home—wherever it is.

Summary: Hobie gets called back to HQ. Miguel does what Miguel does best. You... have a good day. For the most part.

Word Count: 3.8k

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN!Reader

Notes: canon-level violence, mentions of blood! read at your own discretion

Masterpost | AO3 | Part 1 | Part 2

Gwen meets Hobie at the mouth of Sector Seven at Spider-HQ—Miguel’s office.

If it had been a normal day she’d show up with iced coffees and a smile, start light conversation during the walk through the control room, laugh as Hobie snags bits and bobs from the walls and keyboards. But this time she’s empty-handed, keeps her head down, doesn’t meet his eyes, doesn’t say anything even when he pulls a circuit out and pockets it.

She seems less of a friend, more of a guard—Hobie doesn’t miss the way she keeps her hands straight and still by her sides as she paces. She looks a lot like the person she was when she first came here.

Hobie’s brow twitches at the thought, fingers curling to press crescent-shaped craters into his palm. Unfortunately there isn’t much time to stew on the notion, as he treks the path through an old portal frame and past dim orange screens, soon approaching a familiar, open-ceiling room.

Blue light bears down on tilted towers and slanted bars, layered atop each other to carry the walls of the place on their backs. In the center of it all, a muscled figure elevated on a floating platform, a galaxy of tangerine screens surrounding his hunched figure.

A glare sharpens Hobie’s eye, narrowing the edges as Miguel O’Hara turns around to face him.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” the latter quips with the tilt of his head. “Earth-40081 seems plenty interesting.”

“It is,” Hobie remarks right back. “Bloody shame you can’t experience it yourself.” The clench of Miguel’s jaw tweaks the left end of his mouth upward.

“You can fill me in on it, then. Like you were supposed to.” Miguel pauses as his stare flickers from him to Gwen, though it remains every bit as piercing. “You can go.”

Perhaps some part of Hobie hopes that she’d stay—stand by his side as some semblance of the support he’d once given her fresh-faced, past counterpart. He remembers the time he offered an arm to wrap around her, a shoulder to cry on, a room to live in without fear. But it only takes one look at the glance she casts him, sideways and long and walled-off, for him to know better. Much better.

Gwen Stacy spares him guilt—every bit of it in the shredded, desperate mess it is—then walks away.

A fire begins to burn in the column of Hobie’s throat the moment the heels of her shoes—his shoes—disappear beyond the walls of the chamber.

“What’d you pull me in here for?” It’s less of a question, more of a demand, spoken low, searing across empty air. “Comin’ on me with a two and eight.”

Miguel provides no reaction to the provocation, expression unmoving as he steps down from his platform to stand on even ground. “I think you need to know something about Earth-40081,” he says, stilling with his hands on his hips.

“Thought you wanted me to tell you about it,” Hobie halfway scoffs as he crosses his arms in tandem.

A small sigh hunches Miguel’s shoulders. “I’m not even going to try to argue with you, I just need you to listen.” Silence from the latter, though reluctant and accompanied by judgment, is enough indication of compliance for the former to continue. “Earth-40081’s period of bad luck isn’t just because of the anomaly.”

The statement catches something in the air, pulls a cord, twists a latch. Hobie’s brow furrows in sudden attention as the motion threads through him, as he receives the news. Something stirs in his chest, a pinball striking dials all the way up to his head. Explain, his gaze seems to say, with no attempt to disguise how pointed it becomes.

Miguel obliges—“The thing about Earth-40081,” he starts grimly, “is that it’s more delicate than the other dimensions. It runs on a linear line, a consistent path that everyone follows without deviation. It works like a routine, bound to a set of rules.”

A breath, a break elapses for a moment. Silence stews thick in the atmosphere in the time it takes, dragging comfort in conversation thin as it swirls. The back of Hobie’s head tingles with a suspicion he doesn’t want to pay attention to, especially with how Miguel’s expression seems to confirm it.

Unfortunately, O’Hara can’t read his thoughts. “One of these rules is the prohibition of the existence of the supernatural—which includes superpowered people,” the former continues, making room for the slightest downward tilt of his chin. “That’s the reason why 40081’s Peter Parker never developed powers after getting bit. And the rules are strict. If the dimension senses properties that go against it, it starts affecting the normal—the canon. Whether it be you or an anomaly, the longer interference continues, things are just going to get worse.”

“Why are you telling me this?” The query comes from Hobie just as the image of you flashes across his mind. It’s useless asking, really—he knows why, remembering how you confided in him, spilt all the details of your out-of-the-ordinary encounters with your environment. But when he asks himself the reason such a thing tumbled from his lips, he thinks back to how warm you were in his arms; he thinks about how vacant it feels just standing here. He wonders what it would be like to have never had you at all.

Miguel seems to somewhat share the sentiment. “I know what you’ve been doing.” A flicker of something bright red passes by his iris, but it doesn’t glow like anger. He stifles a grunt as he rolls his shoulder, fatigue in what looks like recollection catching up with him. “With your friend.”

Your laugh rings in Hobie’s ears, sweet and soundly. “What about the mission?”

“You finish the mission you were assigned, then you need to get out and stay out. Then things will go back to normal. It’s the best outcome.” Miguel’s jaw tightens, the tips of his talons unsheathing with the effort. His voice dips low, as worn as it’s ever been, gaze downcast to follow it. “You know that I’ve tried, Hobie.”

Maybe once Hobie would have something to say in the face of it before, a retort for respite, but it’s different this time. Grief claws at Miguel’s visage, teeth sunk far into the depths of him. It’s imperceptible to any untrained eye, but Hobie can make out the print of the smallest, tenderest hand that still lays steady upon his heart, staying with him during the day and haunting him throughout the night.

Despite it, Hobie tells himself in soundless reckoning that he’ll find a way, just as he always has.

But his silence feels like betrayal—once more is it taken as compliance.

“Hope can only sustain us for so long.” Miguel shifts to move back towards his platform, back now facing Hobie. “Then we move back to reality.”

You like to tell yourself there’s a positive to every negative.

The past week was highly irregular, spilled drinks, soiled clothes, angry customers and all, but you got a cute date and a kiss out of the effort, so it wasn’t a total loss. You keep reminding yourself of the sweetness of Hobie’s taste, the feel of his lips, the delicacy of his hold throughout all the moments of anger or disappointment that now seem to make themselves a new part of your routine; you remind yourself that things will get better because that’s the way things are, that for every bump in the road there’s a reward to reap at the end.

Perhaps you thought holding your ideology steadfast wasn’t for nothing today. It was normal—what you were used to, at the very least. You caught your train on time, managed to be punctual and pay attention in class, even got a drink on the house from your favorite spot.

Work was better than all the other shifts you’d taken in the past week. The shop’s daily regulars were tipped better today, wearing kind, pitying smiles. You assumed the purpose of the gesture tied into them witnessing how the customer the other day had made a hissy fit. You’d gotten over the outburst early on, but the extra cash sure helped seal the scars better.

Hours of calmly juicing fruits and veggies and making quinoa bowls turned the sky dark and soon enough you find yourself making one final sweep of the shop and clocking out your closing shift.

“See you!” your coworker bids with a wave, turning in the direction of their block.

A snick of a lock and a returned goodbye has you treading away from them and towards the path to your apartment, a sigh of relief pushing past your lips. The ache in your legs is the only thing keeping you from resolute peace, but the prospect of sinking down into your couch back home numbs the pain, if only by a little. Gratitude pricks at you when you recount the day, legs on autopilot as you walk—for the worries of adopting a bad routine that awoke you this morning, you’re glad that they were somewhat put to rest.

All that’s left is to get back safe, wash up, and melt into your mattress with the hope that tomorrow will herald the same kind of luck.

The notion keeps you complacent for the road you walk down an emptier avenue, lampposts sprinkled down the side to provide ample lighting for any person active at this hour. Perhaps you’d normally see other late workers coming home from their shifts, dragging their feet, some even having the spare energy to muster a greeting, to which you’d return, just as exhausted. But today, it’s only you that treads the concrete, dimly lit underneath dirty yellow in the city that never sleeps. Today, there is no company to address, no comparison to be made.

Today, you are strangely alone—or so your weary vacuity brings you to believe.

One step forward into the space just beyond a flickering streetlight brings about two things: a wince at the crick in your right ankle, and the click of hard metal right behind your head.

You—mind, body, blood, and soul—still.

“It’s loaded. Hand over your bag.” The demand is dark and deep, muffled by fabric but nonetheless whetted as it cuts you.

Fear is a rather merciful word to describe what runs through you in the absence of your tangible pulse. There’s no room to think or move or do much else, what space the sensation takes up. Gooseflesh raises across the back of your neck when you feel the rounded front of a pistol barrel press against your skull. It’s colder than the clamminess that envelops your hands, chills your spine straight.

“I’m not going to ask again. And if you scream, I’m shooting. Give me your bag.”

Curses don’t come easy—no words do, really. All you can focus on is the thought of how hot steel can get in the time it takes to fire a bullet, how warm the wound would be in the same place where such bitter metal bites. There’s this—terror—and then the conceptions of the smallest shred of hope that hasn’t drained from you yet—flashes of red, black, and blue carved in the shape of a spider.

The gun does not shake like you do, however. A ragged gasp tears through your chest when the weapon is shoved into you.

“Give me. Your fucking bag.”

Your vision blurs with tears as you feel a hand try to pry your arm away from what it clutches so desperately against your side. In a blink, your resistance has you wrestling with the figure behind you, against your better judgment, against the looming kiss of death to the bend of your head. Digits clamp over your mouth, smear oil against your lips to prevent them from parting, a knee delivers a swift impact to your ribs, an elbow gives your back a sickening crack—but pain means there’s a chance, pain lets you know your breath still tremors through your lungs. Nails dig into your cheeks as they moisten and burn but you grip whatever you can and pull.

Hobie, you plead silently.

“Fucking bitch!” Steel batters the back of your skull and fuzz appears where the clear road once was. A variation of the phrase spits from behind you when your teeth catch fingers that aren’t yours and bite down hard, also earning you the taste of blood on your upper lip as a palm slams back toward you.

Help! you think you scream in the flurry of pain and ache and cloudiness. Help me!

Hope fuels the invocation, whatever supply you’ve dug from the depths of yourself now untucked and bared in exchange for your life. For a moment, it seems like someone hears—a change in the wind, a rustle in the bushes—and your weakness loosens you. But when your bag comes away, the friction in the motion tearing skin from your arm, nothing gives back to the void you bore as you collapse, bloody, bruised, and blind.

Then there is silence. Silence without reason to rise, so you just lay there, waiting for the world to swallow you whole.

It takes a few minutes to realize that, after a while, a different presence has arrived, and you are not alone in the street.

Bergamot, plum, and sandalwood envelop the air around you as a gentle hold wraps you in an embrace. Your eyes only crack open to let out fresh tears, watercolor fractals painting the background in rhinestones. A sob—a sound—sears, serrated, through the length of your torso, from your quivering heart to your trembling gut.

The touch that graces you brushes all your points of hurt, familiar loving pressing the memories of affliction in such kindness it shakes you. It makes you forget you’re on the ground, bleeding from nose to chin, sitting in suffering with a pounding head and an empty bank of promise.

Somewhere along the line your lips find the feel of worn leather and smooth plastic, buried in buttons and a comforting bend of the body. Your fingers meet the edge of a shoulder, the curve of a chest, and latch on with reckless abandon, indifferent to the way spiked adornments dig into your skin.

When your cries subside into choked, stuttering breaths, you grip tighter. “Don’t leave,” rasps the heavy whisper that spouts from you. “Don’t leave me.”

There’s no new tension in Hobie’s hold when he receives the request. If anything, it only becomes softer—impossibly so, feather-light in binding the breaking bits of you together.

“I’m here,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s alright.”

It’s enough to convince you for now, sniffling into the warmth of his collar.

After the affirmation, the trip to your apartment is wordless. Hobie doesn’t swing—he walks, arms supporting your figure as he carries you back the entire way. It’s a trail you’ve tread a hundred times but somehow when you think of trekking it alone again, consolation seems so distant.

At your apartment complex, you tell Hobie the code to your door, let him inside so he can set you on your couch. He pulls up a cushion for you to rest your head on and manages to find a first aid kit tucked away in the lower cabinet of your bathroom.

The first question comes after all the cracked and dried bits of blood and snot are rubbed off your face. “Do you want to talk?” he asks, voice hushed and tender.

A beat passes as you blink. “Got mugged,” you reply after, meeting his eye when his thumb caresses the crescent-shaped marks on your cheek. “Didn’t see their face but they had a gun and threatened to shoot. I fought a bit, but…” You bite the inside of your cheek, deciding to omit the part where you thought of Hobie. “But they took my bag. And everything in it.”

The man who’d plagued your thoughts then, now maskless and kneeling in front of you, sifts through some bandages in the white box he holds. He looks troubled, though you know he tries to hide it, judging by his half-cinched brows and subtle frown.

“It’s okay though,” you reason in an attempt to alleviate the tension. “I still have my phone in my pocket with my ID and license and my laptop’s in my room. Just lost some cards, cash, and a water bottle. I can always get new ones. Not the end of the world.”

Hobie’s fist clenches around a roll of gauze. “You had a gun to your head.” His tone is hardened, though the low volume of the phrase remains consistent to the query posed earlier—he’s holding back. “Don’t… You could’ve been killed.” He doesn’t miss the slight wince that passes by your face at the mention of what happened, and the wrinkles that etch his features only deepen.

“I know,” you murmur as he works to patch the scrapes on your joints. “But I wasn’t. And you’re here with me. And I’m okay.”

Hobie just sighs, moving on to place a cooling patch on the bridge of your nose and left eye to ease the swelling. He’s uncharacteristically quiet. The look of self-blame in contemplation is all too recognizable on him.

You try a smile in return, tilting your head to the side. “It’s okay,” you repeat, weakly reaching to massage his temple. “I got out alright. It’s not gonna happen again.”

His fingers linger on your face even when he finishes bandaging you, his eyes trailing across the same places his digits ghost.

Your hands slowly guide his lips to yours for a soft peck, open arms allowing him to slip around you and hug you close. Hobie’s chest touches yours as he leans forward, the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beginning to align with the drum of your own the further you connect.

“What kinda chav am I to have you comforting me like I’m the one that needs it?” he mutters, a slight scoff lilting the sentence.

“A cute one,” you hum playfully, twisting a lock of his hair between your fingers. “But bad things happen. I think as a superhero, vigilante, activist, whatever you do call yourself, it’s to be expected. I’m just happy I’m okay, and that you’re here with me.”

You press a kiss to the space between his brows, then two more on both his eyelids. Your smile grows when you feel his shoulders relax, a breath easing out of him.

“Just stay with me for now,” you murmur, nuzzling further into him as he joins you on the couch. You feel his lips on your forehead before being drawn into a cradle of legs and limbs.

The rest of the night is spent in Hobie’s arms, safe and warm, until you feel the tug of slumber pull you under.

Summary: You kinda-actually find out he wasn’t joking about the spider stuff. Okay. But you’re totally cool about it. Totally.

Word Count: 5.1k

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN!Reader

Notes: 5 minutes of screentime and i’ve already wrote more about this guy in a week than i usually write about anything in three months jesus christ

Masterpost | AO3 |  Part 1 | Part 3

“40081’s got this hoodoo shit goin’ on.” Hobie sighs as he makes his way down the main hall of Spider-HQ, recounting his mission discoveries from days prior. “Some sort of bad luck spell that’s making the world lose its plot.”

Gwen paces beside him, listening intently. “Sinister Six behind it?” she asks with a frown. “Or do you think it’s something else?”

“Not certain,” Hobie responds with a shrug. “But I’m close to catching the anomaly. Things should reset once it’s out of the fabric.”

“Hope it gets resolved soon.” Gwen sucks in a breath from between her teeth. “Miguel’s not looking too happy these days.”

Oddly enough, the mission so far had been almost deceptively easy—three days into the operation Hobie had already located and shut down a multitude of energy pockets emanating from certain parts of the city. A variant of Mysterio or Osborn was bound to show up soon, as the sites were likely siphoning vitality from the dimension. Now he just needed to gather intel about the effects of the magic while playing the waiting game. Luckily for him, he has a direct source.

“Relax Gwendy, it’ll be fine. I even got in touch with one of the locals for—” Hobie starts assuredly, turning to address his drummer, but pauses and swivels around when she’s noticeably no longer keeping up with his stride.

“You what?” Gwen stands frozen in the middle of the walkway, eyes blown as large as dinner plates with her mouth slightly ajar. She readjusts herself with a shake of her head, though her hands and shoulders remain raised and stiff. “Hobie, please tell me you’re not getting to know a civilian. ”

“Then I won’t tell you that I’m ‘getting to know’ a civilian.” A roll of his shoulder and he’s back walking, half-lidded eyes peering at Gwen when she inevitably joins again, bobbing and weaving through a downcurrent flow of Peter Parkers. “And I won’t tell you that it’s strictly for information about the mission.” A coy smile tugs the edges of Hobie’s lips upward. “Probably.”

Gwen looks just about ready to explode at the last quip. “You just told me— Oh my God, you know that, out of everything, is against protocol. Very against protocol,” she hisses, her voice lowering as her lip curls and she leans further into the privacy of only each others’ company. “What will you do when Miguel finds out?”

“You gotta live freely past the propaganda, Gwendy,” Hobie replies nonchalantly, patting a palm on her shoulder as a point of reassurance. “Just think about it.”

The best Gwen can offer him is a wary glance and a moment of hesitation, but he takes it with a grin anyhow. He’s certain she’ll eventually come around—the extent of their friendship isn’t something so miniscule that a few words of indoctrination would ever be enough to turn her.

It’s a nice notion to have, but he unfortunately doesn’t get much time to dwell on it—suddenly, his watch buzzes with an alert.

Hobie checks the device. “Someone’s ringing me, gotta bounce.” A few taps of an orange screen and a twist of a dial, then a portal opens up just shy of his left arm. “Been fun, Gwendy. Don’t blame me if I come back late.”

No matter how hard she rolls her eyes, Gwen can’t help but give into the smile that creeps onto her lips. “Stay safe, loser,” she responds, bumping her fist against his.

“Safe is practically my middle name.” With that, Hobie ducks into the gateway, and disappears.

How the fuck do you accuse someone of having spider powers without sounding like you’ve gone insane? Since morning you’ve been stuck in a cycle of decision-making for a seemingly hopeless situation. You thought the hard part was over after seeing the guy in the costume swing away on white silly string, but the mostly sleepless night and brainstorming the resolution to be had was another beast altogether. What doesn’t help much either is the fact your favorite pair of jeans are now stained to shit because an idiot thought it would be a good idea to trickshot a half-full Starbucks drink into a trashcan you were standing right next to.

Oh, New York, how it surprises you each day. You swear you’ve never had bad luck like this in your life—and now you’re twenty minutes late, punching in your timecard and hurrying to tie on an apron.

Even through your shift the anxiety doesn’t go away, despite how you try to ignore it. Nervous energy bleeds into your work, shaking hands spilling and dropping drinks; your preoccupied mind is nowhere near as focused as you need to be for the rush—you remake a drink three times in a row before being on the receiving end of a tired lecture from an angry customer.

“Something on your mind?” one of your coworkers ends up asking after most of the crowd has dissipated. “Or just tired?”

You’re on the verge of bursting into tears actually, but you manage to stifle it with a deep breath in. “A lot of both,” you mumble in response. You can’t tell her about Hobie, and it’d be too winding to describe the entirety of everything. She’s pretty good at giving looks of pity and she’s already shot you one following the complaining customer. Honestly another one is the last thing you want to deal with right now. “Maybe I should’ve just skipped work today.”

“Don’t worry, we all have bad days,” she offers with a consoling pat on the arm. “How about you just calm down for a bit and take your break? I’ll make you your favorite drink and get a bowl started for you.”

The gesture does ease your nerves, even if only by a little. You sigh, shoulders slumping, and give your coworker a grateful smile. Parting ways then, she returns to her station to honor her word and you make your way to the back to punch in the start of your break.

Exhaustion starts to seep in when you catch yourself staring blankly at the time card machine, watching the hands of the clock tick away second by second. There hasn’t been significant progress in terms of settling the whole “Hobie Brown is a superhero” dilemma, you realize, just a lot of pain and aching on your part. Maybe it’s time to put the matter to rest just for a brief half an hour—you’ll pick it up later. There isn’t even a guarantee Hobie will show up to the shop anyhow.

Yeah, you have time.

The chunk sound of the punch machine brings you back to your senses and you put away your slip before making your way back to the front of the house.

“Drink’s ready and bowl’s on the way. You can enjoy that while you wait,” your coworker chirps, sliding a cup to you when you emerge from the back. You’re just about to voice your thanks before she cuts in again, gesturing to a spot just beyond the counter. “Oh, and someone asked for you. He’s right over there.”

Your eye is already twitching before you even look. But you suppose you hate yourself and the world at this point, because you slowly turn to where her hand points regardless and find the one man you just made a pact with yourself to not think about.

Hobie greets you by name and gives you a friendly wave. Out of courtesy, you force yourself to return in, lips pressed together in a tight smile with the short extension of your hand.

“Heard it was your break,” he says, approaching the glass panel between the two of you. “Mind if I intrude?”

Yes! you scream internally. Yes I do mind very much!

“No, it’s alright,” you end up saying to him, staving off a growing impulse to whack yourself upside the head.

“Sick,” is all Hobie replies with before he retreats to a nearby table. “I’ll be waiting here—don’t rush yourself.”

It’s right about now that you’re wishing he wasn’t so nice and you didn’t like him so much so that this process of confrontation would go about smoother. Your gaze lingers on him and you bite in the inside of your cheek as you think about the validity of what you witnessed yesterday.

The option to not tell him and maintain your chances of still potentially becoming friends like normal exists. Dodging the awry reputation that comes with the manic conspiracy theorist persona is always good. You’ll get over it one day, right? Leave the suspicions behind and assume that the image was just a hallucination brought about by stress; convince yourself that Hobie Brown is just your average British punk-rocker.

But you can’t fight the feeling in your gut, how it burns, and suddenly you’re leaning over the counter, over the glass.

This is a bad idea. “Hobie,” you call in his direction.

He looks up. “Yeah?”

Shit, this is a bad idea. “I have something to tell you.”

“Wah’gawn?”

“It’s… I think it’s a matter best told in just our own company.” You look around apprehensively, a slight crease in your brow. “Mind going somewhere more private?”

Trying your best to ignore the suggestive look your coworker shoots at you from your peripheral, you beckon Hobie to come into the back. Walking through the kitchen, you usher him into the storage pantry and shut the door behind you when you join him.

“I’m guessing we’re not just here to kotch?” Hobie teases with the sideways tilt of his head.

“Unfortunately.” Your gaze lowers to the ground at the admission, fingers finding one another and squeezing. “Been thinking about something for a while.”

Hobie lets the change in the air stew until it thickens before responding. “Ready when you are.” His voice is softer, malleable, lost of all its previous playfulness and replaced with a certain kind of sincerity.

The slightest incline of your chin brings your stare back to him. You wish it served the simple purpose of just admiring the slopes and angles of his face, but your lips part and your curled hand trembles, and it all reminds you of the gnawing insecurity.

“I need you to tell me the truth.” You say it slowly, sincerely, keeping your voice as steady as you can despite the way your heart rate thunders. “Please.”

In your supplication, you aren’t certain how to appraise the extent of your desperation, but Hobie’s gaze does not leave yours. He nods wordlessly, a glint of something in his eye and it looks a lot like deference.

You take it as permission to continue. “When you brought up Parker”—you swallow thickly—“you were talking about something real, weren’t you?”

A beat of silence. There isn’t any external reaction from Hobie, standing as still as he had the moment he stopped in front of you, face lax and hands tucked away in his pockets.

“Ain’t got a Scooby-Doo what you’re talking about,” he says plainly, unfaltering in every word. Even then he doesn’t move, fortress-like in his disposition.

Perhaps he truly doesn’t know what you mean, you think. The chance is present, albeit slim, though present nonetheless—and how tightly you clutch this sliver of hope. But for a moment, in your hesitancy and under Hobie’s untelling stare, doubt creeps in—your palms grow clammy against the material of your pants, sweat assisting the glide of your fingers against one another. Your eyes search those of the man in front of you, wishing his look could change so you could find the courage to ground yourself.

What if you’re wrong? What if it’s all a fallacy, some trick of the light? New York is no stranger to oddities but even this seems too extreme. Coincidental talk of Spider-People leading to an impossible accusation. Fucking Spider-People don’t—shouldn’t—exist. The idea grows more absurd the longer you question it. Peter Parker got the short end of the stick, if there was even a long end in the first place, so what the hell are you doing?

But what if you’re right?

A breath rattles through you. “Hobie.” With a new waver in your voice and a tremble to your hands, you stand unsure of how your conviction bleeds through what you say but you try anyhow. “I know you’re gonna think I’m crazy, but I saw a masked man walking on the side of a building yesterday.” The admission comes quickly, riddled with cracks, but you’re entirely too focused on the followup to care. “After the conversation we had about Spider-People, after the whole thing about superheroes, tell me that it wasn’t you up there. Because I saw your— your fucking pins and I’ve never— God, I don’t even know! I’ve never seen something like this.”

Your fists clench, fingers digging crescent-shaped craters into the flesh of your palms. The marks bite, angry red and stinging—perhaps aching even more the absence of Hobie’s response, the seconds you give him to reply.

“Who are you?” Dry—your throat is so dry. Your voice can’t be anything above a whisper with how hoarse the question comes, flaking away with every shallow breath you take.

Silence blankets the both of you then, soundless space a limbo between comfort and unease. Unsure of what to do with it, what to make of the situation you stand in now, you let it hang listlessly, drawing upon an empty room and an even emptier conversation.

It takes a handful of moments for Hobie to even look like he’s processed all that you’ve said. Under your scrutiny, the smallest movement of his eye is the only discernible change to the testament. Whatever goes on inside his head is a complete mystery to you for the few minutes that elapse before he speaks.

Finally, he shifts in his stance. “You want me to just come out with it, yeah?” he asks, not sounding terribly happy, but not as nonplussed as you expected. He sighs when you nod slowly. “Alright. I’ll start from the top, then.”

He tells you his name is still in fact Hobie Brown, and he was bitten by a radioactive spider three years ago. Formerly a runway model, though not a role model, he’s been protecting the streets of his hometown against the PM. When he’s not playing shows, antagonizing fascists, or staging unpermitted political “action-slash-performance art pieces,” he’s out partying with his friends.

“And don’t call me a hero,” he ends with a frown. “Hate the label. Calling yourself a hero makes you a self-mythologizing, narcissistic autocrat.”

When he stops, you have both hands to your temples, pressing down hard. You can deal with his anti-authority spiel just fine—some part of you even agrees with the sentiment—but there is so much to unpack prior to the statement.

“So you— you have actual spider powers? Oh my God?” you sputter, eyes blown wide in an expression of surprise you’re sure looks exaggeratedly dreadful. “What even— that’s— what even are spider powers?”

“Dunno really.” Hobie gives a shrug. “Enhanced hearing, speed, vision, and sticking to walls are the main perks. Also links up to my—”

“Can you shoot webs out of your butt?” you blurt in a sudden horrible realization.

There’s a few seconds of tense silence before Hobie bursts into laughter, arms crossed around his torso to hold himself, shoulders bunched to his ears. The ring of his joy through the air lifts a weight from it and suddenly the atmosphere doesn’t feel as crushing as before.

Witnessing his state, it doesn’t take long for unease to fade away and for you to start softly chuckling with him.

“You’re so jokes,” Hobie cackles, a hand over his eyes as he leans back. A long, shuddering breath tears through him in his attempt to calm down. “But to answer your question, no I can’t shoot webs out of my arse.”

“Thank God,” you breathe, clutching your heart. “Wouldn’t have looked at you the same if you said you could.”

“I don’t think I can look at you the same after you just asked that.”

“Hey, in my defense it was just to get to know you better.”

“I’m sure that’s all it was.” Hobie gives you a pointed look, but is quick to smile after. “Speaking of which, I came in to ask you something as well.”

“Oh?” You blink. The sudden shift in conversation is unprecedented, taking you slightly by surprise, but suspicion is quick to replace your wonderment when you notice a change in Hobie’s features. A squint narrows your eyes. “What are you plotting?”

“Nothing, it’s just I have an excuse now that you know me better.” He pauses briefly, staring at you for a moment. “I wanted to ask if I could know you a little better.”

Your lips purse in confusion at the phrase, forehead pinching. “But you already know me?” you ask, brow raised. “Don’t tell me you forgot everything already.”

“I didn’t,” Hobie reassures gently. “I was just thinking instead of talking over a counter we could do it over dinner? Maybe a movie, if you have the time?”

A beat passes and suddenly realization sets in, drawing all the air out of you. The smallest groan escapes you as you bury your face in your palms, the skin of your neck and cheeks burning hot. Every inch of you seems more sensitive in your mortification—were you always this close to Hobie, and was his cologne always that strong?

“I’m an idiot,” you whisper from between the gap in your hands. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Hobie supplies a soft chuckle to ease your embarrassment. “You’re not. It came out pretty corny anyways.”

“I can’t believe I’m getting asked out by a guy with spider powers.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

You groan again, a tight breath pressed against your fingers. “You are so lucky you’re cute, Hobie Brown.”

It is as endearing as it is exasperating that you can practically hear how big his smile is. “You free tomorrow?”

“Anytime past five,” you reply softly, slowly inching your hands away from your face to peer at him. “Where should I meet you?”

Hobie’s grin tilts sideways at the query, a new sparkle of mischief brightening his eye. “I’ll come pick you up.”

Dates aren’t exactly a new concept to you—you’ve been on a handful, and they all go about the same. The first time, someone shows up with flowers or a small gift to start the evening right, then you’re whisked away for three hours to some place to hang around and have fun. It’s conventional, it’s safe—sometimes you enjoy the company more than the actual activity, leading to a second or third outing, but there’s nothing too special about the dance you do with routine.

Along this line of reasoning, Hobie crash-landing on your balcony with one of the most ridiculous offers of transportation isn’t exactly the way you imagined your date would start.

“You are not web-swinging me to Manhattan,” you tell him, still inside your apartment, arms crossed and shaking your head vigorously. “I don’t care what you have set up, I’m not gonna risk going splat on the damn concrete.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Hobie pushes playfully. “Promise I won’t drop you.”

You frown, brows furrowing and lips pursing as you glare at him. He returns the look as calm as ever, a slight smile edging the corners of his mouth and stance open in invitation. The way he holds himself has uncertainty creeping to you, forcing out your fervent disagreement in favor of consideration in a rather slick way of persuasion.

Perhaps you should’ve known you wouldn’t win, with the sheer difference in your demeanors. Your staredown continues for a couple of minutes before you sigh, breaking eye contact with a reluctant drop of your chin and a gentle moan of diffidence.

“Can I at least close my eyes?” you mumble, walking out and shutting the balcony door behind you.

“You can do whatever you want,” Hobie replies, sliding on his mask and gloves. “Just hold on tight.”

Stifling a breath when his arm wraps around the small of your back and under your thighs, you cling to his shoulders as he lifts you up and climbs on the railing.

“You ready?” His chest rumbles under your touch when he speaks, and you can only give a small nod in your position, heart pounding against your ribs and face buried deep in the nape of his neck.

Hobie laughs—a deep, warm sound—and then launches off your balcony.

There are no words to truly describe the feeling that swallows you while in freefall. Wind blasts past your ears in violent howls, gravity pulls your figure down but your insides up, and the only thing you have to ground yourself is the feel of Hobie as you clutch him with every bit of strength you possess. Adrenaline thrums through every vein, lighting your nerves on fire and prickling your skin with gooseflesh; even your energy to scream depletes into fueling the rush that floods your senses.

Upon the first pull up, Hobie’s web catching a surface to swing from, your gut lurches and a serrated gasp shudders through you. Your arms pull you impossibly closer to him, fingers clawing to dig deeper into the back of his vest.

“Easy now,” he chuckles, sounding miles away with how loud your heart beats in your ears. “I promised I wasn’t gonna drop you, didn’t I?”

“D-Doesn’t make it better,” you gasp, shivering now that the breeze whips against your back.

“Try to relax—we’ll be there soon.” Though he says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, it proves contrary to the way his grip tightens around you with the next swing.

Despite how comforting the gesture is, you find that you can’t relax much while still flying through New York a hundred feet in the air.

After what seems like days of travel, Hobie finally lands on solid ground, giving you a moment to catch your breath before setting you down gently. His arms are threaded underneath yours as you try to balance on shaky legs, knees bent and feeling all too much like jelly for your own comfort.

“I feel like a newborn deer,” you sigh, voice trembling from the withdrawal of adrenaline. Jitters quiver your fingers, lightly chatter your teeth, and shake the thin chamber of your chest. “My God, how do you even get used to this?”

“Gotta learn to trust yourself,” Hobie hums smoothly. “First time’s always a tad tricky.”

You only nod, gaze now pinned to the ground as he gradually guides you forward, step by step, until you’re stable enough to slowly walk on your own. From there, the slightest incline of your head brings your attention to a small spread of food and flowers laid out nicely on a patterned blanket. A warmth comes to settle in your core at the sight, softening your eyes and easing the tenseness in your limbs—contentment reaches you and the stress gained from the ride here begins to fade, if only by a little.

“Hobie, this is so sweet,” you coo, pleasure lightening the tone of your voice.

His rings just as sweetly through the evening air. “Good to hear—would’ve been gutted if you didn’t like it.”

You laugh at the response, casting an affectionate glance at him that just grows fonder upon meeting his charming reciprocation. The bend of his brow, the part and curve of his lips, the crinkle of his eye—all of it has you transfixed for a generous moment, barely able to notice the way your navel aches with longing in your stupor.

The feeling persists throughout the evening, present in every winding conversation and instance of quiet shared between the two of you. It’s rather freeing to be unconstrained by the formalities usually held by the label of a first date and to sense such endearment for the whole of it. There is no talking to only talk—every sentiment has meaning, every word punctuated by some semblance of tenderness; there is no awkward atmosphere brought about by nervous tension—you rest comfortably, leaning back on your hands, as does Hobie, elbows on crossed legs, positioned towards you.

Hours pass by easily in the space, kissing the sky with hues of orange and gold and violet as they bid a teary farewell, trails of light following in the wake of their departure. Yawning clouds push to the east, unlined shapes dissipating with the fleeting luster. Soon, the New York city skyline is only a bleak, black horizon that cradles a half-yolked sun just shy of its surface.

Golden rays grace your skin, full and temperate and real. You’re just about to gush to Hobie about how this is your favorite time of the day when you’re stopped by the shallow movement of his arm.

He shifts to pick the carnation laid closest to your hand, snaps off the longer part of its stem, then tucks it delicately behind your ear. Wordlessly, he adjusts the petals, and grins when they seem to his liking.

You’re practically bursting at the seams when he retracts his hand, fingers ghosting the curve of your cheek on their path back. Heat rushes to your neck, white-hot on a quick shot up to heat every inch of your face. The sensation catches your breath, widens your eye, tucks the tip of your bottom lip between your teeth, and all you can do is sit and watch Hobie as he admires you.

There’s a look in his eye that you hope is reflected in yours, how beautiful he is. The warm vermillion hue of the sun hits his complexion and it’s like there’s nothing else in the world to behold but him.

Suddenly you find yourself reaching for the flowers on the blanket, clasping multiple in one hand and halving the stems with the other.

Leaning forward, palms stained with sap, you place the carnations in each of Hobie’s wicks, uncaring of the smell of chlorophyll or the tremble of your fingers. You only return to your seat and wipe your hands when you finish, the expanse of his head dotted in small blooms, all that’s left of the original bouquet messily cut stems and loose leaves.

A breathy laugh escapes you at the sight, light and happy and bright. “You are so pretty, Hobie,” you whisper, your heart swelling with adoration. “And I wanna kiss you so bad right now.”

He smiles. “I’m not going to stop you,” he says, then wraps his arms around you when you crush your lips to his.

You feel you must be drunk on something, but are entirely too far gone to care the slightest bit. Hobie is every bit as soft and warm as you imagined, his hold homely, his scent familiar. Breathing him in, bergamot, plum, and sandalwood filling your lungs, a dreamy sigh stutters out of your nose before you start to move.

The kiss takes on a steady rhythm then, perhaps the easiest thing you’ve had to follow. Each press of your lips against his finds just the right amount of resistance, the feel of his piercing snug as it nudges you in every shift. Your hands find purchase in cupping his face, fingertips smoothing the silver studs that line his ears and thumbs stroking his cheeks.

Hobie’s touch rests just shy of your waist, the bend of his elbows against your ribs, palms flat against your scapula. His chest rises and falls with every breath, a slight hitch in the motion when you crawl to his lap, sitting in the space between his legs.

The two of you share your own pocket of heaven for a minute longer, then with one last kiss, you part. As your eyes flutter open, Hobie slides a hand off your back to thumb your lip, swiping a finger across your bottom one.

You make a questioning noise but remain unmoving as he works, sliding his digit across sensitive skin.

“My lipstick got on you,” he explains when he finishes, showing you black makeup smeared on his thumb. “I liked the look of it, but didn’t know if you did.”

A gentle laugh spouts from you at his kindness. “I’m all for you giving me a makeover next time,” you say with a grin.

Hobie gives a small chuckle back, delight sparkling in his eye. “Good.”

The afterbuzz of the date still tingles the back of Hobie’s neck even hours later. It’s ten o’clock, the moon at highrise and not a single star in sight in the muddy violet pool that overhangs New York. He’s in the middle of a stakeout, monitoring an energy station reopened as bait for whatever, whoever, might come out in response. The task of fully focusing proves rather hard in the wake of remembering the warmth of you as you held him, the brush of your lips against his, and your small gasps of breath, but he tries anyhow.

Hobie’s just finished shaking off the image of your face in the light of dusk when his watch buzzes. He looks down with a frown, noting the peculiarity of receiving a call this late.

“Gwendy,” he greets, an orange hologram of Stacy appearing with the twist of a dial. “What are you ringing me for?”

“Hey Hobie,” she returns flatly, not providing much else before quickly casting her gaze askance.

From her projection, Hobie can gather that something seems off—Gwen’s stance is completely closed, arms crossed and feet together. What looks like nervousness twists her features, pinches her forehead, pulls her lips tight together. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions, but even this seems exaggerated.

Sobriety seeps into Hobie then, the high of hours ago eroding. “Something wrong?” he asks, voice dropping low.

Gwen pauses, hesitating. “Miguel wants you back at HQ,” is what comes from her after a few seconds. “Now.”

“What about the mission?”

“He just says to leave. There’s been some new intel. That’s all I know.” Gwen swallows thickly, her eyes flickering back to Hobie. “See you soon.”

“Alright, see ya.” The hologram blinks twice, then disappears. Hobie taps on his watch to open a portal back to Earth-928, dubiety sinking its teeth into his thoughts. Miguel was ever the autocrat, so he was never quite fond of the guy, but the way Gwen had come to him—with a fresh feeling that extended beyond terror etched in her expression—that doesn’t sit well. He doesn’t need a spider-sense to recognize that something is amiss.

Summary: When Hobie Brown hits up your workplace, you find that your life changes. For the better or for the worse, that’s up for you to decide.

Word Count: 5.5k

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN!Reader

Notes: hello all <3 been obsessed with the movie recently (and hobie, duh) so just reviving my account for a bit to stop by and say hello and feed the fandom! also, earth-40081 is marvel’s “powerless” series, where peter parker gets bit by a spider but his arm withers instead of him getting powers.

hope you enjoy!

Masterpost | AO3

Hobie Brown of Earth-138 is one of Spider-Society’s best and brightest.

Being part of the crew for so long (or rather, volunteering to be part of the crew, as he likes to call it), high-priority operations are no stranger to his assignment board. The mission he’d been tasked with this time around is a ten day-long solo recon that demands the “utmost attention” for catching the anomaly lurking within the fabrics of Earth-40081. Miguel, in his usual fashion, had been strict about the expectations—minimal damage, quick ins and outs, and no downtime. The last condition had been strongly emphasized.

Unfortunately for O’Hara, Hobie isn’t really one for following orders.

“So I can swing around the city and destroy buildings but can’t stop for a small tumble down the sink?” Hobie mumbles to himself with a roll of his eyes. “Proper geezer. Old man’s gone off his rocker.”

Earth-40081’s New York isn’t unlike anything the vigilante knows: the city’s layout is more or less identical to his world’s. The shops and stops aren’t much different either, save for their names—his favorite bodega is conveniently located right across from where he’d usually get his guitar fixed, and he’s quick to familiarize himself with the metro stations positioned around town.

It isn’t a bad place to spend the next week and a half. 

The thought keeps Hobie company as he continues down Fordham Road, past bustling crowds and busy streets. He’s heard good things about the district from other Spiders that have visited this world—despite this reality’s supposedly lackluster timeline, the cafes here boasted a hefty reputation amongst Spider-Society.

After Pavitr found time to compliment 40081’s coffee and tea culture, Hobie was resolute on finding out what was so special about it himself. 

Though he isn’t normally big on afternoon drinks, there isn’t exactly a Spider-Barista readily available at HQ, and Osborn Corp. on Earth-138 isn’t too keen on handing out quality drinks to its homeless population either. Plus, instant coffee can only get you so far—and give you so many shits before you start to seek out another alternative.

Currently, Pavitr’s recommendation leads Hobie down the street to a less-occupied stretch of way. The store’s awning displays the shop’s moniker, “Jules & The Juice,” soft, fluttering, jade-green arches of fabric framing white text. Specializing in pressed kombucha and afternoon tea is certainly an odd combination, Hobie notes, but he promised his friend he wouldn’t knock it until he tried it.

Stepping forward and pushing open the door, he mentally gives Miguel O’Hara the bird before entering the cafe.

You’ve always been a person of routine—it’s what keeps you together, keeps your world together. Not that your life is much extraordinary, dissimilar enough from others to necessitate strict scheduling or patterns, but you like knowing what’s going to happen in a day.

Mondays and Wednesdays always demand that your alarm clock goes off at seven in the morning before you rush to catch the metro for class at eight with a bagel half-eaten in your hand. Classes last until four-thirty, then you’re off for the day to either keep your peace at home or head to Rajji’s Deli for a chopped cheese with lettuce, onions, and tomato. It’s always your favorite part of the day—he’s called you “boss” since November and it’s probably the closest you’ve felt to another person for a while.

On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays you get to sleep in until nine, maybe get in a morning walk if you’re up an hour early. Classes are shorter too, ending at around two, giving you ample time to wander or study until your three-to-nine shift at Jules & The Juice. You end up here at the same time on Sundays too.

It’s a good gig—pays above minimum wage, provides free meals, has friendly coworkers, and rolls at a pace that’s easy to keep up with; it’s normal—it’s nice. 

Sure, sometimes you get bored and think about living your life doing something new, but you like this routine you’ve somehow fallen into. At least the weight of your college tuition seems a little less burdening when you sink your teeth into a nice meal or take a stroll in mellow weather.

And perhaps the mundaneness of doing it day-by-day is what keeps all those little insecurities from taking hold and completely ravaging you—everyone has different ways of coping, you think. Therapists are expensive. A nice, hardback journal only costs twenty-five dollars a month, seventeen-fifty if you catch a holiday sale.

So if routine is what keeps you sane, binds all your creaking and worn parts together, you’ve learned to accept it.

It’s a nice notion to hold on a slow Tuesday like this one. The store is largely devoid of customers, save for the students dotting the booths on the walls—but you know how it is, not wanting to be bothered while studying, so you leave them be.

You’ve decided to busy yourself preparing ingredient stock for tomorrow’s morning shift until the front door chimes and someone new steps in.

“Welcome!” comes your reflexive response, succinct before you turn around to properly greet the guest. Your eyes come to rest on the figure and almost immediately, something jolts inside you.

It’s rather funny to think how sure you were of your contentment in modernity just moments ago. Your ordinary life, job, and crowd—everything about your being up until this point you deemed conventional.

The figure that walks in seems to be the physical embodiment of anything but.

Large puffs of dark wicks frame half-lidded eyes with four glints of silver just above his brows and six more around the edges of his ears. Studded cuffs line his wrists and waist, an additional arm garment and neckpiece matching the detailing on his vest. A faded, ripped blue shirt and patched black crust pants covers the expanse of his body, and if the chunky, blue-laced combat boots aren’t enough to draw your attention, the un-cased bass guitar slung on his back does the job just fine.

Within the span of a few seconds, you feel like your world’s been turned upside down. 

And somehow, you find that you’re more than okay with it—the sudden closeness of your throat and the slight heat to your cheeks indicates a possibility that you even  like  it.

It’s pretty hard to pass someone this tall, dark, and handsome.  

“Hi, what can I do for you today?” you manage with your best customer service smile when he approaches the counter.

At your address, he meets your stare with a slight raise of his head. You lock your knees to keep yourself from keeling over at the sight, your chest thrumming with energy.

“My mate told me this place was good—you recommend any drinks?” he says, his eyes flitting up to the menu overhead.

The momentary break from his gaze pushes a silent sigh of relief from between your lips. “Our most popular is the Green Tonic and the Energizer, but my personal favorite is the Matcha Madness.”

“Taste like anything?”

The edges of your mouth lift at the query. “Hard to describe in detail, but there’s a sweetness from the blueberry and an earthiness from the matcha. Good balance all around, I think.”

“Sick,” he replies off-handedly, nodding. “I’ll get that then. I trust your judgment.”

“Alright,” you chirp, typing in and sending the order, trying to ignore how hard the last phrase made your heart thump. “Seven forty-eight is your total.”

While the stranger pays, you keep your vision glued to the tenner he hands you, a fleeting glimpse of chipped black polish meeting you before you dig into the drawer for change.

“Two fifty-two and your receipt”—you rip the paper from the printer and slide the change in the same hand—“here you are.” When you reach to give it to him, still a bundle of nerves, you notice the badges fastened to his vest.

“Nice pins, make ‘em yourself?” slips out involuntarily, your mouth moving before your brain can process the words. You flinch when you hear yourself, but make a point to recover quickly for the prospect of your blunder going unnoticed.

Thankfully, the man in front of you doesn’t seem to discern the mistake. “Yeah,” he replies with a small smile. “Can’t take credit for this one up top, though. Another one of my mates did it. Wicked, innit?”

When he holds the collar of his vest out so you can see it better, you feel something new replacing the anxiety broiling in your gut.

Something new—the two words together are almost unreal. A life of routine never heralded this sort of sensation. Perhaps the most adjacent to it you’d felt ever since starting this station were the small bursts of satisfaction that came when you did well on a test or paper.

It isn’t simply feeling at ease with the moment, nor just adequate happiness. His gesture combined with the faint scent of his cologne as you lean in closer to inspect his pin sparks excitement. In it all, the brittle energy of restlessness transforms into something lighter, something sweeter. It keeps you talking as tenseness drains from your limbs, unlocking your knees and shaping the smooth bend of your arms to press palms against the counter and stand yourself a bit taller.

The conversation takes its own shepard and leads it into greener pastures, then—vitality blooms in swirls in your chest the more you chat with the stranger in front of you.

You soon learn that his name is Hobie Brown, former runway model turned aspiring punk anarchist artist. He mostly plays shows as an occupation, finding himself a rather popular figure in his town—though he notes that he hates the label—and when he’s out of the venue and on a different stage, he’s dedicated to political activism.

“Better to smoke fags than be a fascist,” he says with a smirk. Is it too early to ask yourself if you have a crush?

To your delight, he seems to enjoy the time too, listening intently as you list the few things that are interesting about you, then a handful of normal details thrown in just so you can get a smile out of him. You tell him about your move to New York for school, your university and all its little quirks. When he asks about the job, you joke that it’s nothing notable but end up spilling all the encounters with customers you can remember—the best and the worst of everything.

By the time the conversation ends—a bittersweet close forced by your coworker reluctantly asking for your help, despite being unwilling to spoil the former exchange—Hobie’s halfway done with his drink and you’re thinking you might need one yourself. It’s a good place to leave off, you think, and the unspoken prospect of meeting again has you nearly floating to the salad station.

Perhaps the occasional change of pace isn’t too bad after all.

Wednesday comes and goes as it always has, save for the Italian sub you order at Rajji’s.

The bodega owner looks at you with a curious expression when you say you’re “trying something new” and while you can’t really blame him, you don’t think it’s enough to warrant the ogle. Admittedly, you forget that not everyone reflects the mindset you go into each day with—the newest “let’s try new things for the first time in years because I met a guy” one  is  a rather shocking development.

But you repeat yourself regardless and he obliges this time around, layering lettuce and tomato on mozzarella, prosciutto, oil, vinegar, and herb seasoning. Squishing it all up in a hero roll, he wraps it, tapes it, then takes it to the register.

“Tired of my chopped cheeses?” Rajji teases when he goes to ring you up for the sandwich. “Or is something on your mind?”

“Nah, just wanted to try out your other stuff,” you reply with a chuckle. “Think I could switch it up a little from my usual routine.”

“You?” Rajji raises a brow. “Switch it up?”

A slow but half-hearted roll of your eyes precedes your response. “Hey, I’m not  that boring.”

“I didn’t call you boring, it’s just not like you,” the shopkeep comments with a shrug. “Eh, but if it’s what makes you happy, I’m also happy to see it.”

You expect it to end there—the supposition for him not to pry much after holds steadfast in the pregnant pause that passes by the both of you. There isn’t a need to tell him about Hobie, no reason to exchange anything more than light conversation and the same old greetings and gestures. It’s how it’s supposed to be, to stave off any awkwardness that sprouts from new things.

But within the beat of silence, you find that, unfortunately for you, Murphy’s Law and all its little variants still exist.

Rajji is a man of consideration, of surveillance—for a moment you wonder if he’s always been this way—and he eyes you as he counts your change.

Something changes—shifts—in the air when his stare flits back to the drawer. “You didn’t happen to meet someone, did you?”

It’s hard to not regret saying anything or feeling stupid when the question comes from him, when you consider your previous doubt. Interacting with people—reading them—had been his job for the past thirty years, and you of all people were no exception to his scrutiny, a loyal customer to his bodega for the most recent two.

The notion sticks but your breath hitches in your throat anyhow, his observation too on-the-mark for your liking. “N-No,” you stammer, coughing lighty. “Why, uh— Why would you think that?” Embarrassment finds you swiftly and your gaze is quick to hit the floor after your sorry attempt to brush the matter off.

Rajji just hums in response, his eyes narrowing with a smug grin. “Whatever you say, boss,” he snickers, dropping the return of bills and coins into your open palm. “I’ll see you next week, when you’re totally not in love.”

Your only response is a coy roll of your eyes and a brief wave before you quickly duck behind your shoulder to conceal the heavy heat you know is creeping to your cheeks.

“Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man?” You’re in the middle of a bite of food, voice muffled by grains and veg, when you repeat the moniker. “Are you talking about Peter Parker?”

It’s Thursday and you’re on your break—Hobie’s come around again, his bass guitar propped up comfortably against the back of a booth as he sits with you. Another slow day today allows you the luxury of meaningful conversation, unhurried by any rush of customers or important obligation. Gratitude is easy to meet in moments like these, delight even easier when you’re nearly elbow-to-elbow with someone whose smile makes you melt like butter under a hot knife.

“You know him?” Hobie seems mildly surprised at your response, brows raising a bit with interest.

“Well not know-know, but know of, I guess?” you consider, tapping two fingers to your lips in thought. “Huge medical case a few years back or something—the kid got bit by a spider and his arm withered. Went by Spider-Man online, but it was more of a joke thing. I’ve never heard ‘Friendly Neighborhood’ in front of the user, though. Think it sounds more like a superhero name that way rather than an internet slapstick.”

“Superhero, huh?” Hobie hums, shifting to lean on his elbows. “You believe in that kinda stuff?”

The query earns a thoughtful frown from you. “Like the whole super-speed, flying, teleportation kind of thing?” You wave your hands around to exaggerate the terms as they come.

Hobie laughs—man,  that laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I mean, it would be cool if they existed, I guess?” you offer, affording a modest smile with the supposition. “When I was younger I used to dream about being able to fly places, but I guess you grow up and learn it’s not so simple.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. Not too sure about the whole political and moral-ethical logistics of it all if you wanna go there. But I guess I’ll always be happy to welcome people who won’t take advantage of the power, if there’s even anyone like that nowadays.” 

“You think there could be?” When Hobie asks, there’s something peculiar about it—there’s genuine interest hidden somewhere in there, but somehow it feels like he knows more than he lets on. You study him as he leans into the booth, crossing a leg over the other, an arm slung across the back of the cushioned seat.

His demeanor has you at a loss for words. “Dunno,” you finally murmur after a handful of seconds. An upward tilt of your chin levels your own gaze with his. “But I hope so.”

In the sheltered quietude that elapses, you’re allowed three more bites of your meal until Hobie huffs a wisp of a chuckle from his nose, the edges of his lips curling in a smile. The crinkle of his under-eye follows in tandem with the motion, beginnings of crows-feet showing at the corners.

You would’ve thought nothing of it if he hadn’t dropped his gaze to his boots and rolled his tongue in his cheek. This way, his expression of contentment seems more melancholy than anything—but you don’t pry. You just wait for him to speak because it seems like he needs the opportunity.

“Hope’s a good thing to have,” is all he says after the pause, not making a move to mention anything else. The rest of your meal is continued in comfortable silence.

When your break ends, he bids you goodbye and exits the shop—your eyes follow him all the way to the end of the window-wall until the last of him disappears beyond the cutoff.

All you’re left with are curled fingers around a ceramic bowl holding whatever’s left of your dinner, and the manifest thought questioning who Hobie Brown really is.

Friday arrives and Hobie is a no-show.

You don’t know exactly why the quality of your evening hinges on this and this alone, but it’s probably because of how shit the morning and afternoon had been. Missed your train for the first time in years, left on an empty stomach, and forgot your laptop at home. At the very least, one of your friends had been kind enough to share their notes with you after you’d spaced out all class—a win was a win, you convinced yourself. You just wish the day had more, following the walk to work where you stepped on gum and got shoved by a mob of tourists.

Everyone has bad days, you’re sure of the fact, but this is one truly unlike any other. 

It’s hard to quantify disappointment in a position like this—sure, stumbling around with a lump of bubblegum on your sole wasn’t exactly the best experience, but it’s foolish to count on Hobie’s arrival so assuredly. He’s got things to do, and you barely even know the guy so why does it matter? 

Still, as much as you try to reason with yourself, the feeling lingers in a cavity you can’t seem to reach.

You do your best to ignore it through your shift, stifling dismay with moving hands and fruity drinks, smushing guilt and unease by pressing vegetables and putting tuna melts together. Somehow it’s even easier to follow your usual routine in your state of heightened focus, itching to move on from contrition. This time around you don’t even make a note of how the same old company winds up in their same old spots, how despite the fact that the store is lined with customers, you’re left feeling as lonely as ever. 

Nine o’clock comes quicker than expected, a ginger toll ringing from the back of the house to let the shop and its people know it’s time for closing. By now your composure has long faded and you’re sure you look crazy, but Hobie didn’t come, so what’s the point in caring?

You usher the stragglers out and lock the front door, sighing tiredly when you remember the overzealous dish pileup in the sink.

Maybe you can put it off for a while longer—make it  two  things to shove to the back of your brain for tonight—so you choose to take inventory before the worst part of closing comes. Grabbing your clipboard and a pen from the register, you count stock, leaving notes for the morning shift as you trail along. 

Nine-thirty breezes by and you’re finally standing in front of the mess of dishes loaded into the basin. Like always, you mumble and groan for a minute before finally deciding to get it over with, plunging your now glove-laden hands into the soap solution the ceramic is soaked in and scrubbing until it shines.

You’re about halfway done with dishwashing, down to the plates and bowls and a few batches of forks when a knock sounds from outside the kitchen. Knuckle against glass, the rap echoes once more after you freeze, blood suddenly running cold. It has to at least be ten, with how long you’ve been working—you doubt it’s a customer dropping by for a query, or even a visiting friend from class looking to pass time.

It’s a serial killer! your heart screams, slamming a heavy rhythm against your ribcage. We’re gonna die! We should’ve stuck to our routine!

Holy shit, calm down, your head replies. Just look outside to see who it is. The door’s locked anyway. And there’s a back exit.

The thumping in your chest quiets down at the more logical reassurance, enough for you to muster the energy to creep quietly to the double acting door. Bit by bit, you crawl until you’re at its foot, then raise yourself just high enough to peer through the gaps in the window bar.

Relief floods you almost immediately when you see an all-too-familiar spiked cuff waving at you from outside. If only you had less dignity, so you could crumple to the ground like a ragdoll right then and there.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you breathe, instead hurrying to get the front door for Hobie as he waits with his hands stuck in his pockets. You make sure to shoot him a pointed look before you unlatch the lock.

Hobie just smiles and saunters in when the door swings open. “Thought I’d be out there forever,” he teases, and you don’t know whether to be irritated at him for how he scared you half to death, or relieved that he’s actually here today, albeit exceedingly late. 

The latter probably takes less time and energy, but your chest can’t help but tighten in annoyance. “Yeah, well you’re kinda hard to miss,” you counter snappily, finding some edge to sharpen the words. “Why’d you come at this time anyways?”

Hobie doesn’t react much to your change in tone, offering a nonchalant shrug in response. “Wanted to visit earlier, but got caught up in some stuff.”

Guilt pricks you then, a wince raising gooseflesh on the back of your neck, but you maintain your furrowed brows and pursed lips when you sigh. “Look, I really appreciate the sentiment, but you randomly knocking at the front of the store at”—you check the clock—“ten thirty-six, Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack. I lost twenty fuckin’ years off my lifespan.”

“Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the best time,” he says, a crooked smile tugging on his lips to match the glint of amusement in his eye. You hate that it’s so hard to stay mad when he looks at you like that. “But at least I’m not a serial killer or nothing like that.”

“You could very well be,” you muse, slipping back into the kitchen to finish cleaning the last of the cutlery. “I don’t know that.”

“Oh yeah?” Hobie says, disregarding the bolded “Employees Only” sign strapped to the door and following you in. “What’d you do if I were?”

“Run, hide, or be dead already, probably,” you note with a scoff. “Or maybe I’d call on one of those superheroes to come and save me.”

“Would you now?” Hobie leans on the wall, back pressed against beige, with folded arms and a tongue-in-cheek look. 

The part of you that you think he’s scrutinizing burns red-hot. “Yeah, I would,” you contest anyhow, polishing off two forks at a time. “Maybe in some world that Parker guy would’ve gotten powers instead of an atrophic arm.” Freaking radioactive spiders—how does that even happen? You scrub harder at stainless steel, still feeling Hobie’s stare on you. “But it’s whatever. Superheroes are overrated and Spider-Man’s a stupid name for one anyways.”

You’re not usually this cynical, but the anger comes easily and you’re tired of keeping it under thick skin. A new swell of indignation pushes a churning warmth to your gut as you count how many white plates and silver tools still lie in the basin. All you can do however, is continue to stand and clean—stain by stain, sud by sud.

It’s all you can do while Hobie stands by, idly watching. Shame seeps into the afterburn of irritation under his wakeful eye. You don’t know what he’s thinking, looking at you like that—you’re not sure you even want to. So you give yourself time to swallow your grievances and flush out the last of your frustration in your scouring.

Silence descends upon the two of you then, wordlessness lasting until the last of the dishes are put on the drying rack and the forks, spoons, and knives are sorted into their respective bins.

A sigh of relief escapes you when you finally drain the sink, a pool of water and soapy foam gathering at the bottom grate.

The last of your resolve seems to run down the pipe with the whirlpool that forms, sucked into the void of tubes. You don’t even bother addressing what had you so riled up before like you had planned originally—not having the patience nor the willpower to go on a metaphysical deep-dive with yourself at the moment—you just know that  God,  you’re exhausted.

Closing your eyes and pressing your palms to them, you emit a small groan before sucking in a long breath and releasing, shoulders falling with the compress of your chest.

“Sorry if I seemed out of it today.” You break the quiet first with the breath, words mumbled but still comprehensible. “Don’t think I need to tell you I didn’t exactly have the best time.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hobie responds. “Isn’t your fault the world’s a cock-up today.”

You manage a smile—though it’s shaky and unrefined, the weight on your back lightens. “You had a bad day too?”

“Somewhat.” Hobie scrunches his nose as he says it, but waves it off with a brush of his hand against the empty air. “Need company on the way home?” He leaves his perch on the wall to draw two steps nearer. The bridged distance—his presence being close enough to be perceived as a gesture of comfort but far enough to allow you your own space—is rather mindful.

But as much as you appreciate it, you shake your head slowly. “I couldn’t ask that of you,” you reply abashedly, so sure that he has better things to do, so sure that you can’t risk disappointment again.

Hobie seems to pick up on the sentiment—“I’m not offering because you’re asking, I’m offering because I want to,” he says with a tilt of his head. 

The words strike you in a tender spot, a place that feels awfully similar to the one crevice in your heart you couldn’t even fathom before. Suddenly the ache in your limbs is an afterthought, the mess of anger in your gut a pastime. Your conviction bleeds flesh-red, the pink trail it leaves smudging against the skin of your weathered fingertips as you close up, flicking off the lights, clocking out, locking the door.

Hobie nears you when you head down the steps of the back, his shoulder barely ghosting your own in your descent, and the color creeps up your arm, singing at his proximity.

By the time you arrive home, the air around you is tinted rose.

You’ve never been so grateful in your life to have an entire day off. Saturdays were always idyllic, but none so much like this one—you wake up at one twenty-nine with the high rise sun peeking through the blinds and spilling onto your sheets. Those thirteen hours of sleep still weigh heavy on your eyelids as you blink the blurriness out of your vision, a heavy yawn shuddering your frame as you sit up with a soft sigh.

A part of you wants to collapse back into the comforter, take another few hours to nurse your puffy eyes, but the growl of your stomach forces you onto your feet and into the bathroom to start getting ready. Brushing your teeth takes three minutes, skincare takes ten, and after the combined thirteen you’re feeling fresher than ever, whisking yourself into the kitchen to check what you can throw together.

Working in food retail has its perks, you think cheerily to yourself as you snag a couple condiments from the top shelf of your pantry. By the time you’ve finished scavenging and scouring, the ingredients are sorted on your kitchen counter and you’re firing up the stove with a crack of the dial. There’s no resolute plan, but the overall idea is to make something simple. Maybe a little stir fry with oyster sauce—throw in some vermicelli when the cauliflower cooks through because why the hell not.

You slice the carrots and dice the scallions, sprinkle in sesame seeds and let the flavor of white pepper and soy sauce marinade in everything else. The smell of it all—whole and warm and welcome—dances along the kitchen lining, plumes filling the space with spice.

When the dish is done cooking, you flick the fire off and grab a dish to plate it. In the same motion, you unlock the door to your balcony to let fresh air in—as much as you enjoy the scent of stir-fry now, it’ll probably grow stifling in a couple hours.

The door slides open and you take a large inhale, gasping in satisfaction at the light breeze that brushes by. It’s rare for New York to have clear skies nowadays, but the weather heralds just that today: crisp, bright, and blue over a stunning city skyline. You almost forget how good your view is up in your high-rise, you realize, so you decide to eat on the balcony to take in the scenery.

I should do this more often, you reckon silently, a homely feeling settling into your bones as you sit and eat. Things are easy when life is this simple.

Maybe it’s the little things in life that make it go round. Like watching the cars bustle and beep, surveying the billboards, mapping out the trail you take through the streets on the daily, noticing a little figure standing sideways on a building—

Noticing a little figure standing sideways on a building? You immediately set your lunch down and rush to the railing, your eyes widening, narrowing, then widening again as you try to confirm that you’re seeing things right.

A small figure stands on the side of some distant corporate building, absolutely perpendicular to the surface. 

Two fingers come to pinch the skin of your forearm but still, nothing changes. If anything, it gets more bizarre as the figure begins to walk upwards.

Is this a stunt? Is someone shooting a movie? Maybe it’s a prank—it has to be. Newton, you hardly know the guy, though you’re quite a vehement believer in his theory of gravity. But the longer you look, the less you can comprehend—there’s no visible harness and no film crew, no crowd below in awe of the spectacle.

And there’s no time to consider if you’re the only one who’s seeing this or not as you realize something peculiar upon closer inspection. With your phone out of your pocket and the camera app pulled up, you position the lens, zoom in, and watch what it picks up.

The figure is masked, face under red cloth with spike accents at the top of their head. Though they have their back to you, you can make out a one-piece suit and an overlay of a silver-studded vest and crust pants that transition into heavy combat boots. It’s familiar, but only reminiscent of styles you’ve seen.

Your phone screen holds still for a moment, your mind going a million miles a minute, then the figure turns around—

Everything goes quiet. “Holy shit,” you whisper, your vermicelli lunch now sitting like lead in your gut.