#marvel comics

Visit 1 - 2:13 am

The roar of Godzilla echoed through the social worker ward while you took a sip of your energy drink. Granted, in this lifetime, Godzilla remains a fictional character. Because who would have known how to survive Avengers fighting on one street, and Godzilla terrorizing the city on another street. 

The one perk about being an overnight social worker was there was a lack of clients, which meant finishing your notes from your previous evening rotation was a breeze. The down part? There was barely anything to do on the overnights other than notes and have mindnumbing movies playing in the background.

It was just you and Danielle in the social worker ward tonight. Technically just you now, Danielle is knocked out on the other couch. 

You were curled up on the social worker couch typing out your latest assessment and adding notes to the most recent client’s casefile. The click clack of the keyboard and the occasional roar by Godzilla echoed in the office; until your workline rings.

You glanced at the time, 2:13 am. You worked too many shifts to know which hospital extension is calling. 

"Hello?"

"Hi, anak. Are you busy?" Mary, the elderly Filipina charge nurse says.

You look at the half-finished assessment glowing on your computer. "Depends."

"I have one for you." Mary states.

Of course she does. You've also worked enough overnight shifts with her to know that when she calls instead of sending a message, she's already decided you're going somewhere. "What kind?"

There's noise behind her. Monitors. Someone calling for bloodwork. A stretcher rolling somewhere. "Young man. Mid-twenties. Came alone. Pretty beaten up."

"Assault?" You asked.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Mary sounded puzzled, something that never happens. 

You sit up slightly. "What did he say happened?"

"He's not making sense." She bluntly stated. 

"Medically not making sense or story not making sense?"

"Both." Mary stated.

You close your laptop halfway. "Okay."

"He has a concussion. Ribs. Shoulder. Cuts everywhere. Doctor asked what happened, and he said something about falling."

"Falling where?" You question.

"I don't know. Then he said something about a spider."

You stop and swung your legs over the edge of the couch. "A spider?"

"Yes."

"What does that mean? Mary, do you have Spider-Man in your department right now?"

"I don't know what this kid means by spider. Why do you think I am calling you?" She states.

You wait.

She waits.

"You called the sexual assault-domestic violence social worker because he said spider? Not even the regular social worker?" You said hinting at the snoring Danielle who was across from you, still somewhere in her REM sleep.

"No, listen." You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "He has nobody."

That gets your attention. "What do you mean nobody?"

"No emergency contact. Nobody to call. Nobody is coming. Says he lives alone." She says, still perplexed by the client.

"Family?"

"Says no."

"Partner?"

"No." That response from Mary puzzled you, because your whole thing was isolation and domestic violence.

"Friends?"

"He won't give anybody."

"Does he have somewhere to go?" You asked.

"Yes. Apartment."

"So what's making you think SADV?" You press Mary, because literally right across from you is the regular medical social worker who is trained for situations like this. 

There's a pause. Then, very seriously: "Because something is wrong."

You lean back in your chair. That isn't technically a clinical indication. But unfortunately, you've worked with Mary long enough to know that when she says something is wrong, she's usually noticed something everyone else missed.

"What are the injuries?"

She lists them.

By the third one, you're frowning. "Did anyone ask him directly about intimate partner violence?"

"Yes. He said no."

"Sexual assault?" You asked.

"No."

"Human trafficking?"

"He said ‘No.’ but it could be." Mary honestly said.

"Anyone controlling or threatening him?"

"No."

"So he screened negative."

"Yes."

You wait. "So why are you calling me?"

"Because he's twenty-something years old, he comes here looking like somebody threw him off a building, he has nobody, and every time we ask what happened, he gives a different answer."

You stare at the wall.

"That's not necessarily SADV." You stated.

"I know."

"Then why don't you call the general social worker?" You said again, staring at the sleeping Danielle; hoping that she would be the sacrifice so that you can now get some sleep.

"You are social work." Mary retorted.

"You know exactly what I mean."

She ignores that. "He needs somebody to talk to."

"Did he say that?" You pressed.

"No."

You sigh. "Does he even want to see me?"

Another pause from Mary, "...He doesn't know yet."

You close your eyes. "You can't just assign people to me because you have a feeling."

"I have been a nurse for thirty-eight years. My feelings are very good." Mary said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Despite yourself, you laugh. "That's not how referrals work."

"Come downstairs." Mary stated.

"I'm already downstairs."

"Then come more downstairs."

You glance at the time. "You're impossible."

"Room twelve." Click. Mary hangs up.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

You were standing in the elevator, silently cursing that you even answered Mary’s call. When you reach room twelve, she's standing outside waiting for you.

Tiny woman Filipina woman, silver-streaked hair, reading glasses hanging around her neck, arms crossed. “Took you long enough,” she looks toward the room. "That's him."

You glance through the doorway. There's a young man sitting on the stretcher.

Brown hair sticking up in practically every direction. Bruising developing along one side of his face. Bandage around his forearm. Hospital gown half covering what looks like extensive bruising across his shoulder.

He's talking to a resident. Smiling. Actually smiling. The moment the resident leaves, the smile disappears almost immediately.

You look at Mary, "He seems fine."

"Mm-hm." That particular mm-hm means she thinks you're an idiot.

"What?" You ask.

"Watch." She walks into the room, you know she is about to put your 5 years of social work to shame with her 38 years of nursing experience. "Sweetheart?"

The smile comes back instantly. "Hey."

"Your social worker is here."

His head snaps toward you. "My what?"

She pats his leg. "She is very nice. I called in the favour myself."

"I don't—"

"Talk to her." She encourages him.

Then Mary walks out of the room and straight past you. You catch her arm in the hallway. "Why did you tell him I'm his social worker?" You asked.

She lowers her voice. "Because otherwise he'll say no."

"He is allowed to say no. My whole thing is autonomy, you know." You said.

"Then he can tell you."

You stare at Mary, she smiles sweetly. "Thank you, anak." before she walks away. 

You stand there for a moment. Then turn around and walk into the room.

Peter looks up immediately, when he senses someone walk into the room, “Hi,” he breathes out.

“Hi. I'm one of the social workers in Emergency tonight. Is it okay if I come in?”

His expression changes slightly.

Social worker.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure.”

You walk in and pull a chair closer. “Do you know why they asked me to come see you?”

“No?” He stated honestly. You notice the genuine look of concern flash across his face. “Am I in trouble?”

“No.” You stated honestly, opening up his chart to a clean page. 

“Oh. Okay. Good.” he paused. “Because the doctor asked me a lot of questions already.”

“I know.” You stated.

“And the nurse.”

“I know.”

“And then another nurse.”

“I saw.” You stated, clicking open a pen.

“Okay.”

You smiles slightly. “I'm not here to interrogate you.” You reassured him.

“Great.”

“You look incredibly relieved.” You noticed.

“I've had a long night.” He said, you could tell he genuinely meant it.

“I can see that.”

Peter gives an awkward little laugh.

You start with the easiest questions. “Do you know what's happening medically? Did the doctor explain everything?”

“Yeah. Couple stitches. Nothing major.” Peter downplayed his injuries.

She glances at the chart. “You also have two fractured ribs.”

“Right, forgot about that.” He sheepishly said.

“And a concussion.” You added.

“Very small concussion.” He said, pinching his fingers together.

You chuckled, “I don't think concussions come in sizes.”

“They probably do.” He joked.

You look at him.

“…I'm going to stop talking.” He stated.

“That might be difficult for you.” You joked.

He actually laughs. And that's probably how you got him comfortable enough to start the assessment. “Where are you living right now?”

“Queens.”

“Apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone staying with you?”

“No.”

“Okay. Who would normally help you out if you were sick or injured?”

And there's the first real pause. Peter looks down at his hands. “I can take care of myself.”

“I didn't ask whether you could.” You said. He looks back up. “I asked who helps you.”

“…Nobody, really.” He honestly said, he was bracing for the pity party he was about to receive.

She doesn't react dramatically. “Parents?”

“No.”

“Other family?”

Another pause.

“No.”

“Partner?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

Peter hesitates. There are two people immediately in his mind. He just can't explain why they aren't people he can call. “Not really.”

That answer and slight hesitation made you pay a little bit more attention to the answers he was providing. 

Not because being alone automatically means something is wrong, but because he's a very young adult who's seriously injured, lives alone and apparently cannot identify one person who could help him after discharge.

“Is there anyone you'd like us to call?”

“No. That's okay.”

“Emergency contact?”

“No.”

“Anyone who knows you're here?”

“No.”

Now Peter realizes how this sounds. “But that's normal for me.”

“Okay.” You breathed out. You were trying to wrap your head around how someone could be so socially isolated.

It was almost like he read your mind, “I'm not, like... isolated.”

“I didn't say you were.” 

“I have people.”

“Okay.”

“I just can't call them.” That somehow sounds worse. Peter realizes it immediately. “Not because I'm not allowed to call them.”

You hadn't asked that either. “…Okay.”

“I mean, nobody's controlling who I talk to.” Peter watches the pen and thinks to himself, she's definitely writing something down. “I'm making this worse, aren't I?”

“A little,” you said honestly. 

You eventually moved into the safety questions. “Can you tell me how you got hurt?”

Peter has rehearsed this. “Bike accident.”

“At one in the morning?” You asked, giving him a, ‘really?’ look.

“Night biking.”

“With injuries to your ribs, shoulder, face and hands?” You asked.

“It was a really bad bike accident.” He said in a matter-of-fact tone so that you wouldn’t press anymore. 

“Where's the bike?”

And Peter freezes, he didn’t think that far ahead. “…Stolen.”

“After the accident?”

“Yes.” He nonchalantly stated.

“While you were injured?”

“Yes.”

“Did you make a police report?”

“No.”

You let the silence sit for a second. “Okay.” You aren’t accusing him of lying. That makes it worse. You quietly ask, “Did another person cause these injuries?”

“No.”

“Has anyone been hurting you?”

“No.”

“Threatening you?”

“No.”

“No current or former partner you're afraid of?”

“No.”

“Anyone you owe money to?”

“No.”

“Is anyone pressuring you to do things you don't want to do?”

“No.”

“Do you feel safe where you're living?”

“Yes.”

Those answers come much faster because they're actually true.

You recognize the distinction too. He's evasive about how he got injured, but remarkably clear when asked whether he's experiencing interpersonal violence.

Based off the answers he was giving, you decide to switch tactics. “Okay. What happens when you leave here?”

“I go home.”

“How?”

“Walk.”

“No.” You said hoping he would pivot and have a safer method home.

“Subway?”

“You have a concussion.” You reminded him.

“I take the subway with a concussion?” He sheepishly asked.

“That wasn't permission.”

“Oh.”

Then comes the question that unexpectedly gets him. “Do you have someone who can stay with you tonight?”

“No.”

“Someone who can check on you tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Someone I can call and say, ‘He's okay, but could you make sure he stays that way?’”

Peter smiles a little. But it's different from the nervous smiling earlier. “No.”

That’s when you realize he's genuinely alone. Not I don't want you contacting anyone. Not my friend is busy. There is nobody coming to help him.

Based off his answers, you don’t push him to explain why. That was never in the courses or trainings because it was never the person's fault; as per trauma informed principals or whatever that one professor said during your undergrad. “Okay. Then we'll figure out the safest discharge plan without relying on somebody else.”

Peter immediately looks relieved. “Thank you.”

And that's the moment when the interaction changes. Because Peter came into the conversation expecting the social worker to find a problem. Instead, she's helping him solve one.

She goes through transportation, medications, whether he can afford the prescriptions, whether he has somewhere stable to stay, food, follow-up care and what symptoms mean he needs to return.

“One last thing.” You said.

“Okay.”

“You've told me nobody is hurting you.”

“They aren't.” He cleared up.

“I believe you.” Peter looks slightly surprised at the words that left your mouth. “But I don't believe the bike story.”

Silence. His eyes widened.

You closed the chart. “You don't have to tell me something you don't want to tell me. But if there's something you're not ready to talk about tonight, you can ask for a social worker if you come back.”

Peter nods slowly. “Okay.”

You stand, “Try not to have another bike accident.”

He gives her that awkward little Peter Parker smile. “I'll try.”

She gets halfway out the door. “Wait.” he called out and you turned around.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have one of those…” He gestures vaguely. “Cards?” This concussion is really kicking his ass right now. 

She reaches into her pocket. “Here you go.”

“Goodnight,” you called out.

“Goodnight.”

And after you leave, Peter stared at that card for a few seconds before putting it somewhere safe.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

3 weeks later; Visit 2 - 2:54 am

Three weeks later, and you were still on your overnight rotation. This time Fast and Furious was playing in the background. The sound of engines revving were interrupted by the hospital extension ringing.

You don't look away from your computer when you answer because the only person who terrorizes you this late. "Yes Mary?"

"Anak." Of course she is the only one who sounds this pleased at almost four in the morning. "Come to Emergency."

"Why?" You asked.

"I have somebody for you."

"What kind of referral?" You said, knowing it probably was not SADV related.

There was a pause from Mary, "Your bicycle boy."

Your fingers stopped and hovered over the keyboard. "...My what?"

"The bicycle boy."

"I don't have a bicycle boy." You said, confused.

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"The one with the spider."

You sit back. Oh. Him. "What happened?"

"Another accident." She said, you could hear her flipping through a chart on the other side.

"Another bike accident?" You questioned.

"Apparently." Something in her voice tells you exactly how much she believes that.

"Did he screen positive for anything?"

"No."

"Then why are you calling me?" You asked, knowing this game was futile and you would be downstairs in the next 15 minutes.

"Because you talked to him last time."

"That's not how referrals work."

"Room eight."

"Wait—" Mary hangs up. Again. One of these days you will beat her by hanging up the phone first.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

You finally make it down to the 3rd floor and find Mary at the nurses' station. She sees you coming and immediately points toward room eight.

She smiles. "He asked if social work was here tonight."

You stop. "He asked for social work?"

"Not exactly."

"What does 'not exactly' mean?" You raised an eyebrow at Mary.

"He asked who was working."

"That's not the same thing." You retorted.

"Go."

You glance toward the room. "What happened to him?"

"Shoulder. Laceration. The doctor thinks maybe mild concussion." Mary said.

"And we're going with a bicycle?" You asked.

She gives you a look. "I told him maybe he should take the bus."

You bite back a laugh. "You're terrible."

"I am helpful."

You knock against the open door. "Hi. Can I—"

The patient looks up.

You stop.

He stops.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

Then you look at the sling. Then the dressing near his eyebrow. Then back at him. "...No."

His eyebrows lift. "What?"

"Absolutely not."

"You were here three weeks ago."

But something shifts in his expression. "You remember me?"

The question is so genuine that it catches you slightly off guard. You look at him. "You told me you got into a bike accident and then couldn't tell me where the bike went."

His mouth opens. "It was stolen." Peter reminded you.

"Right."

"It was."

"After you crashed it."

"Yes."

"While you were unconscious."

"I wasn't unconscious." He retorted.

"You had a concussion."

"Those aren't the same thing." He shot back.

You stare at him and glanced at all the visible injuries he had. He gives you an awkward smile. You then pointed at his shoulder. "So what happened this time?"

He glances down.

"Bike accident." Peter nonchalantly states.

God help you with this man, you close your eyes. "Peter."

The room goes quiet. When you look at him again, he's staring at you. Not smiling. Not joking. Just staring. "What?"

You instinctively look behind yourself. "What?"

"You remembered my name."

Now you're confused. "Yes?"

An emotion passes across his face that you can't quite identify. You assume it's embarrassment. It's not. You have absolutely no way of knowing that there was once a world where Peter Parker couldn't walk three blocks without somebody recognizing him.

Teachers knew him. Classmates knew him. His best friend knew the exact expression Peter made before saying something stupid. His girlfriend could recognize him from across a crowded room. His aunt could tell something was wrong from the way he said hello.

And then, suddenly, nobody knew him at all.

Peter has spent months introducing himself. Explaining himself. Being a stranger. So hearing his name come naturally out of someone else's mouth shouldn't mean anything. But it does. More than he'd like it to.

You pull the chair over. "You're kind of memorable."

His eyes drop and he avoids eye contact with you. “Right."

You sit. "Mostly because of the spider."

His head immediately comes back up. "There was no spider."

You smile. "There he is."

And for the first time since he came through the doors tonight, Peter doesn't feel quite so alone.

Despite him being a running client, you still do the assessment properly. "Anyone at home with you?"

"No."

"Still in the same apartment?"

"Yeah."

"Third-floor walk-up?"

Peter looks at you again but you don't notice. You're busy scribbling something against the chart. "Yeah."

"Any problems getting around after the last injury?"

"No."

"Did you follow up with your doctor?" You asked.

"...Mostly."

You look up. "What does mostly mean?" You raised an eyebrow at him.

"I thought about it."

"That is not follow-up." You stated.

"I followed up emotionally."

"That's not a thing." You stared, actually confused as to how this man survived this many years on Earth.

"It could be."

"Peter."

There it is again. His name. Peter looks down so you don't see the smile spread across his face.

Eventually you get to the safety questions.

"Anyone hurting or threatening you?"

"No."

"Anyone you're afraid to go home to?"

"No."

"Current or former partner causing you problems?"

"No."

"Anyone controlling where you go, who you talk to, or your finances?"

"No."

Those answers are still immediate. Whatever he's hiding, your instincts tell you it's probably not that. You put your pen down. "Okay."

He watches you. "Okay?"

"I believe you."

"Oh." 

"But I still don't believe you own a bicycle." You retorted.

Peter laughs. "Why are you so stuck on the bike?"

"Because you've allegedly destroyed two of them in three weeks." You crossed your arms and shifted in the chair.

"New York is dangerous."

"For bicycles specifically?" You asked amused, crossing your arms and leaning back into the chair.

"Very."

By the time you're finished, his discharge plan is straightforward.

Same apartment. Stable housing. Medication covered. No identified SADV concerns. Still no emergency contact. That's the only piece that hasn't changed. The method to these injuries? It sounds like a 5 year old made it up so that they could get out of trouble.

You stand. "Anything else before I go?"

"No."

"Okay."

You reach the doorway. "Hey."

You turn around and you notice there was a bit of hesitation from Peter. "Are you usually here overnight?"

You don't think much of it. "Sometimes. We rotate."

"Oh."

"Why?"

"No reason."

You narrow your eyes. "Are you planning your third bicycle accident around my schedule?" You half-heartedly joked.

"No." The answer comes much too quickly, Peter internally cringed at it.

You laugh. "Goodnight, Peter."

"Goodnight."

You disappear into the hallway. Peter sits there for a moment and looks down at his hands.

His brain went into immediate overdrive and overthinking mode. It's stupid.

She remembered him because he's been here twice. That's normal. That's literally part of her job. It doesn't mean anything. However, you remembered his name.

And for Peter Parker, that means considerably more than you could possibly know.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

2 weeks later; Visit 3 - 1:47 am

The Emergency Department is unusually quiet. Not quiet quiet. Hospitals don't do quiet. And God only knows if you jinxed it, all of the nurses would chase you around the emergency department like a 15th century witch.

But quiet enough that you've managed to eat half your dinner without being interrupted, which feels vaguely suspicious.

You're sitting at the nurses station finishing a yogurt and joking around with the nurses your age when you hear, “Anak!”

You know this could only mean one thing, "What?"

"Don't be mad."

You slowly lower the spoon. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!” She squeaked.

"You only say don't be mad when you've done something."

She presses her lips together. Then her eyes flick toward the hallway. You follow the trail her eyes made.

Room fourteen.

Curtain half closed. Sneakers visible underneath. You look back at her. "No."

She smiles. "Go say hello."

"Absolutely not."

"Your bicycle boy is back!” She announced.

You put the yogurt down on the desk, "You've got to be kidding me."

"Stitches only."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Because you'll see him anyway." She coos.

"I'm working." You retorted.

"So am I." She shot back.

"Then work." You said.

"I am working. I'm telling social work there is a vulnerable young man in my Emergency Department." 

You sighed, you never knew how Mary’s husband won arguments at home, "Did he screen positive?"

"No."

"Did he ask for SADV?"

"No."

"Does he have a social-work need?"

Mary thinks about it. "He makes poor transportation choices."

You stare at her. "That's not a social determinant of health."

"It could be."

“You,” you point your spoon at her, "you need hobbies."

"I have hobbies."

"Sending inappropriate referrals isn't a hobby.” You retorted, scooping up more strawberry yogurt.

"It is overnight." Mary stated in a matter-of-a-fact tone, like it answered her needs for a hobby.

You spun around in the computer chair, puffing like a little kid. "I'm not going."

"Okay."

"Good." You said.

A few seconds passed before Mary said something that made you spin back around, "He asked if you were working."

"He what?" You asked.

"Nothing."

"No. You just said—" Mary immediately cut you off.

"Very busy." Mary continues charting like she didn't say anything making a face.

Mary walks away. You stare after her and then toward room fourteen.

You hate that this works.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

You're technically going to the supply room. Room fourteen just happens to be on the way. That's what you tell yourself.

You're walking past when you glance through the opening. He's sitting on the stretcher. No sling this time, just a nasty cut along his forearm that somebody has temporarily dressed.

He's looking down at his phone.

You take two steps past the room. Against your better judgement, you stopped. Mary would never let you hear the end of this, you thought to yourself; before backtracking.

Peter looks up as he senses a new presence in the room. His entire face changes, it almost lit up like Times Square. "Hi."

You lean against the doorway. "Where's the bike?"

There's half a second of silence. Then he starts laughing. Not polite laughter. Actual laughter. His head drops forward, "Wow, not even a how are you?"

"I'm asking for clinical purposes."

"No, you're not."

"Mechanism of injury is very important to your file.” You said, leaning your head on the door. 

"I didn't say anything about a bike."

"You didn't have to, ‘cause no matter how many times I try to persuade you into using a different mode of transportation, you’re always on a bike.”

He shakes his head. "I actually wasn't on a bike."

You gasp. "Progress."

"See? I'm getting better, my social worker is doing a really good job."

Your eyes drop to the blood slowly seeping through the dressing on his arm. "Debatable."

He looks down. "Oh. This? It's not that bad."

"That's what you said about the concussion."

"That was a small concussion."

You stare at him. "You told me those don't come in sizes."

His words catch you for a second. "You remember that?"

Then you point toward his arm. "So what happened?" Peter visibly prepares himself as you narrow your eyes. "Think carefully."

"I was helping someone move."

You wait. "And?"

"And there was..." He's thinking. "...glass." He practically aha’d.

"Glass?"

"Broken glass." He declared.

"What were you moving?" You asked.

"A table."

"What kind of table?"

His eyebrows pull together. "Why does that matter?"

"It matters tremendously."

"It was just a table."

"Wood?" You said, spoonfeeding him the wrong answer; finally hoping that he would give you an explanation as to why he keeps showing up in the emergency department looking like he got pulled through oncoming traffic.

"...Yes."

"And the glass?" You gave him a ‘caught you’ look.

Peter pauses. You crossed your arms. "It was a glass-wood table?” He said, even he could hear the shakiness in his voice.

"A glass-wood table."

"Very popular." Peter declared.

"Where?"

"Queens." He takes a second before continuing. "You don't believe me."

"I believed you were injured." You said, partially agreeing with him.

"That's not the same thing." Peter puffed before laughing.

"No."

Peter laughs again. And you realize something. The first time you met him, every question made him tense. The second time, he'd relaxed eventually.

Tonight? He's comfortable. Still lying through his teeth. But comfortable.

"Are you assigned to me?" The question comes casually.

You shake your head. "No."

Something in his expression falls. Barely. But you catch it. "Oh."

"I was walking past."

"Oh." That one sounds different.

You glance toward the nurses' station. Technically, you should keep moving. He's not your referral. He's medically stable, Mary didn’t formally request for your services.

You're working. You have documentation waiting. Instead, you stay in the doorway. "Do you need social work?"

Peter looks at you. "No."

"Okay." You don't move. Neither does he. You finally break the silence, "How's the apartment?"

His eyebrows lift. "Still there."

"That's generally what we hope for." You let out a small smile.

"Heater works now."

"You fixed it?" You faked shock.

"Landlord did."

"Miracles happen!"

"And—" He catches himself.

"And?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

He scratches the back of his neck. "I actually went to the follow-up appointment."

You blink. "You did?"

"Yeah."

"Voluntarily?"

"Mostly."

You smile. "I'm impressed."

And there it is again. That strange little look. The one you've caught a few times now when you remember something about him. It disappears quickly. "Thanks."

One of the new nurses, Bayley, walks into the room carrying supplies. She looks between you. "Oh, good. Social work's here."

"I'm not—"

Peter immediately says, "She was just checking on my bicycle." The nurse looks confused and stares at you in bewilderment. "My nonexistent bicycle," he adds.

You stare at him.

He smiles.

Bayley rolls her eyes and clearly decides she doesn't get paid enough to understand either of you. "I need to stitch his arm."

"Right. I'm leaving." You step away from the doorway. "Try not to bleed on anything,” you half heartedly joke.

"I'll do my best."

As you were turning to leave, you took a look back at him, "Oh, and Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time, helmet."

He grins. "I wasn't on a bike!"

"Goodnight Peter."

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

3 weeks later; Visit 4 - 12:51 am

Peter knows he needs stitches.

This isn't one of those situations where he can put some gauze on it, pull his suit back over it, and pretend the problem doesn't exist until morning.

He's tried. Twice.

The cut along his side keeps reopening.

So now he's standing across the street from the hospital with his hood pulled over his head, staring at the Emergency Department entrance.

There are other hospitals. There are objectively several hospitals in New York City. Some are probably closer to his apartment.

He could go to any of them. He should go to any of them.

Peter looks at the illuminated sign above the entrance. Then crosses the street.

The triage nurse asks what happened.

"Construction accident." It's better than the bike. He's learning.

"What kind of construction?"

Peter hadn't anticipated a follow-up question. "Home."

"Home construction?" The triage nurse stated, skeptical.

"Renovation."

"At midnight?" She questioned.

"...I like working late." He said cracking a small smile at the end, even though he sounded unsure.

“You were doing home construction at midnight, and got a gash on your ribs?” The triage nurse clarified.

Peter nodded, “Uh huh.”

The nurse looks at him.

Peter smiles.

She doesn't. The triage nurse tightens the wrist band around his wrist. “Follow the blue line.”

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

It's twenty minutes before he realizes he's doing it.

Every time someone in scrubs walks past the waiting room, Peter looks up.

Nurse. No.

Resident. No.

Environmental services. No.

Another nurse. No.

He looks back at his phone. This is stupid. He isn't waiting for her. He's waiting to be seen. That's why he's looking toward the hallway. Obviously.

The doors open again. Peter looks up. Not her. He looks back down. Definitely stupid.

Eventually he's taken to a treatment room. A nurse cleans the wound. The resident examines it. Local anesthetic. Stitches. Tetanus status.

All the normal things Peter has unfortunately become very familiar with.

Nobody mentions social work. Which makes sense. He doesn't need social work. He knows that.

He has an apartment. He's safe. Nobody's hurting him. He doesn't need resources.

There's absolutely no reason for— "Anything else before I grab your discharge paperwork?" 

Peter looks at the nurse. "No."

She starts toward the door.

Peter’s mouth began to speak before his brain could even yield that this is a bad idea. "Actually—"

She turns. "Yeah?"

Peter immediately regrets opening his mouth. "Is..." He scratches the back of his neck. "...social work here tonight?"

The nurse pauses and blinks at him, "Social work?"

"Yeah."

"Did you need to speak to somebody?"

"No." That comes out much too quickly.

The nurse looks confused, why is this guy asking about social work if he doesn’t need it.

Peter tries again. "I mean, not need. I was just wondering."

"Why?"

Excellent question, which he really should have expected. "I've met one of the social workers here before."

"Okay…?" The nurse looks completely done with his nonsense. 

"A couple times."

"Do you know their name?"

Peter does. Of course he does. He just suddenly feels weird saying it. "Not really."

If looks could kill, the nurse would have had him 6 feet under three sentences ago.

Peter folds his discharge sheet unnecessarily.

"She's usually overnight."

"Oh." The nurse thinks. "There's somebody from SADV tonight."

Peter's head lifts. "Yeah?"

"I don't know who's covering."

"Oh." Peter’s demeanor immediately changes.

"I can check if you need them."

"No, no. That's okay." He said, waving the nurse off.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

The nurse leaves. 

Peter stares at the wall.

What is he doing?

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

You look up at the clock, 1:32 am. You're in another part of the department finishing an assessment when Mary appears in the doorway.

You look up. "What?" She smiles. Immediately suspicious. "No."

"I didn't say anything!” She feigns innocence.

"You have the face."

"What face?" Mary questions, following you around the back of the charge station finishing the chart.

"The face you make when you're about to involve me in nonsense."

She walks into the room. "Your bicycle boy is here."

Your pen stops and you look up at Mary. "Again?"

"Mm-hm."

"What happened?"

"Construction."

You blink. "Construction?" You were immediately confused.

"Apparently he has diversified." Mary said flipping through a different rooms chart.

A laugh escapes before you can stop it. "Is he okay?" The question comes out automatically.

The nurse notices. You notice that she notices. "Stitches. Nothing serious."

"Okay."

You go back to your documentation. She doesn't move. "What?"

"He asked for social work."

You look up again. "He did?"

"Mm-hm." Mary hummed.

"Did he say why?" 

"No."

"Did he ask for SADV specifically?"

"No."

"Then who did he ask for?"

Her smile grows. "You."

You stare at her. "He asked for me?"

"Not by name."

You narrow your eyes. "Then he didn't ask for me."

"He described you."

"What did he say?"

Mary waves her hand vaguely. "Overnight. Talks too much. Very nosy."

Your mouth falls open. "He did not say that."

"No."

She's delighted with herself. "He said the one he's met before."

You stare at her. "That's considerably different."

"Same meaning."

"No, it isn't."

She turns toward the hallway. "Room eleven."

"I'm working." You stated before going back to writing in the chart.

"So is he."

"He's a patient."

"Exactly." She winked.

"That doesn't even make sense."

Peter is putting his hoodie back on when there's a knock.

"You're branching out."

He freezes. He knows the voice immediately. He turns. You're standing in the doorway.

His smile happens before he can stop it. It's huge. Bright. Completely involuntary. You notice. "Hi."

"Hi." Peter responded, voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes move down to his side to take a better look at his bruising and stitches. "Construction?"

Peter looks offended. "Why does everyone say it like that?"

"Because last month it was furniture."

"There was glass." He pointed out.

"Before that, bicycles."

"Allegedly." You cross your arms.

"How's the bike?"

"Retired." He said, shoving his belongings back in his pocket.

"Good. It deserves peace."

He laughs. And there it is. That feeling again. The weird loosening in his chest that happens when you walk into the room.

You remembered. Again.

"I heard you asked for social work."

Peter's smile falters. The charge nurse betrayed him. "Oh."

"Everything okay?" You said, his demeanor immediately shifting.

"Yeah."

"Do you need something?" You asked.

"No."

You wait. You can tell his brain is going into overdrive trying to figure out a way to vocalize one of his needs.

Peter suddenly finds the floor fascinating. "I just..." he started. He could lie. He's very good at lying lately. Apparently not to you, but generally. "I wasn't sure if you were working." The words came out quieter than he intended.

You pause. "Me?"

He shrugs. "Yeah."

"Why?"

There it is. The question he has absolutely no answer prepared for. Peter looks at you. "Because..."

You wait, part of you hoping it was something more. But you knew that immediately put your license at risk.

"...I wanted to make sure you knew the bike wasn't involved." He said, feeling absolutely stupid for coming up with such a lie.

You stare at him. Then start laughing. Peter's shoulders relax. "Very important update."

"Clinically significant." He gave you a toothy grin.

"I'll document it immediately." You said, leaning your head against the door frame.

"Thank you."

You step into the room. "Seriously, though. You're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Safe at home?"

"Yeah."

"Nobody bothering you?"

"No."

"Still no emergency contact?"

His smile fades slightly. "No."

You nod. You don't push. "Apartment?"

"Still there."

"Heater?"

"Still working."

"Follow-up appointments?" Peter grimaces. You point at him. "Peter."

"I went!"

"All of them?"

"Define all."

You sigh.

He grins.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Peter was in the process of signing his discharge paperwork while you’re finishing up his chart.

"Goodnight." He says.

"Goodnight." You smiled back at him.

He turns and begins to walk off. Then, after three steps, "Hey."

You look up.

Peter has stopped. There's something hesitant in his expression now. "Glad you were working."

Before you can answer, he turns and keeps walking.

Mary slowly appears beside you. You don't look at her. "No." You put your finger up, it was too late to have Mary start with you.

"I didn't say anything!” She raised her hands in innocence. 

"Don't."

"Very handsome,” she cooed. 

"Oh my God." You ruffled your own hair, knowing that Mary is going to terrorize you with bicycle boy all night.

"And polite." She cooed. 

"Please go away."

"Goodnight." Mary walks away laughing.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Peter gets halfway down the block before the embarrassment hits him. Glad you were working. Why did he say that? Who says that?

He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets. He's being ridiculous. You're his social worker.

Well. Sometimes. Not even technically tonight.

You're just someone at the hospital who happens to be nice to him. Someone who remembers his name. His apartment. His terrible excuses. Someone who looks genuinely relieved every time she realizes he's okay.

Peter stops at the crosswalk. The light changes. People move around him.

And for the first time, he allows himself to admit something very small. When he'd decided which hospital to go to tonight, he'd hoped you'd be here.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Six Weeks Later; Visit 5 -  2:08 A.M.

Peter doesn't choose the hospital this time. That's important. The ambulance does.

He'd been helping during an apartment fire when part of a ceiling came down, and while Spider-Man had gotten everyone out, Peter Parker had apparently lost an argument with several hundred pounds of drywall.

So now he's in the back of an ambulance wearing borrowed sweatpants, a hoodie someone from the fire department gave him, and absolutely none of his dignity.

"Which hospital?"

The paramedic tells him.

Peter's head lifts. "Oh."

The paramedic glances over. "Problem?"

"No." Peter settles back against the stretcher, practically nestling in.

"No problem."

He looks toward the ambulance doors. And despite the throbbing in his shoulder— he smiles.

2:31 A.M.

Mary sees his name before she sees him. She looks at the tracking board. Looks again. Then turns toward the paramedic bringing the stretcher through. Her face changes immediately. "Oh, anak."

Peter lifts his head. "Hey tita."

She walks over. "What happened to you?"

"Ceiling."

She stops. "Ceiling?"

"Yeah."

"No bicycle?"

Peter smiles despite himself. "No bicycle."

She pats his arm. "Very good."

"I don't think that's the takeaway." He laughs.

"You're learning." Then she looks over his injuries. Her expression becomes more serious when her eyes settle on the bits of drywall in his hair. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Peter nods.

"You always say yes."

"I'm consistent."

"Mm-hm." Mary starts walking alongside the stretcher.

Peter tries to sound casual. "So..." Mary looks at him. He immediately loses confidence. "Busy tonight?"

"Always."

"Right."

They continue down the hallway. Peter waits. She says nothing. He tries again. "Everybody working?"

Now she looks at him. Not suspiciously. Knowingly. Peter instantly regrets the wording. "Everybody?" Mary wiggles her eyebrows at him.

"You know. Staff."

"Yes. We have staff." She said waiting for him to admit who he was looking for.

"Right."

The corner of her mouth twitches. Peter looks toward the ceiling. He could just ask. He's an adult. He fights aliens. He's been to space. He can ask one elderly woman whether another person is working. "Is—"

"No."

Peter looks at her. He hasn't even finished. "No?"

"She's not here."

Something in his chest drops. "Oh."

Mary notices. Of course she notices. Peter looks away. "Okay."

"She's off tonight." Mary said putting the blood pressure monitor on him.

"Right." He nods. "That's good."

She raises an eyebrow. "Good?"

"People should have days off. Healthy work-life balance." Peter said cringing, knowing he sounds absolutely stupid right now.

"Very."

Peter nods again. The stretcher reaches his room. Mary pats his shoulder. "Don't worry. We still take good care of you."

Peter smiles. "I know."

But it's smaller than before.

3:16 A.M.

The doctor says nothing is broken. Peter has a badly bruised shoulder, several cuts and a mild concussion. Again. Apparently his brain has decided concussions are a hobby. He's sitting on the stretcher when someone knocks. "Peter?"

He looks up immediately. For one stupid fraction of a second, his heart jumps. Then a man he doesn't recognize walks into the room. "Hi. I'm with social work."

"Oh." Peter hopes his disappointment isn't visible. It absolutely is. Peter glanced at the badge on his lanyard, Ethan.

"I understand you've met with our department before."

"Yeah." He nodded.

"Your nurse asked me to check in because you came in alone and there were some questions about discharge." Ethan stated, flipping to a blank page. 

Peter nods. "Sure."

Ethan sits. And he's nice. That's almost worse.

Professional. Warm. Patient. 

He asks the same kinds of questions.

"Still living alone?"

"Yeah."

"Any concerns with your housing?"

"No."

"Anyone at home you're afraid of?"

"No."

"Anyone hurting or threatening you?"

"No."

"Any current or former partner you're concerned about?"

"No."

"Do you have someone who could stay with you tonight because of the concussion?"

"No."

"Anyone we could call?"

"No."

Peter knows this routine. He knows where the questions are going.

He answers easily.

Nobody is hurting him. He's safe at home. He has food. His rent is paid. He has somewhere to sleep. He can access his medication. No substance-use concerns. No suicidal thoughts. No trafficking concerns. No violence at home.

Same answers. Same circumstances. Same kind of assessment.

And yet— it doesn't feel the same.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

Peter shakes his head. "No."

"Anything else you need before I go?"

"No. I'm good."

"Okay." The social worker stands.

Peter hesitates. Then, "Actually."

He turns. "Yeah?"

Peter knows he shouldn't ask. He asks anyway. "The person who's usually here..." The social worker waits, giving him an encouraging look to keep going. Peter rubs his thumb against the edge of the hospital bracelet. "Is she..."

He stops. What exactly is he asking? Is she okay? When is she working? Does she remember me? That last one sits somewhere uncomfortable in his chest.

"Is she still working here?"

"Who?"

Peter describes you. The social worker recognizes who he means. "Oh. Yeah."

Peter's shoulders loosen before he can stop them. "Okay."

"She's just not on tonight."

"Right." Peter nods. "Cool."

The social worker gives him a small smile. "I can leave her a message that you were asking for her, if you'd like."

Peter's eyes widened. "No no." The answer is immediate, realizing how it sounded, “It’s okay.”

"Okay."

"I was just wondering."

"No problem." Ethan reassured Peter.

"Like, professionally."

Ethan pauses. Peter hears himself. Why did he add that?

"Okay…” Ethan said absolutely confused as to what Peter is on.

"Because I've met her before."

"Got it." Your coworker smiled awkwardly.

"Several times." He said, internally cringing.

"Peter."

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to explain."

Peter closes his mouth. "Right."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

The door closes.

Peter drops his head into his hands.

Fantastic.

3:52 A.M.

He can't sleep. That's normal in hospitals.

There's always something happening. Machines. Footsteps. Overhead announcements. Someone coughing two rooms away. Peter lies there staring at the ceiling. Usually, by this point, you'd have appeared. Sometimes annoyed. Sometimes carrying coffee.

You'd lean against the doorway and look at whatever new part of him was bandaged.

Bike?

And he'd say No.

And you'd pretend to be disappointed.

It's stupid. It's such a stupid little thing. But the room feels different without it.

Without you.

Peter turns onto his side. Immediately regrets it because of his shoulder. "Ow."

He rolls back. Maybe he likes having the same social worker. That's normal. Continuity of care. That's a thing. He likes that you know his history. He doesn't have to explain everything again and retraumatizes himself is how he frames it.

Except—the social worker tonight had clearly read his previous documentation.

He already knew Peter lived alone. Already knew there was no emergency contact. Already knew about the previous SADV screenings.

Peter hadn't needed to explain much of anything. And he'd still spent the entire assessment wishing it were you sitting in that chair.

Oh.

Peter stares at the ceiling. That's inconvenient.

4:27 A.M.

Mary comes in with his discharge paperwork.

"Good news."

Peter sits up. "I'm being evicted?"

"Yes."

"Finally."

She hands him the paperwork. "Doctor says rest."

"I will."

"No swinging from buildings."

Peter freezes. She looks at him. He looks at her. There's a beat. Then she points toward his paperwork. "I mean no climbing. With your shoulder."

Peter slowly exhales. "Right."

"Why? What did you think I meant?" Mary squinted at him.

"Nothing."

"Mm-hm." She said.

Peter could tell that Mary knows at this point. That is the only logical reason she is harassing him with swinging instructions. 

She starts reviewing the instructions.

Peter only half listens. Then, while she's checking something on the computer, he asks, "When is she back?" He could absolutely smack himself right now if he could. His mouth opened before his brain could even cooperate. 

Mary stops typing. Peter realizes what he said. He tries to recover. "I mean—"

She turns her head. "Who?"

He knows she knows.

She knows he knows she knows.

Peter sighs. "You know who."

Her face softens, not teasing this time. "Tomorrow night."

Peter nods. "Okay."

She studies him. "You want me to tell her you were here?"

"No." Again, immediate.

"Why not?" Mary raised an eyebrow at him

"Because."

"Because what?"

Peter folds the corner of his discharge paperwork. "I don't know."

The nurse watches him for a moment. Then she understands something Peter hasn't quite managed to articulate. "You wanted to see her."

He looks up. It's not phrased like a joke.That somehow makes it harder. Peter gives a small shrug. "I guess."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer. Mary waits. Peter looks toward the hallway. Then down at his hands. "She's..." He searches for the word. Nice? Plenty of people are nice. Helpful? So was the social worker tonight. Funny? Yes, but that's not quite it. "She remembers me."

Mary's expression changes. Peter immediately feels stupid. "I know that's literally her job."

"No." Mary started. He looks at her. She pulls the chair closer and sits. "No, anak. That's not what you mean."

Peter doesn't say anything. Because she's right.

He remembers the first time you said his name without checking the chart. Peter.

Like it belonged somewhere in your memory. He remembers you asking about his heater. Remembering the third-floor walk-up. Remembering his follow-up appointment. Remembering the stupid bike. He remembers walking into the hospital and looking for you.He remembers Kind of memorable.

And somewhere along the way, the hospital had become one of the only places where someone recognized him before he introduced himself.

But tonight had taught him something else. Because someone else knew his chart. Someone else knew his circumstances. Someone else offered the exact same resources. It hadn't mattered.

Peter hadn't wanted a social worker.

He'd wanted you.

Mary stood. "Go home."

Peter looks up. "That's your advice?"

"Yes." She nodded.

"Very clinical."

"I have been a nurse thirty-eight years."

"So I've heard." He responded.

"And Peter?"

"Yeah?"

Her eyes narrow. "Don't come back tomorrow just because she's working."

His mouth drops open. "I wasn't going to!"

"Good." Mary fluffed the top of his head.

"I don't intentionally come here!" Peter defended himself.

"Mm-hm." 

"I don't!" He felt like he was losing.

She pats his shoulder. "Goodnight, Bicycle Boy."

"There wasn't even a bicycle this time!"

"Progress." 

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Outside — 4:51 A.M.

Peter steps into the cold air. His shoulder hurts. His head hurts. He's exhausted. He should go home. Instead, he stands outside the hospital for a moment and looks back through the glass doors.

Tomorrow night. The thought arrives automatically. And immediately after it, No. Absolutely not.

He's not coming back tomorrow. Obviously. That would be insane. He hopes very strongly that nothing happens tomorrow requiring medical attention.

He starts walking. Then catches himself thinking, maybe next time. Peter stops.

Next time? He's anticipating a next time now? He rubs a hand over his face. "This is bad."

A man walking past gives him a strange look.

Peter ignores him.

Because for months he's been telling himself that he likes seeing you because you're familiar. Because you already know the situation. Because explaining his life to strangers is exhausting. Because you're his social worker. Except tonight another social worker had known everything necessary. And Peter had spent the entire conversation waiting for him to leave.

He hadn't missed social work.

He'd missed your laugh. Your sarcasm. The way you said his name. The stupid bicycle joke.

The way you always asked whether he'd eaten after you finished the questions you were actually required to ask.

The little look of relief you tried to hide whenever you realized his newest injury wasn't serious.

Peter starts walking again. Slower this time.

And somewhere between the hospital and home, the thought finally settles into place.

Not dramatic. Not terrifying. Just undeniable. He likes you.

Peter shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and groans. "Oh, come on."

Because apparently losing everyone he'd ever loved, becoming anonymous to the entire world, and rebuilding his life from nothing wasn't complicated enough.

Now Peter Parker has a crush on his social worker.