old the paint had gone the color of dried blood.
At 4:40, two crew members left through the east service door. Smoke rose north of the building six minutes later. Standard diversion. Pull FDNY and a patrol unit north while the crew finished loading. Eight minutes after that, both men returned through the same door.
He did not hear Spider-Man.
What he heard was a metallic scrape somewhere below him, followed by a tearing sound and a bang that carried through the stairwell shaft. On the loading-dock feed, two of the crew looked up. One gestured toward the east stairs.
Frank slung the rifle across his chest and moved.
He found the kid crouched beside a vent grate on the second floor, still in the red-and-blue suit under a multicolored striped puffer vest, with a black beanie pulled over his mask. The vest was snagged on a screw inside the shaft. A six-inch tear ran along its right side. White stuffing bled from the rip.
"Oh... hey, Frank." The kid's voice had the strain it got when he was pretending a situation was casual. "Did you call me?"
"No. Get the fuck out."
"You've got four people in this building and five guys with guns under them, so, respectfully, no." He pulled the vest free. "Also those two guys still smelled like gasoline through a closed window, which is a whole new problem I apparently have now, but the point is their diversion has a return address."
"I've known for three weeks."
"You've been sitting on this for three weeks."
"I've been working this for three weeks. There's a difference."
"I've been chasing hardware calls since this morning. I followed the two guys back from the fire." The kid looked toward the stairwell. "You're waiting for whoever gave the order."
Frank didn't answer. He didn't have to.
"So you have a plan you weren't going to tell me."
"You weren't part of it."
"I am now."
"You're the reason it needs changing."
"Okay. That's... fair." The kid glanced toward the stairwell. "What's the new plan for the four civilians?"
"They were clear until you hit the grate."
"And now they're not."
The kid's lenses settled on the rifle slung across Frank's chest.
"That's your camera?"
"Scope."
"Attached to a rifle."
"Usually how it works." Frank didn't move the rifle.
"So we're identifying him before or after you shoot him?"
"Depends what he does."
"That's not actually better."
"Move the civilians, webhead. Fifth floor first. One office worker, northeast office. West stairs, three fire doors, utility exit. Pick up the cleaners on three on your way out. You don't touch the dock. You don't come east."
"And you?"
"Scope. Buyer gets here, I get the face."
"And if something goes wrong while I'm upstairs?"
"Then I handle it."
The kid kept his left elbow close and turned from the hips instead of the ribs. Frank knew the adjustment. He'd caused it.
The kid dialed. Frank's burner vibrated. He answered because arguing about it would take longer.
"Keep the line open," the kid said.
"Don't narrate."
A faint, immediate nope came through the line.
Frank went back upstairs and set the rifle at the window. On the fifth-floor feed, a red-gloved hand appeared beside the landing. The kid climbed into frame along the concrete wall, fingers and toes flat against it, the torn vest hanging open over the red-and-blue suit. He stepped onto the floor only when he reached the landing.
He moved like something that lived on vertical surfaces and tolerated horizontal ones as a courtesy.
On the same feed, the kid crossed to the northeast office and knocked. The woman came to the doorway, listened to him, then returned to her screen.
"She says she's in the middle of a payroll upload," the kid said through the line.
"Carry her."
"I'm not going to carry her, Frank."
Frank watched forty seconds burn while the kid waited at the office door. Forty seconds he didn't have. Through the open line, the woman finally said, "Done." A moment later, she emerged.
Frank would have left the coat.
The kid walked her toward the west stairwell. On the feed, the landing door closed behind them.
On the loading-dock feed, the crew lead pointed toward the east stairs. The grate. They'd heard it. One of the others drew a handgun and moved toward the stairwell. Floor check before the buyer arrived.
Frank's hand went flat on the table. Don't go upstairs.
On the street-approach feed, a dark sedan turned the corner and slowed. The rear plate was canted beneath a bent bracket. The front never entered the camera angle. The face would show for the length of one walk from the car door to the dock. One scope, one chance.
Frank settled behind the rifle.
The loading-dock feed lost the gunman in the east stairs. Seconds later, the third-floor feed caught him coming through the stairwell door. He stopped. The cleaning cart sat fifteen feet away, yellow bucket half full, the portable radio playing tinny Christmas music loud enough to cover the door.
He looked at the cart. He looked down the corridor toward the sound of the cleaners working.
On the street-approach feed, the sedan's driver-side door opened.
Frank looked at the third-floor feed. Looked through the scope. Four seconds.
The kid's voice dropped through the open line. "Frank. I hear someone on three."
The crew member was walking toward the cleaners. They hadn't heard him over their own radio. Through the line, Frank could hear the kid and the woman still on the west stairs. He could reach the third floor. She couldn't. Leaving her alone in a blind stairwell wasn't evacuation.
The buyer's shoe touched the pavement.
Three weeks.
The kid was in the west stairs. The cleaners were on three. There was nobody else.
Frank left the window.
He slung the rifle across his back and took the east stairwell three steps at a time. He came through the third-floor door fast and low.
The gunman had passed the cart. The cleaners were beyond him. No clean shot. The cart was closer.
Frank caught the handle and drove it forward. The yellow bucket went over and sent gray water across the linoleum. The cart hit the crew member across the thighs and knocked him into the wall. The handgun came up. Frank's boots went out on the wet floor. He dropped with the slide, drove his shoulder beneath the gun arm, and smashed the wrist against the stainless-steel water fountain. The fingers opened on the first impact. The gun skidded under the overturned cart. Frank drove a knee into the man's ribs, caught his jaw with an elbow, and hammered him behind the ear. The man's skull clipped steel. He went limp.
The two cleaners were in the doorway. A woman in her fifties had the younger man by the sleeve.
"West exit. Alley. Don't fucking stop."
They didn't stop. The woman pulled the younger man past the unconscious body without looking down.
Frank cleared the pistol, shoved it into his belt, and zip-tied the man's wrists and ankles.
The kid's voice came through the line. "Worker's outside through the utility exit. Cleaners are coming down the west stairs. I'm in the lobby with the guard."
"Move."
"He won't leave without the thermos."
"Leave the fucking thermos."
"Take it and keep walking," the kid told the guard.
The lobby door shut. Through the open line, Frank heard the kid turn and break into a run.
"Two just took the east service door," the kid said. "The other two are in the van."
Frank left the gunman and started down the east stairs.
"Loading dock. Fire-shutter handle on the east wall, six feet from the bay. Red."
"I'm here." A pause. "That's not red."
"It's red enough."
"Frank, that hasn't been red since this building had functioning safety inspections."
"It's historically red," Frank said. "Pull the goddamn handle."
The van's engine caught as Frank reached the loading-dock landing. A strand of web snapped from the kid's wrist and yanked the faded handle down. No cartridge. No mechanical click. It came from him.
The shutter rattled toward the concrete. The van surged forward, its hood clearing the opening. The steel was coming down on the occupied cab.
The kid sprinted three steps up the east wall beside the van's passenger side and caught the shutter's bottom rail in his right hand. Steel slammed into his palm. His feet held to the wall and his arm locked, stopping the shutter inches above the windshield.
His head snapped toward the passenger door a beat before it flew open. Frank had seen that trick before.
A pistol came around the edge of the door. The kid folded beneath the muzzle without releasing the shutter. The shot cracked over his shoulder.
Frank's hand was on the pistol. No angle.
The van jerked into reverse.
His left wrist flicked. Another web line struck the van's rear frame. He braced both feet higher against the wall and hauled.
The rear quarter slammed into the east wall. The van pivoted as it rolled backward, its nose clipping the opposite jamb. The front bumper cleared the shutter's path.
The kid released the shutter. It crashed down in front of the bumper and sealed the bay.
He kicked off the wall and landed beside the open passenger door.
The passenger came out kicking. His boot caught the kid square in the chest and drove him backward. The soles of the Spider-Man suit slid six inches, then stuck to the concrete.
The kid caught the man's ankle, yanked him clear, and webbed him to the nearest wall, pinning the pistol hand above the gunman's shoulder.
He sprang onto the van's roof. On the far side, the driver was halfway out of his door. The kid fired down over the edge, pinning the driver's gun hand and chest to the frame.
When the noise stopped, the dock went still. The van sat crooked across the bay, its nose against the shutter and its rear quarter crumpled into the wall. One man was webbed to the wall. The other was pinned to the van's frame. The crates were still staged.
The buyer's sedan was gone. So was the face. Frank hadn't been behind the glass when it mattered.
Four civilians on the street. All of them breathing.
Three weeks gone to shit for four seconds he hadn't taken.
Frank found the kid outside, leaning against the alley wall like the wall was doing him a favor. The black beanie sat crooked over his mask. The vest was worse now. The original rip had widened, and a boot print marked the front panel. White stuffing clung to the red-and-blue suit and one side of his mask. His breathing was shallow. His left arm stayed close to his ribs.
"Everyone out?" Frank asked.
The kid nodded. "Worker and cleaners are out through the west utility exit. Guard went through the lobby. Two webbed in the dock, two got out through the east service door, one down on three." He looked at Frank. "Your guy's gone."
The kid checked his phone. Less than a minute later, he checked it again.
"You got somewhere to be," Frank said.
"Uh, yeah... I've got something at six."
Frank checked his watch. "You don't do Christmas."
"I do Christmas."
"You patrol."
"That counts as doing something on Christmas."
"No. That's work." Frank nodded at the phone. "Where?"
"Why do you care?"
"You checked the time twice in under a minute."
"That's not really an answer."
"Wasn't supposed to be."
The kid hesitated. "Bryant Park."
"Who?"
"A friend."
"Name."
The kid went quiet. "I'm meeting, uh... Jean."
Frank's mouth twitched. He remembered exactly how that name felt from the inside.
"That magic-voodoo chick?"
"That's not remotely how her powers work."
"She get inside my head or not?"
"...Yeah."
"Magic voodoo."
"Her name is Jean."
"I know. She kept your dumb ass alive."
The kid didn't argue.
"Bryant Park. Christmas Eve. Six o'clock."
"We're hanging out."
"That's a date."
"It's not a date, Frank. A date is something both people know is a date. We're just... doing Christmas stuff. For fun."
Frank looked at the boot print across the kid's vest.
"What?" the kid said.
"Didn't say shit."
"Your face did."
"Go home, Pete. Shower. Change. Don't show up to your not-a-date looking like shit."
The kid went still. "Wait. You know my name?"
"MJ. Hospital. Said it once."
Peter's lenses widened. "Great. So that's two people now. The whole secret-identity thing is going really well."
He looked toward the loading dock. "You still have cleanup."
"I know."
"I can help." Peter pushed away from the wall. His hand went briefly to his left side before he forced it down.
"I've got it."
Peter hesitated, then turned toward the street. At the mouth of the alley, he looked back.
"Thanks. For the cleaners."
"Go."
He took the first swing on his right arm, keeping the injured left side protected. The second carried him over the roofline with white stuffing trailing from the torn vest.
Frank watched until Peter cleared the next building. Then he turned back through the utility door and took the west stairs up to three.
The crew member was where Frank had left him. Frank checked his pulse. Steady.
The cleaning cart was still on its side. Gray water had spread to the wall and was beginning to dry at the edges. The radio kept chewing through a Christmas song, thin and metallic, distorted enough that it could have been anything.
He'd counted those songs for three weeks and never once considered them a problem.
Frank unplugged it and set the cart upright. Then he took the east stairs back down.
The buyer was gone.
The cleanup was his.