#spider!reader

You wiped your forehead. “Oh—uh! The air-conditioning was pretty bad today at the library.”

You had told Alfred to pick you up in the afternoon at the library instead of in the morning at the cemetery, claiming you had finals to study for—which was true. And you did visit Jason before heading down to the ring.

But you definitely did not need to study for your finals.

Then you remembered the package Alfred told you about in a text. “So there’s a package for me?” You didn’t accidentally order something online, right?

“Oh yes. I believe Mr. Harry sent it. I set it aside in the living room,” Alfred said.

That made sense. But why would Harry send you a package?

You smiled. “Thanks for letting me know, Alfred.”

By the time you arrived at the manor, you could hear the bustle in the dining room, plates clattering as they were set down.

Alfred excused himself to help the others, and you headed to the living room. You took a seat on the couch and held the box in your hands—the weight felt familiar.

“What do you have there, little bird?” Dick Grayson asked from the threshold, his casual, carefree smile easy and familiar, though his eyes flicked toward the box in your hands with quiet curiosity.

Seeing your brothers two days in a row? Was it your birthday or something?

The nickname made something in your chest tighten slightly, though you kept your expression in check.

“Nunya,” you replied shortly, turning the box in your hands.

Dick raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Nunya what?”

“Nunya business,” you snapped.

Dick’s smile faded just a little—not completely, but enough to show he got the message.

“…Right,” he muttered, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Tough crowd.”

You didn’t respond. You just kept your eyes on the box, fingers tracing along the edges.

“There’s dinner today,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just wondering if you’d like to attend.”

You kind of felt bad for snapping at him, even if he deserved it—whether for asking questions so carelessly or for acting like you didn’t exist. You weren’t really sure which.

You just wanted to head up to your room and open the mysterious box your best friend sent, but his slightly pained expression made it difficult to say that out loud.

“Okay.”

In an instant, your older brother’s expression lit up like you’d given him a treat. You almost let out a bitter chuckle.

You set the box down where it was, making a mental note to grab it after dinner.

Dick smiled, stepping aside to give you room, then trailed behind you. The voices grew louder with each step you took, the pit in your stomach growing with them.

You were about to bail—tell your older brother your stomach hurt or something—when you heard his footsteps stop behind you.

You were about to turn and ask what was up when his hand reached out, settling gently on your head.

He stood beside you, and you felt that familiar ache settle in your chest—the same one that always came around your family. Whether it was anger or sadness, you couldn’t quite tell.

You weren’t sure about most things lately. Then again, anger and sadness had always been hard for you to tell apart.

Dick’s soft eyes met yours, a genuine smile tugging at his lips—bright enough to make your eyes squint slightly. You swallowed, pressing your lips together.

He sighed wistfully. “I’m sorry. For all the promises… and plans that never happened.”

You broke eye contact, afraid you might start tearing up. You couldn’t let them see that this affected you.

Your older brother kept gently petting your head the way he used to when you were younger. You clenched your fists.

“I promise—I’ll try to do better,” he said, finally removing his hand.

You tapped your shoe lightly against the clean floor, clearing your throat before responding. “Okay.”

He smiled at you one more time before pushing the slightly ajar door open.

As soon as you both entered the dining room, the bustle stopped. You felt their eyes all over you.

You berated yourself for giving in to Dick’s kicked-puppy expression and empty promises.

You fixed your gaze anywhere but them, taking the seat next to Dick with Damian across from you. Slowly, the conversations picked back up, the commotion returning.

You tuned them out, picking at your food and taking small bites. Your appetite always faded around them.

“Eat properly,” Damian muttered from across the table, not even looking up.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, stabbing a piece of food just to prove a point.

“I am.”

“Poking at it does not qualify.”

You exhaled quietly through your nose, choosing not to argue further. From the corner of your eye, Dick sent you a small, almost apologetic glance. You ignored it.

“There’s been increased activity downtown,” Tim spoke up, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise. His eyes were glued to his phone, thumb scrolling lazily.

“Red Hood is old news, Tim,” Steph said mockingly.

You felt a flicker of recognition—the guy in the red helmet Uncle Ben had been reading about. Though, you only remembered because he’d gone on a whole tangent about Gotham and its never-ending freaks right after.

“Not him, Steph,” Tim rolled his eyes.

“Are you talking about the weirdo you met—the one in the big red hoodie with a paper bag on their head?” Duke asked, making you unconsciously whip your head toward him.

He didn’t seem to notice, his attention fixed on the piece of steak in front of him. You frowned and turned back to your plate, carefully cutting through your food.

Great. They’re talking about me.

Tim gave him a pointed look. “Yes, Duke. I saw them during a convenience store run.”

“Oh yeah, I saw in the papers those robbers at that retail store were apparently webbed up,” Dick hummed. The tune was familiar, but you couldn't place your finger on it.

Your older brother turned to you. “Wasn’t your friend—the Osborn kid, involved in that failed robbery?”

Just what you needed—every head in the room turning your way. You froze like a deer in headlights. Dick could be such a dick.

You were surprised he even remembered that. Though you couldn’t say you were surprised he didn’t know you were also involved.

Steph made a surprised noise. “You’re friends with the Harry Osborn?”

Your hands felt clammy with all the eyes on you. The heaviest of them all, you assumed, was Cass'.

“Uh… yeah.”

You were glad the topic shifted from you to Harry (not really, since the attention is still all on you).

From your peripheral vision, you caught a hint of surprise and something else that you can't name on your father’s face. He probably didn’t expect his kid to be mingling with his rival’s son.

There was some issue between them—something about unethical practices. It long died over now, but there was still some quiet tension simmering between them.

“How long have you been friends—if you don’t mind me asking?” Duke said with a sheepish smile.

You returned a small smile. “Nah, it’s okay. About five years, I think.”

Duke’s brows lifted slightly. “Five? That’s—wow. You don’t really talk about him—or your friends at all.. matter of fact.” at his last words, something in Duke seemed to click.

Your smile faltered, your only friend was Harry. Not like they'd know that. Especially Duke—this was your first time talking.

Damian narrowed his eyes at you, his snappish voice cut through the conversation you and Duke were having. “Are you unwell? You’re unnaturally tense.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Your shoulders were loose and your breathing was steady. You probably got more comfortable talking about something familiar.

You bit back a smart reply that would result in an another argument.

“I gue—” another voice cuts you off.

“Hm,” Bruce’s gruff tone made you flinch. “You should head up if you're not feeling well."

The others didn’t expect it either, looking at your father with wide eyes.

That familiar irritation and hurt flared up again—yes, you were going to leave anyway, but why couldn’t he at least pretend he wanted you here? In this dinner—In this life. Why couldn't he pretend to be a present father, at least?

You just couldn’t figure out what his problem was.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll go.” Your bitter tone made the tension even thicker.

Dick’s eyes flickered between you and Bruce—the two of you locked in a silent stare-down.

“Um,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. You turned to him, raising an unamused eyebrow.

The room was so quiet you were sure a pin drop could be heard.

You almost felt bad ruining their dinner.

“C’mon, I’ll walk you up,” he said, standing and offering his hand.

You ignored it and made a beeline for the door.

He followed you into the living room, where you grabbed the box and tucked it under your arm.

“Need any—”

“No thanks.”

After that, he trailed behind you in silence. You didn’t mind, but it made you tense—and the thought of your bed calling to you all the more inviting.

When you reached your door, you twisted the knob and stepped inside.

You lingered just past the threshold. If he followed you all the way up here, he must’ve wanted to say something, right?

Dick gave you a comforting smile. “I’m sure B meant well—”

You shut the door in his face.

You let out a quiet breath, jaw tightening as you stepped further into your room. The words he didn’t get to finish still lingered anyway—annoying and persistent.

You didn’t want to hear his excuses or reassurance.

Didn’t want the careful tone, the soft look, the way he always tried to smooth things over.

You dropped the box onto your bed, lips pressed into a thin line, staring at it like it could somehow ease the irritation in your chest.

You heard heavy footsteps pacing outside your door—back and forth, hesitant—before eventually fading away.

You exhaled slowly, shoulders still tense, then reached forward and pulled the box closer, the cardboard scraping softly against your sheets.

The tape peeled back with a quiet rip. When you finally opened the flaps, your brows knit together in soft amusement.

Like a switch, the frown on your lips faded—along with the heavy feeling sitting in your chest.

Your skateboard.

A small breath slipped out of you, almost like a laugh you didn’t mean to let escape.

You turned it slightly in your hands, fingers tracing the familiar surface—the worn grip, the chipped edges, the stickers peeling at the corners.

A small piece of paper caught your eye, tucked into the corner. You reached for it, setting your skateboard carefully across your lap.

Had to pull some strings to get this back! No need to repay me, okay? This is a thank you gift—and thank you gifts don’t get thank you gifts in return.

- Your bestest friend, Harry Osborn.

You chuckled softly. He even added his fancy signature next to his name.

For the next few days of school, you didn’t go home immediately. Instead, you went to an abandoned skatepark tucked behind rusted fences and overgrown weeds—forgotten, quiet, and smelly.

You found it when you hung out with Harry a few weeks ago, accidentally going the wrong way by cutting through an alleyway. So much for a shortcut.

It was bad for your enhanced sense of smell, but it just solidified that nobody else would be going there.

Alfred reluctantly agreed to not picking you up after school (you’re not a kid anymore, you could handle yourself!)—on one condition: that you get home before dark.

And it didn’t bother you. No bats, no problems.

It also gave you more practice time for web-swinging, with the same paper bag on top of your head just in case. You also made sure to take the sneakier routes.

One of your small mercies was that the security system recognized you and didn’t blare out big, loud red alarms.

The last day of the week.

You were getting senioritis real quick, even though you weren’t a senior yet.

The whole day was a mess—Flash egging you on, the heat beating down like death rays on your skin, and the cafeteria noise. It wouldn’t have bothered you before, but now, with your enhanced hearing, you’d rather bang your head against the table than sit in a room packed with 200 teenagers.

Another small mercy was Harry—God bless him—doing everything to make your day more tolerable and distracting you.

At this point, you were sure you're surviving your high school years because of him.

He was halfway through rambling about a science article he’d read last night, while you threw in questions and the occasional quip. Before either of you knew it, you were already outside the school—down the stairs from the entrance. Harry’s driver was waiting—right on time, as usual.

“Aw man, see you tomorrow,” you smiled a bit solemnly, though you were also excited to go to the abandoned skate park.

Ever since you started going there, you looked forward to doing wall runs, tic-tacs, and wall flips—launching yourself off cracked concrete as if gravity were optional.

You were afraid at first—of slipping, missing your footing, or hitting the pavement too hard. But when it did happen, the pain was little to nothing.

Harry nodded, a small sad smile on his face—when someone emerged from the passenger seat of the car.

It was Norman freaking Osborn.

The students, fresh from dismissal, started whispering amongst themselves. They were all wide-eyed—and you understood them, being wide-eyed yourself.

You composed yourself, looking up to meet Harry’s eyes—but he was just as stunned as you. He met your “Did you know about this?!” gaze and shook his head, then cleared his throat—trying to look composed and heir-like for his approaching father, still clad in a suit and tie as if he had a meeting right after.

Who are you kidding? He probably did.

“I see you’re faring well at this school of yours,” Norman said, smiling at Harry, who quickly put on a very PR-trained one in response.

“Yeah, Dad. What, uh… brings you here?”

Your best friend slipped his hands into his pockets, slicking back the hair that had fallen onto his forehead—but it didn’t matter, because the loose, slightly tousled waves fell right back into place. You figured he still looked great anyway.

“Just wanted to say hi,” Norman shrugged—and even you knew that couldn’t be it. He then turned his gaze to you, extending a hand to shake.

His eyes crinkled with his smile. “And you must be the [Name] Wayne my son is always talking about.”

You stiffly shook his hand with an equally stiff smile, already planning to point out later how Harry turned red beside you.

You mimicked Harry’s gesture of putting your sweaty hand in your pocket.

“Yup, that’s me. Nice meeting you—Mr. Osborn, sir.” You nodded. You were so going to grill Harry on what he said later.

Norman cleared his throat. “See, why couldn’t you be more polite like your partner?” He raised an eyebrow in amusement.

The two of you instantly tensed, cheeks heating up, and Harry lost his composed heir-like demeanor.

He straightened his back. “Dad. We’re not—not like that,” he responded in a quieter tone.

Norman raised an eyebrow, genuine confusion on his face, but he still humored the two of you.

“Ah, I see.”

You weren’t sure if he actually got the memo or not.

You lightly chuckled—cheeks still warm. “Harry is politer than me. You should see how he talks to the teachers—you’d think he was a teacher’s pet.”

Norman huffed a laugh at that.

From the corner of your eye, you could tell Harry was silently grateful for your attempt to defend him.

Norman looked slightly proud, his lips tugging into an actual genuine smile.

“Mm? Is that so?” he clicked his tongue. “So, how’s your father? Mr. Wayne?”

You almost forgot that man was your dad—and that you were high-key talking to the rival of his company.

This is just a casual conversation.. right?

“He’s doing fine, Mr. Osborn, sir.” You obviously didn’t know how he was faring, and you didn’t care to know.

“Please, call me Norman. Anyone who’s close with my son is a friend of mine.”

You didn’t feel entirely comfortable just calling him Norman—with your mom’s and Alfred’s lessons about politeness still drilled into your head.

“Okay, um, thank you, Mr. Norman. You can call me… [Name].”

You could almost smack yourself in the forehead at how lame you sounded. Your enhanced ears picked up an almost-quiet chuckle beside you.

Classic Harry—finding entertainment in your inconvenience. Though you were glad the tension he’d been carrying earlier seemed gone.

Norman turned back his gaze to his son. “Harry, it amazes me that you haven’t invited your fiancée to dinner.”

The two of you went silent. You searched Norman’s face for a hint of humor—but there was none. He was dead ass serious.

Harry sputtered, the earlier tension coming back like a boomerang. “Dad—what? How?”

You cleared your throat, your cheeks even warmer than before. You were glad the crowd from earlier had lost interest and gone home. Nothing to see here folks, just Norman Osborn thinking you were engaged to his son. Nothing really big.

Norman looked even more confused than before, a crease forming between his brows.

“Mr. Norman, Harry and I—we’re just friends, sir.” You were shocked you even managed to form a coherent sentence.

The man looked at you like you had just said the funniest joke of the century, letting out a real, guttural laugh.

“Oh! I’m sorry for assuming then!” He still looked amused, wearing that picture-perfect smile.

Genes, really.

Norman shook his head with a grin, looking younger. “I just assumed that if my son doesn’t call you his partner, then you must be his fiancée. He can be rather formal sometimes.”

You didn’t even want to think about how young the two of you were to be engaged.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Ugh, Dad. Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, embarrassed. You laughed softly in response.

“But still. Come by for dinner sometime.” He gestured to the sleek black car. “Would you like us to drive you home?”

You shook your head instantly. Even if you didn’t have plans after, you would’ve still refused.

“No thank you, Mr. Norman, sir,” you smiled. “I have my own ride—just got caught up in traffic.”

The older man nodded. “I see. It was nice meeting you, but we have to get going now.”

“It was nice meeting you too, sir.”

He nodded again and finally retreated into the passenger seat.

Harry looked a bit downcast as he heard your refusal. “I’ll see you next time, [Name].”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you will. Don’t make your dad wait up.” You lightly pushed him toward the car door.

He smiled at you again before getting in. And while the car drove away in a moderate speed, your enhanced hearing caught their conversation.

“I was pleasantly surprised earlier, thinking the two of you were already engaged—” Norman sighed. “Turns out my son is too much of a coward.”

You could almost see Harry roll his eyes.

“Dad, we’re sixteen. Why would you even want me engaged at this age?”

“Smart, attractive, polite, and a Wayne. I wouldn’t expect anything less for my son.”

“Did you even hear anything I said?”

You quickly shifted your senses away—if you kept hearing that, you might actually explode. You walked down more hurriedly to the opposite sidewalk, grateful for the growing distance from the car.

Though, you were curious. Why would Norman Osborn want a Wayne to marry his son? must be a political move you won't understand yet.

You were lying on one of the walls. It wasn’t dizzying or anything—it was as if the world had adjusted its orientation for you.

It was getting late, and you had already texted Alfred that you wouldn’t come home to the manor—instead spending the night at your aunt’s.

The old man was worried, but you eased him by telling him you were already there (you obviously weren’t).

Practice took up more of your time, slowly turning the shameful warmth in your cheeks—whenever you thought back to that conversation—into an adrenaline rush.

It was like sending a risky text to someone you’re interested in, then instantly getting up to clean the entire house—anything to bury your nerves in something useful.

That adrenaline rush, combined with the amount of flips you were doing, eventually crashed down. You would’ve been like soggy noodles by now, but you weren’t. You weren’t even surprised anymore.

You were mindlessly scrolling through your socials, liking posts about something mundane—yet people still felt the need to share them with the internet.

Like, yeah, I guess you eating an ube cupcake at 4:00 p.m. counts as something worth sharing with the whole world.

A notification from Harry stopped your scrolling, and you could already feel your cheeks warming up. You shook your head like a madman, as if that would help.

You pressed it.

Hare 🐰

I've been having dinner at your Aunt's for a while now. What do you think of a change of pace by having one at mine?

Not to pressure you or anything yk but my dad really wants to meet you agqin

Not like he said it outloud but yiu could really just tell -_-

You blinked at the speed at which he was sending the texts, letting out a soft chuckle. Then you bit your bottom lip for a moment.

Dinner at Osborn’s? I mean, sure. But Mr. Norman was a huge ‘ehh’ factor in your decision-making.

You just hoped it wouldn’t be incredibly stuffy or uncomfortable. And it was the first time you’d be going to the house—or mansion—your best friend lived in.

You

Sure ig

Just send me a date or time! I wanna see the place where you grew up in, to be so spoiled lol

Hare 🐰

Hardy har har.

You

Don't you mean, Harry har har?

Hare 🐰

Very funny. I'm just bellowing out of laughter.

You laughed to yourself, but then you checked the time—and it was later than you hoped for it to be. Better to get going now.

You rummaged through your backpack, finding a new, neat paperbag. You just poked uneven holes on them, and swung away.

It was Saturday morning, and you were in the basement—looking for Uncle Ben’s toolbox.

Luckily, you got up early enough to climb out your window and knock on their door to pretend you had just arrived.

You swear karma will get you someday with all these lies.

The basement reeked of cobwebs and time, while water dripped steadily from the rusted pipes above.

You sneezed into your elbow, rubbing your nose afterward as you set down a pile of dusty boxes.

You wondered why the old man left his toolbox buried in a pile of boxes.

Then you raised an eyebrow.

A black suitcase—you could tell it was pristine, even with the layer of dust surrounding it.

You carefully set it down beside your leg, planning to ask Uncle Ben and Aunt May about it later.

With a sigh of relief, you bent down and opened the toolbox. You took out the paint roller in one hand, and kept the suitcase in the other.

You turned for the stairs, carefully making your way up, ducking under the low beam you always forgot about.

By the time you pushed the door open, the familiar warmth of the house settled around you.

“Hey, kiddo—did you find it?” Aunt May’s voice floated in from the table. She was enjoying her afternoon tea.

“Yeah,” you called back, setting the toolbox down beside her with a soft thud. “It was, uh… buried.”

“Sounds about right,” Uncle Ben chuckled from the kitchen, crouched under the sink as he worked. “I keep telling myself I’ll clean that place out.”

You shifted your weight. “For real, Uncle Ben,” you added, forcing a small laugh. “You’ve got, like, a whole secret world down there.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied, his voice slightly muffled from under the sink. There was a metallic clink, then a quiet curse under his breath. “Half the stuff down there probably doesn’t even belong to me anymore.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh.

“Hey,” you said casually, lifting it slightly. “Speaking of… not yours—what’s this suitcase for?”

Aunt May tensed, stopping mid-sip of her tea to look at you with wide eyes. Uncle Ben stopped whatever he was tinkering with and slowly slid out from under the sink.

So it definitely wasn’t a case full of withered albums. That was too bad—you were kind of looking forward to seeing more of them in their younger years.

Uncle Ben stood up, meeting Aunt May’s gaze. They did that often—exchanging looks only they seemed to understand.

You stood there awkwardly, tapping your thumb against the suitcase handle.

With a sigh, Uncle Ben put his hand on your shoulder—and you already had a feeling you wouldn’t like whatever they were about to say.

Your mind raced with different possibilities: they were spies (why was that always your first thought?), witness protection, or—worse—it was about your mom.

“Kid… let’s sit you down,” he said gently, guiding you to the seat beside Aunt May before sitting down next to you.

You placed the suitcase at your feet. It was still dusty—and you didn’t want to risk getting it everywhere.

Aunt May’s eyes were glossy, as if she had spent her life trying to forget something, only for it to come back and haunt her.

You stared at the tablecloth, picking at it, wondering if it was too late to throw the suitcase back into the basement if it meant they’d stop acting so strange.

Uncle Ben sighed. “You see, kid… your mom’s job—before you—she was a scientist.”

Your eyes widened in shock, then softened into realization. She had always seemed far more knowledgeable than she let on.

She also prioritized your education above everything, dropping everything just to attend a parent-teacher conference.

You nodded, heart thrumming in anticipation.

“She was real good at it too,” your uncle said with a soft smile, his eyes glinting as though he were lost in a memory.

Your aunt nodded in agreement.

“We don’t know the full details—your mother was always secretive ‘bout that,” Aunt May added, looking at you with her ever-kind and gentle eyes.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the teacup. It had probably gone cold by now.

Like it pained him to say it, your uncle continued, “We do know one thing. Mary worked for Oscorp, or used to.”

The weight of everything settled in your chest. You couldn’t even begin to name the emotions swirling inside you—everything just felt heavy.

You had so many questions, and you weren’t sure if you would like the answers to them.

If your mom was brilliant enough to work for Oscorp, how did things go so wrong? How did she go from futuristic labs to a kitchen that barely functioned?

And if she was important enough not to disclose her work during her lifetime to Uncle Ben and Aunt May, how did everything about her just… vanish?

The last question lingered—pushed to the back of your mind, because thinking about it hurt too much.

Does Harry know anything?

That must be why Uncle Ben was always so suspicious of the Osborns.

Before you knew it, your hands were trembling, accidentally scraping against the wooden table.

The two of them didn’t seem to notice, both struggling to find the right words. And you couldn’t seem to find any words at all.

“Your mother gave us this and told us it contained her life’s work. That she’d like for you to see it one day,” Uncle Ben said, placing his hand over your trembling ones.

Aunt May swallowed. “She gave us permission to look, but we thought it would be better if you saw it first.”

The room felt suffocating.

“Would you have told me this if I hadn’t found it in the basement?” you asked, your voice trembling.

They exchanged another glance, and you couldn’t tell what they were thinking.

Uncle Ben exhaled slowly—the kind that seemed to carry years with it. “We would have,” he said, though the hesitation before the words didn’t go unnoticed.

Aunt May set her teacup down with a soft clink, her hands lingering as if it grounded her. “We were waiting for the right time,” she added gently, though she didn’t sound fully convinced. “You’ve already been through so much. We didn’t want to… add to it.”

You licked your lips, blinking away the tears forming in your eyes. You wanted to believe them, but it was hard right now.

Uncle Ben rubbed his hands together, like he was steadying himself. Then he nodded toward the stairs.

“You can… head up,” he said quietly. “Take it with you. Look through it, study it… at your own pace.”

Aunt May glanced at him, concern flickering across her face.

You stood up a little too fast. The wooden chair scraped loudly against the floor, cutting through the silence.

Then you grabbed the suitcase, clutching the handle tighter than you meant to.

“I’ll be upstairs,” you muttered, not quite meeting their eyes.

Uncle Ben gave a small nod. “Take your time,” he said softly.

The stairs creaked under your steps, each one louder than the last. By the time you reached the top, your grip was clammy, your heart thudding in your ears.

You rubbed your eyes, sniffling.

You dropped the suitcase onto your bed, the mattress dipping under its weight.

The latches clicked open. Inside—files. Dozens of them. Neatly stacked, labeled, organized in a way that felt almost obsessive.

You pulled one out, fingers brushing over the paper.

Your eyes carefully skimmed over the words. Then you took another page. And another. And another—and another—

It was daybreak by the time you stopped reading, your eyes sunken and tired.

After what felt like forever, you leaned back, letting yourself sink into the soft pillows. You draped an arm over your eyes.

It was genius.

Cross-species genetics was something Oscorp openly promoted—framed as the next breakthrough in curing diseases and repairing the human body.

But what you read was something almost entirely different. It was left unfinished, scattered with question marks—yet it was something you had never seen before. Strangely, it felt almost better than anything Oscorp had been putting out.

You didn’t know that for sure, since not every piece of information was released to the public.

You exhaled slowly.

Only one name kept appearing in the papers: Dr. Curt Connors.

You were still shaken from the new knowledge you’d acquired, but like they say—the world kept spinning.

Dr. Curt Connors was the leading scientist for the cross-genetics experiment that is still on-going, but you believed that if they had your mother's work—they’d probably be much more progress. You would have to do some investigating about Dr. Curt someday.

Talking with Harry was weird, but you got over it quickly. Maybe.

You figured you’d talk to him about it soon, just not today. When you were still processing things.

The two of you had just gotten out of class, walking side by side on the way to the cafeteria.

“And you know? That asshole didn’t even say sorry!” you ranted, a vein practically popping from the irritation you were feeling.

Harry rolled his eyes. “No offense, but your brothers piss me off.” His brows creased for a moment. “Actually. Your whole other family pisses me off.”

The idiot, Tim—bumped into you earlier in the morning, breaking half your project that you had to redo in a haste at school.

You were getting angry all over again just by retelling—or remembering—the story. It didn’t help that you and Harry barely had any classes together today.

Then, you perked up. Cheers and shouting could be heard in the other hallway opposite the cafeteria.

You walked toward it, Harry following you, a bit confused. Then you assumed he’d finally heard the noise, as his confusion slowly shifted into curiosity.

A group of people, phones raised, crowded around Flash Thompson—you assumed; no one else would be causing such a ruckus at school. You and Harry weaved through the crowd, muttering quiet “sorry”s as you passed.

Your assumption was correct—Flash was beating on a poor kid who looked like he just wanted it to be over.

Unfortunately for him, the blonde jock dragged it out, surrounding him with his sidekicks, hurling humiliating quips as they shoved him around.

You took a look around. They were all on their phones—recording the scene.

“Flash! Cut it out!” Harry yelled, brows furrowed.

Your temper flared again, and before you knew it—you were in front of the roughed-up boy. He took that chance to scurry into the crowd and leave the scene.

You stood face-to-face with the jock, his sidekicks right behind him wearing disbelieving, mocking smirks. Flash was taken aback for a second before grinning devilishly.

“Puny Wayne! Just what we needed!” He made a show of arrogantly spreading his arms. The crowd got even more hyped, finally able to see Puny Wayne get his ass kicked.

You could feel Harry’s pointed, incredulous gaze on you, but you couldn’t care less.

Flash rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles one by one as the circle around you tightened. Someone in the back whooped, the sound sharp and ugly.

“Came to play hero?” Flash tilted his head, stepping closer—close enough that you could smell the mint gum and arrogance on his breath.

“Back off, Flash,” Harry barely made it a step forward before two of Flash’s goons slipped behind him, grabbing his arms and yanking him back.

“Hey—what the hell? Let go!” Harry struggled, twisting against their grip, but they only tightened it, laughing under their breath.

“Stay out of it, rich boy,” one of them muttered.

“Aw, look at that,” Flash drawled, glancing over your shoulder. “Your babysitter’s benched.”

A few people in the crowd laughed, phones tilting to catch Harry struggling.

Flash turned back to you, rolling his neck lazily. “Guess that means no one’s gonna save you now.”

You smirked mockingly at Flash, clenching your fist. “Yeah?”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough for it to feel personal.

“You really should’ve stayed in your lane, Wayne.”

Without warning, he swung. A wide, cocky punch meant more to impress the crowd than land clean.

You dropped low, leaning your upper body downward as the punch cut through the space above you.

You met Harry’s surprised upside-down eyes.

His expression flickered—shock, concern, and a silent “why are you still doing this?” all at once—while he was still half-struggling in the grip of Flash’s goons.

Flash stumbled a half-step forward from the missed momentum, his confidence cracking for just a split second.

The crowd erupted—some gasping, others shouting louder, the energy spiking instantly.

“Yo—he missed that!”

“No way!”

Then he came at you faster. His punches kept coming, and you kept deflecting with your arms or slipping out of the way.

When he had you backed up against the lockers, you had nowhere left to go—his fist was inches from your face when you caught it, redirecting the strike and driving your own punch straight into his nose.

The impact snapped his head back, the sound sharp enough to cut through the noise. Flash staggered, stumbling a step before catching himself, one hand flying up instinctively.

The jock lowered his hand slowly—a thin line of red slipping past his fingers, his eyes wide with shock.

“Woah!”

“Flash got beaten up by Puny Wayne? Am I dreaming?”

You were grateful you’d managed to pull your punch at the last second, because you were sure he would’ve ended up with more than just a nosebleed if you hadn’t.

A migraine was already forming from how loud everything was. You could barely hear your own thoughts.

“HEY! BREAK IT UP!”

Now that, you could hear.

Teachers were pushing through the students now, the crowd parting reluctantly as phones dipped and whispers spiked.

“Move! Move!”

“Who started this?”

Flash straightened quickly, wiping under his nose, suddenly very aware of the attention around him. His sidekicks shifted too, loosening their grip on Harry as the situation changed—they hurried back to Flash’s side. At least they were loyal enough minions.

“I’m gonna need to call your parent—” The guidance counselor reached for the phone, but you immediately shook your head.

You cleared your throat. You hadn’t exactly been listening for the past ten minutes—just nodding along in agreement. All you caught was “something, something, behavioral issues, something,” frankly.

“Um, my dad’s busy, so if you could call my uncle and aunt instead?”

The counselor raised an eyebrow but let you punch in the numbers. Uncle Ben picked up the call—fortunately for you, or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, since you were the one who’d have to explain the situation.

The next thirty minutes, you stood outside the guidance counselor’s office, fiddling with your blazer.

The ride home was quiet in a suffocating way.

Uncle Ben didn’t say much at first. Just kept his eyes on the road, jaw set like he was trying to hold back every sentence he was already forming.

Aunt May kept glancing between you and him, like she was quietly hoping someone would say the right thing before it got worse.

You stared out the window the whole time. Streetlights smeared past in long streaks.

When you got home, no one rushed inside. Uncle Ben finally spoke the moment the door clicked shut behind you.

“Why did you humiliate that boy?” he started.

You scoffed. “I didn’t humiliate him.”

Flash is fine. He humiliated you half your high school years—he’ll be fine.

Aunt May’s eyes softened as she leaned by the wall near Uncle Ben. “Let’s ask the kid what happened first, Ben.”

Uncle Ben gestured for you to continue.

You crossed your arms, tapping your finger on your bicep. “The boy, he—he was gonna get beaten up by Flash and two other guys if I didn’t intervene.”

The older man nodded. “And you did that by?”

You furrowed your eyebrows, looking down at your shoes—you could see where you went wrong here, but… Flash deserved it.

“…I just stopped them,” you muttered. “I didn’t let them hurt him.”

Uncle Ben didn’t answer right away. That pause was worse than anything he could’ve said.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, kid, I’m glad you’re okay from that fight—but Flash wasn’t. That poor boy went home with a bleeding nose.”

His eyes softened. “I know things have been difficult, but—” his voice stayed gentle. “You don’t get to decide who deserves what just because you’re angry.”

You scoffed under your breath. “So what, I was supposed to just stand there?”

“No.” Ben’s voice was firmer now, but not raised. “You were supposed to think.”

Ben continued, “You’ve got a good heart, like your mother, I see that—”

“But I did think,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I thought about him getting roughed up. I thought about doing something instead of just watching it happen.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Ben said quickly, trying to hold onto you.

But you were already shaking your head.

“No, it is. You just don’t like how I did it.”

Aunt May’s voice came in softly from the side. “Sweetheart—”

“Everyone keeps talking like I messed something up,” you said, voice tightening. “I didn’t. I helped someone.”

Ben stepped forward slightly. “Kid, just listen—”

You turned your back sharply and stormed out, slamming the door so hard it came off its hinges behind you.

It was nighttime, so you carried yourself with more alertness than usual. Your emotions felt like a rollercoaster—anger, regret, and just general sadness.

You shouldn’t have talked to Uncle Ben that way—but hearing about your mother just set something off in you.

With a sigh, you buried your hands in your blazer pockets. A convenience store wasn’t far away, and you had a small amount of money on you.

Frustrating, depressing thoughts plagued your mind the entire walk, enough to show on your face and ward off any weirdos.

It didn’t help that you didn’t have any music to cheer you up.

The small bell above the door dinged as you pushed it open. The man working at the counter looked up for a moment before returning to whatever he was doing.

You headed to the refrigerated drinks section and grabbed one to your liking. Then you walked to the counter and set it down, placing two cents into the paper plate meant for tips.

“2.10, you’re short,” he said. You were exactly two cents short, so you reached back for the paper plate—before the cashier tutted.

You looked up at him with a questioning gaze. He replied, “Leave a penny, take a penny. Not the other way around. Pay an extra ten dollars if you wanna take it.”

You really weren’t having it, so you searched for words that didn’t make you sound like a total asshole.

“I—”

“Store policy, kid. Don’t have enough money for your milk? Go run back to your mommy. You’re holding up my line,” he mocked, raising his hands.

You scoffed, leaving your drink on the counter and shoving the rest of your money back into your pockets.

You were just about to leave when the guy behind you made his move—reaching into the register and grabbing the cash while the cashier fumbled for the loose change the man “accidentally” dropped.

You stared for a moment, then decided the cashier had it coming. Uncle Ben’s words faintly rang in the back of your head, but you ignored them.

The man grinned at you, a gold tooth glinting, and tossed your drink your way—you caught it without missing a beat.

He ran out the other exit, and the cashier finally noticed, chasing after him. You shrugged and walked the other way—ignoring his, “Aren’t ya gonna help, kid?!” as he grumbled and headed back into his shop.

Maybe if you weren’t such a jerk, I would—

A sharp gunshot cut through your thoughts.

You’ve never turned your back so fast—your body reacting before your mind could. The sound still rang in your ears.

A familiar hand, fingers slack, hit the gravel with a dull thud.

You slowly started approaching, before breaking into a full sprint. Your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

“…Ben?” Your shoes scraped against the gravel as you dropped beside him.

“Hey—hey, no, no, no—” Your hands hovered over the wound, not knowing what to do. The bullet had torn into his abdomen, and with how much blood he was losing—

No, no—you could swing him to the hospital—but that wouldn’t work either. You might make it worse.

A frustrated sound tore out of you. You’ve never felt so utterly helpless.

“Uncle Ben?” your lips trembled as your hand gently clasped his.

“Uncle Ben, look at me,” your voice cracked, breaking halfway through. “Look at me, I’m right here.”

His chest rose unevenly, each breath thinner than the last. His eyes struggled to stay open, but they found you anyway—like they always did.

“…hey, kid,” he murmured, voice barely there.

“Don’t talk,” you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip on his hand. “You’re gonna be okay, alright? Just—just stay with me. I’m here.”

“You’re… a good kid,” he whispered.

Your vision blurred. “Ben, please—”

His fingers shifted weakly in yours, like he was trying to hold on even though he no longer had the strength.

“There’s… something…” He swallowed, wincing. “Something I should’ve told you more often…”

“Save it,” you said quickly, voice breaking. “You can tell me later, okay? When we get you help—”

You should’ve been looking around, calling for help, doing something—but you couldn’t. Your gaze stayed locked on him, fear tightening in your chest at the thought that these might be your last moments with him.

“With great power…” he started, slow and uneven. “…comes great responsibility.”

It sounded final.

Your breath hitched. “Ben—no, no, you’re not—don’t say it like that—” you whimpered, tears finally spilling.

His eyes softened, an apology flickering through them.

“Take care of… May…”

His hand tightened—just barely—before slipping from yours.

“Ben, please,” you choked out.

You held on tighter, clinging to it—the same hand that had rested on your shoulder in comfort whenever you were in trouble, the same hand that had always made you feel like things would be okay, even when they weren’t.

The same warm, steady hand you might never feel again for the rest of your life.

You broke into uncontrollable sobs—you didn’t even know when the police arrived, or when their blue and red lights began flickering, painting the scene around you.

All the sounds around you faded as they tried to separate you from him. Officers spoke gently, but it barely reached you.

One of them cut through your haze—“Yes, I saw a man with a gold tooth running earlier, holding a gun. We tried chasing him, but he got away,” he panted.

They finally separated you from Uncle Ben, guiding your trembling form to sit on the curb. One of them placed a jacket around your shoulders.

Memories flashed through your head—the man with the gold tooth. The same guy from the fight.

Your uncle was dead.

And it was your fault.

If only you had listened to Uncle Ben.

If only you hadn’t let that guy go, he would still be alive.

Alive—and then he would’ve found you and then he would’ve rubbed your back and scolded you and dragged you back to dinner with Aunt May, and then—

You clenched your fists.

You need to make this right.

A/N: Omg im so sorry this took so long 😭😭

divider: @uzmacchiato | master list

“You’re slowing down,” he said, rolling his shoulders like this was a warm-up and not a fight that had already gone on too long. His mechanical feathers grated against each other with every step he took. “That all you’ve got?” 

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because you physically couldn’t. Your jaw was clenched so tight it hurt, teeth grinding as another wave of pain radiated from your shoulder down your arm, lighting up every nerve like a live wire. 

Dislocated.

The word landed with clinical clarity detached from the chaos. 

You’d trained for injuries: sprains, breaks, concussions. You knew the difference between something you could push through and something that would get you killed if you ignored it. 

This one though, this one was bad. 

Your left arm dangled uselessly, fingers twitching when you tried to force movement, force them open to create the iconic pinky-pointer finger symbol. The joint screamed in protest, sharp and nauseating. Even the smallest shift made your vision blur at the edges. 

Vulture noticed. 

Of course he did. 

His grin widened, something ugly and anticipator. “Oh, that’s not good,” he mocked, titling his head, eyes glinting with something horrific beneath their green goggles. “You break something, spider?” 

Your body staggered back a step, boots scraping against the concrete. Distance. You needed distance. Time to think. Time to—

He lunged.

In that moment, instinct overrode everything else. 

You twisted—barely—your good arm snapping up, web-shooter firing on reflex. The line caught his wrist mid-swing, jerking the punch off course just enough that it glanced your side instead of your face. It still hurt; everything hurt. 

You yanked hard, using Vulture’s momentum against him, slamming him shoulder-first into the brick wall. The impact cracked loud in the narrow space, but it didn’t keep him down, just staggered him, force not enough, not nearly enough. 

You tried to follow through, to move like you always did—fast, fluid, untouchable—but your body didn’t cooperate. Your balance was off, your center of gravity skewed by the dead weight of your arm. You felt it immediately, that split-second delay where you should have been faster. 

He recovered quickly, too quickly.

His metal claw-covered hand caught your wrist (your good one) and slammed you back against the opposite wall. Your head bounced off brick, stars bursting behind your eyes. 

“Got you,” he breathed, too close, breath hot even through the mask. 

You reacted without thinking, knee driving up hard into his ribs. You felt something give—heard it: a sharp crack—and his grip loosened just enough. Enough for you to rip free, good arm shoving him back with all the strength you could muster. Your shoulder screamed at the sudden motion, vision tunneling as the nauseating feeling surged up your throat, but you forced it down. 

You had to move. 

He was still standing, still coming at you with more than you could take. 

A win wasn’t in the plans for tonight. 

That truth settled in fast and brutal, so, you did the only thing left to do. 

You ran. 

Or at least tried to. 

Your first step nearly took you to your knees. The dislocation threw everything off: your rhythm, your coordination. Even sprinting felt wrong, your body compensating in ways it wasn’t built to. Behind you, he laughed again, the mocking sound reverberating through your soul. 

“Running now? Thought you were supposed to be better than that!” 

You ignored him. 

Your web-shot fired again, catching the fire escape above. You jumped. 

Bad idea. 

The jolt as the line went taut send a shockwave of pain through your shoulder so intense it blanked you mind for half a second. A strangled cry tore out of you, grip faltering. With the pain, you almost fell. 

You gritted your teeth, forcing your fingers to hold, forcing your body to follow through the motion. You couldn’t swing like usual, couldn’t risk the full extension, but you didn’t need graceful in a time like this. You needed away. 

Hauling yourself up instead, you climbed more than swung, boots slipping against metal as you dragged your body onto the platform. Your injured arm bumped wrong against your side, drawing a deep hiss from your lungs, torso curling on instinct. 

Don’t stop 

Don’t stop. 

You vaulted the railing, awkward and uneven, and hit the rooftop hard. Pain flared again, but you used it, let it sharpen you as you scrambled forward. 

Another web-line. Another pull. 

This time, you kept it tighter, closer, minimizing the strain. It was messy, inefficient, and so unlike your normal picture of a put-together hero, but it worked. And by the time you risked a glance back, the alley was empty. 

Vulture hadn’t followed. 

Or he couldn’t. 

Either way, you weren’t sticking around to find out. 

You didn’t slow until you were three rooftops over, then five, then ten, distance staking between you and the fight until Pittsburg’s noise swallowed the memory of it whole. Only then did you stop. Only then did you let yourself feel it: the pain. 

Your knees hit concrete harder than you meant them to. Your good hand caught you, barely, while the other hung useless and wrong at your side, dangling with each shuffle you took. Carefully, you looked down at it. 

Even through the suit, you could see the unnatural angle, the slight drop where the join should have been securely in its socket. Your fingers flexed weakly, delayed, like the signal had to travel farther now. 

You swallowed hard. 

“Okay,” you muttered, voice thin under the mask. “Okay. That’s . . . that’s fixable.” 

Although, in the moment, it didn’t fit fixable. 

It felt catastrophic. 

You knew how to reset a dislocation. In theory. You’d trained for it, practiced controlled versions, talked through real-life scenarios with— 

Your stomach churned. 

No. 

Not here. 

Not like this. 

Your breathing hitched, shallow and uneven. The idea of trying to force it back in yourself, of deliberately triggering that pain, made your vision swim. 

And if you did it wrong . . . 

You squeezed your eyes shut.

No; no, you weren’t doing that. You weren’t risking permanent nerve damage in the middle of a rooftop with shaking hands and adrenaline crashing out of your system. There was always a better option. 

There was him.

The thought came sharp and immediate, cutting through the panic like a blade. 

Jack. 

You let out a shaky breath, forehead dropping forward until it nearly touched the gravel. 

Of course.

Of course it was him. 

You could already hear it—his voice, irritated and stead all at once. The way he’d look at you like you were a problem he intended to solve whether you liked it or not. The way his hands felt against you back—

You stopped that thought before it could finish. 

Focused instead on the practical. 

Hospital. 

The Pitt. 

You needed the Pitt. 

And you weren’t letting anyone but him touch you. 

The decision settled into place with surprising ease, anchoring you through the pain, through the jostle of your mind. 

“Okay,” you said again, voice stronger this time. “Okay. We got to the Pitt.” 

Your laugh came out weak and breathless. 

“Just . . . casually walk into the ER like this. No biggie.” 

You pushed yourself upright, swaying when the world tilted. Your shoulder throbbed in time with your pulse, each beat a reminder of how bad this way, how quickly it needed to be handled.

You couldn’t go in like this: suit, mask, everything. 

You glanced around the rooftop, mind already working through the logistics despite the pain. You’d have to change. Hide the suit. Get inside without drawing attention. Somehow explain— 

No 

You wouldn’t have to. 

You’d just say his name. 

Jack Abbot. 

The only one you trusted to put you back together. 

Sure, Parker or John could do the job, but their hands weren’t Jack’s hands. 

“Yeah,” you murmured, more to yourself than anything. “That’s the plan.” 

It wasn’t a good plan. It was barely a plan at all. But it was enough to get you moving again, and right now, that was all you had. 

_______________________

Jack Abbot had learned, a long time ago, how to split his attention without looking like he was doing it. 

It was a necessary skill in the ER—one hand steady on a chart, eyes skimming vitals and notes, while the rest of the room unfolded around him in layers he could dip into at will. Conversations, footsteps, the subtle shift in tone when something went from routine to not. Even the TV bolted high in the corner had its place in that hierarchy: background noise at best. Something to fill the silence between cases, between decisions that mattered. 

Tonight though, it refused to stay background. 

“. . . ongoing reports of a confrontation just off Delancey—” 

Jack’s pen slowed against the paper, the line he’d been writing dragging just slightly before stopping altogether. He didn’t look up right away. Forced himself not to. Instead, he finished the sentence, deliberate, precise, like the act of completing the chart might anchor him to something normal, something within his control.  

It didn’t.

“. . . witnesses say the altercation lasted several minutes—extensive property damage to the southside—” 

He set the chart down with more care than necessary, fingers lingering for a fraction of a second before he let go. Across the room, someone nudge the volume up—not enough to draw attention, but enough that it carried more clearly over the low hum of the ER. 

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose. 

Told himself it could be anything. 

Told himself not to look. 

He looked anyway. 

The footage was exactly as bad as he expected: grainy, unstable, shot from too far away and at the worst possible angle. A fire escape. Brick. Movement that was too fast, too sharp to belong to anything ordinary. Two figures colliding in flashes—impact, recoil, impact again. 

And you. 

Even like that, even reduced to a blur and a silhouette, he knew you instantly. The way you moved wasn’t something you could fake. It lived in the details, the precision of your pivots, the instinctive way you compensated mid-motion, the way you—

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly, focus sharpening despite himself. 

Wait. 

The clip looped again, slower this time, like the station wanted the audience to study it. To linger on it. To turn it into something the views could consume. 

And then there. 

A hitch. 

So small it might’ve passed for a trick of the light, if you didn’t know better. A fraction of a second where your movement stuttered, where your body didn’t follow through the way it should have. 

Jack went still. 

“. . . believed to be the same vigilante seen in prior incidents—” 

 Not believed. 

Known. 

He leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely, posture casual enough to pass at a glance. But his attention didn’t waver from the screen, didn’t soften, didn’t let go of that one detail now lodged under his skin. 

There it was again. 

That hitch. 

Not hesitation. 

Not strategy. 

More like something was wrong. 

His pulse picked up, steady and insistent, a quiet warning bell that refused to be ignored. 

“. . . and now it appears the individual has fled the scene—” 

Fled. 

The word landed wrongly, heavy and out of place under his ribs. 

“She doesn’t run,” Jack muttered under his breath, too low for anyone else to catch but sharp enough that it grounded something in him all the same. 

On the screen, the reporter kept talking, something about emergency responders, about police, canvassing the area, about how the “masked figure” had disappeared into the night. 

Disappeared.

Or forced to. 

Jack’s jaw tightened as he pushed off the counter, reaching for the chart again, though his eyes didn’t immediately follow. The numbers on the page meant nothing for a second, blurring together as his mind stayed fixed somewhere a few miles away, replaying that single, wrong movement over and over again. 

“That didn’t look great,” one of the nurses murmured, half to herself, half to the room. 

“They’ll turn up,” someone else replied. “They always do.” 

Jack didn’t say anything, didn’t add his piece to their one-liners, didn’t trust the edge in his own thoughts enough to let them out. 

Because always didn’t account for variables. 

Didn’t account for injuries. 

Didn’t account for— 

The ambulance bay doors slammed open hard enough to rattle, the sound cutting clean through the ER, snapping every head in the room toward it in unison. Conversations stalled mid-sentence. Movement paused, redirected. 

Jack turned with them, and the moment he saw you, something low and immediate dropped straight through his chest. 

You weren’t walking so much as forcing your body forward one step at a time, like each one had to go through a full-fledged negotiation first to get moving. The suit clung wrong in places, fabric pulled tight across your torso, twisted slightly at the shoulder where something underneath had shifted out of place. Your balance was off, your weight pitched wrong, your entire frame held tight in a way that screamed compensation. One of the EMTS hovered at your side, hand half-extended but not touching, like he’d already tried and learned the hard way not to. 

“Please, we need to get you on a stretcher—” 

“Don’t—” your voice came muffled through the mask, distorted but no less raw. It cracked, fraying at the edges. You shook your head immediately after, the motion sharp and unsteady enough that your whole body swayed with it. “Don’t touch me—don’t—just don’t—” 

It wasn’t filled with anger, not really. It was something thinner, tighter, held together by sheer will and not much else. 

The triage nurse stepped forward, hands opened, tone careful. “Okay, that’s fine, we can work with that. Can you tell me what happened tonight?” 

You didn’t answer. 

Or maybe you couldn’t. 

Your breathing hitched instead, uneven and shallow, like the inhales and exhales were starting to cost you more than they should. Your gaze darted across the room, not focusing, not settling until it caught on something familiar.  

“Jack,” you said, and the name came out like a lifeline you were throwing with the last of your strength. Although they couldn’t see under the mask, your eyes were glazed over with pain and confusion. “I need—” You swallowed hard, hard enough that it was visible even through the line of your throat beneath the suit. “I need Jack Abbot. Please. Just—just get him. I can’t—I can’t—” 

Jack was already moving, prosthetic pressing tightly with every second step, but he was moving toward you with a passion not witnessed by many. 

He didn’t remember crossing the room, didn’t register the space between you closing until he was there, right in front of you, close enough to see every detail he hadn’t been able to from across the ER. 

Up close, it was worse. 

You looked like you were barely holding yourself together, head nodding, skin damp, your entire body drawn tight around the pain you were trying (and failing) not to show. And your arm; his gaze dropped for half a second. 

Your left arm hung at the wrong, unmistakable angle, completely unsupported, the joint clearly out even through the spandex. Not subtle, and definitely not minor. 

Bad. 

Very, very, very bad. 

Jack forced his expression to stay neutral, steady, controlled. 

Inside, something twisted sharp and immediate. 

“Hey,” he said, his voice low but firm enough to cut through the fog around you. “Hey. I’m here.” 

Your head twisted too quickly, mechanical eyes twitching, their edges reflecting a frantic panic before they settled, anchoring like you’d finally found the one thing you’d been looking for. The shift in you was immediate, nothing close to relief, but something that boarded it. Something that needed to believe you were safe. 

“Jack,” you breathed his name again, softer this time, but more desperate. Your knees buckled slightly, and you caught yourself too late to hide it. “I—I didn’t let them—don’t let them—please don’t let them touch it, I can’t—I can’t do that again—” 

“I won’t” he cut in immediately, not giving the delirium space to build any further. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” 

A nurse moved in at his side, one you’d stood next to during a night shift rotation. “Dr. Abbot, we need to get them on a bed, we can—” 

“They’re with me,” Jack said, not raising his voice, but putting just enough weight behind it that it landed final. “What room is open?” 

There was a brief pause, just long enough for the shift in authority to register, before the nurse nodded and stepped back to clear the way. 

“Room three’s open.” 

Jack didn’t look away from you. 

“Good,” he said quietly. 

He stepped closer, slower now, more deliberate, making sure you could see every movement before he made it. His hand came up, stopping just short of you for a second, giving you the chance to refuse, to flinch, to push him away. 

You didn’t. 

So, he placed his palm carefully at your back instead, solid and steady, nowhere near your injured side but close enough that he could feel the way you were shaking.

“Can you walk?” he asked, voice still even, still controlled. 

A breath, one that could have been on the verge of a laugh if not for the breaking crack in the middle, shot through your lips. “Do I—” You swallowed hard. “Do I have a choice.” 

“Unless you want me carrying you,” he admitted. “But I’m here. I’m not going to let you fall.” 

There was a beat where you just looked up at him, like you were measuring the promise, weighing it, deciding if you could afford to believe him. 

Then, you nodded, small and tight. 

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay. Just, please don’t let go.” 

“I won’t.”

He adjusted his grip slightly, bracing without crowding you. “We’re going to move. Slow. You tell me if it’s too much.” 

You didn’t respond to that, but you moved when he guided you, your steps faltering and fragile, every inch of you fighting to stay upright and failing a little more with each one. 

The ER noise swelled around you as you passed through it—voices, machines, the distant ring of a phone—but it all felt muted compared to the sound of your breathing, the small, involuntary sounds you couldn’t quite keep in every time your shoulder shifted wrong. 

Halfway to the room, you stumbled. 

Hard. 

Your body pitched forward, a sharp, broken sound tearing out of you, muffled, strangled by the mask but unmistakably in pain. 

Jack caught you without thought, his grip tightening, pulling you back against him just enough to steady you without putting pressure anywhere it shouldn’t be. 

“I’ve got you,” he said again, lower now, closer. 

You nodded too fast, breath catching deep in your lungs. “I know. I know, I just—” Your voice broke completely this time, the words dissolving into a shaky exhale. “I can’t—Dr. Abbot, I can’t—” 

His title caught him in a way that sent an unsettling shiver down his spine. The uncertainty and hint of fear covering your normally strong voice had him wanting to rush, wanting to scoop you up then and there and carry you the rest of the way. 

Instead, he chose to keep talking, to keep you awake and alert. 

“You don’t have to,” he said firmly. “You don’t have to do anything except keep moving with me.” He helped you hobble another step. “That’s it.” 

Room three came into view a second later. 

The door was already open. Lights bright. Curtain drawn. Empty bed waiting. 

Safe. 

“Almost there,” he murmured, guiding you the last few steps. 

“For the record,” you managed, the words thin and waver but still trying for something lighter and familiar, “this is—this is not how I planned on seeing you tonight—” 

Jack huffed a quiet breath that didn’t make it to a smile. 

“Yeah?” he asked, easing you carefully over the threshold. “You can walk me through the better version once I’ve fixed this.” 

You made a faint, disbelieving sound, head dipping forward like even that was too much effort now. 

“Less—definitely less humiliating than this,” you muttered. “Arms full of patients for you to take care of.” 

“We’ll revisit that, hotshot.” 

He guided you to the bed, every movement deliberate now, controlled, his focus narrowing to just this: just you, just the angle of your body, the way your shoulder needed to be supported before anything else happened. 

“Easy,” he said, softer, as he started to help you sit. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” 

The door swung shut behind you both with a quiet, final click, sealing the room off from the rest of the ER, from the rest of the noise, the questions, the waiting world outside, leaving just the two of you and the damage he was about to put back into place with a tug of the curtain. 

_______________________

The second the door shut, the room changed. 

The noise of the ER dropped away into something distant and muffled, like it existed on the other side of a wall you didn’t have to think about anymore. What was left behind was quieter, every sound more distinct, every movement more deliberate. 

Jack didn’t rush you. 

That, more than anything, kept you upright. 

“All right,” he said, voice low and steady as he moved around you, already snapping gloves on, already shifting into his natural and clinical mindset. “We’re going to get you sitting first. You being stable is what we need before I touch anything.” 

A shaky breath caught halfway through up your throat, your body swaying despite your best effort to lock it down. 

“Define being stable,” you muttered, the words thin under the mask, consonants fraying at the edges. 

“Staying conscious is a good start.” 

“I’m think I’m barely qualifying,” you shot back, though it came out weaker than you meant it to. 

Unlike your usual attending-resident banter, Jack stayed quiet, lips pursed and on the verge of turning downwards. 

Instead, his hand returned to your back as he guided you the last few inches toward the edge of the bed. Every movement was calculated and controlled, his attention fixed on the way you shifted, the way your shoulders hung, the way your breathing stuttered when it pulled wrong. 

“Easy,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Sit.” 

You tried.

You really did. 

But the second your knees bent and your center of gravity shifted, something in your shoulder screamed in protest; a sharp, blinding spike of melting pain tore a broken sound out of you before you could stop it. Your good hand shot out blindly, grabbing onto the front of his scrubs just to keep yourself from tipping sideways. 

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Jack said immediately, one arm bracing your back, the other steadying you as your side. “Don’t—don’t fight it. Let me do the work, okay?” 

“I’m not—” You sucked in a breath that didn’t go all the way down. “I’m not fighting—this is just—really, really bad—” 

“I know.” 

And he did. 

The way he said it confirmed it all: flat, certain, not minimizing the pain but not softening it into something easier to handle. 

Together, he got you down onto the bed in a less graceful and clean manner than you would have liked, but it got you where you needed to go, finally sitting with your weight supported, arm still hanging wrong but no longer pulling your entire body off balance. When he knew that you could hold yourself up, Jack backed up slightly. He couldn’t even get a few inches before—

“I think you’re a bit stuck there,” he muttered, eyes lit up with just a hint of amusement as he looked at your hand still attached to the front of his scrubs. 

Your reaction was immediate, hand tugging back to your body a few times before your fingers decided to let go. 

“Sorry about that,” you tried. “Part of the . . . side effects. The whole spider bite and everything, and this isn’t even the craziest one—” 

Through the pain, he let you babble, but his eyes were stuck to the back of your head as he let his gaze roam just enough to exam at you properly. 

The red. 

At his first glance, it blended in too easily with the suit that he mistook it for just another shadow, just another variation of color in the fabric. But under the harsh fluorescent lights, he caught the way it was the wrong shade, almost damp in wet in a way the rest wasn’t. 

His jaw tightened slightly. 

“Trust me when I say to avoid spiders for the rest of your life—” 

“Hold still,” he interrupted, tone gruff and suddenly serious in a way that contrasted tackily against your jest. 

You let out a weak, humorless breath. “That’s been the theme of the night.” 

He ignored your attempt at a joke, leaning in just enough to get a better look at the back of your head without touching yet. His eyes tracked the spread of the shadow down your shoulder, around to your upper chest, with a thin line trailing down where it had started to run. 

“Did you hit your head?” he asked. 

You hesitated, which in itself was answer enough. 

“Define hit,” you said after a second, like you were trying to buy time. 

Jack’s gaze flickered up to your mask. 

“That bad?”

“I’ve had worse.” 

Well, that wasn’t comforting to his old heart. 

“Not what I asked.” 

You huffed a breath, shifting slightly . . . and immediately regretting it, your entire body tensing as the joint pulled wrong again. 

“Brick wall,” you admitted finally. “Head first, but I didn’t black out, or at least I don’t think. It’s—” You swallowed thickly. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine,” he argued. 

A beat passed. 

Then, more deliberate: “I need you to take the mask off.” 

The room went still. 

“No.” 

You didn’t even give him a pause. Not even a consideration. 

Jack didn’t react right away; he just watched you for a second longer, like he was measuring the safety line you’d just drawn. 

“I can’t assess you properly if I can’t see your eyes,” he said, calm but ever so firm. “If you’ve got a concussion—” 

“I don’t. Didn’t throw up. Didn’t pass out. My answer is no.” 

There was something shaper in your voice now. Tighter. The last scrap of control you still had, both hands clinging to it wildly. 

He exhaled slowly. 

“You practically drag yourself int my ER asking for me directly,” he finally said. “You don’t get to pick and choose what parts of this I’m allowed to handle.” 

“Then I’ll just drag myself to a different ER then,” you shot back hotly, voice on the edge of too stern and too meek, like the words you spat weren’t ones you wanted to even say. 

Your good hand came up like you were bracing to push yourself off the bed, ready to dart over to the nearest ER you could find that didn’t have Jack Abbot as their attending. For a second, you paused, hand gripping the bed’s edge, waiting for him to push harder, to beg you to stay and that he won’t argue any more. 

But he didn’t. 

Instead of begging, instead of arguing, he went very still. 

And then, quietly, like it wasn’t meant to be dramatic, like it was just another fact in the room— 

“Y/n.” 

Your name.

He said your name. 

It hit harder than the pain. 

Everything in you locked up. 

Your hand froze on the bed, fingers twisting in the barely-there squish of it, your breath catching so sharply it hurt. Like a snap, your body went entirely rigid as the sound of it echoed in your head louder than anything else had all night. 

“. . . what?” you whispered. 

His eyes never left the over-blown white lenses. 

“I know it’s you.” 

The moment crashed down between you. 

And for a second, you didn’t move, didn’t think, until your hand lifted. In one sweep, your fingers caught at the edge of the mask, ripping it up and off in like it was suddenly suffocating you. You sucked in a breath the second your face was exposed, like the air hit different without it. You knew how you probably looked: pale, wild-eyed, hair frizzing at your temple that dripped with sweat. 

Your eyes snapped to his hazel, wide and searching, something raw and disbelieving burning through the exhaustion. 

“How long,” you demanded, voice unsteady and urgent. “How long have you known?” 

He didn’t flinch.

“A while.”

“A while.” You let out a short, incredulous laugh that didn’t hold any humor. “Jack, what does a while mean?” 

For the first time ever, you watched Jack Abbot hesitate. It was only a fraction of a second, but it was there. 

“You talk.” His arms shifted, crossing over his chest as his eyes failed to look into your questioning eyes. “At work. Little things. Stuff that doesn’t mean anything to anyone else. You’d mention a ‘long night’ before it hit the news. Or you’d come in already knowing what kind of injuries we were about to get. Things we’d talk about on the roof would transfer into small talk during hand offs.” 

Your expression faltered, confusion flickering through the shock. 

“And that was enough for you to put everything together?” you questioned. 

“No.” 

Another pause.

“Not on its own.” He exhaled, slower this time, like the next part mattered more than the first. “One night, you said something about covering a double. You looked exhausted before you’d even started. It didn’t sit right to me.” 

Your stomach dropped at the implication. 

“. . . so, you followed me,” you filled in his missing blanks. 

“I wanted to make sure you got home safe. That’s all it was supposed to be.” He looked toward the floor in waning shame. 

“But you didn’t stop there.” 

“I saw you,” he continued. “Alley two blocks over. Thought you were just cutting through.” His gaze shifted down to the discarded mask in your hand and then finally up to your gaze. “You weren’t.” 

“And you just—what?” you said, a vulnerability threading through the dripping anger in your voice. “You just . . . kept that to yourself?” 

“Wasn’t my secret to tell.” 

That stopped you, sucking all the fight you’d been holding onto—the sharp edges, the instinct to deflect and to push and to run—wavered under the weight of his simple, steady truth. You let his words wash over you, leaving an oddly building warm in their wake. 

For a second, neither of you said anything. 

“You’re shoulder,” he said gently, like he was guiding you back to something you could handle. “We need to fix that.”

Reality snapped like a rubber band. 

Right. 

Your shoulder. 

You exhaled shakily, grip tightening on the mask still in your hand. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” you hyped yourself up. “Let’s get it over with.” 

Jack stepped in closer again, all focus now, all doctor precision. 

“This is going to hurt,” he warned. “I need you to stay as still as you can.” 

Your eyes rolled as you huffed weakly. “Tell me something I don’t know, doctor.” 

Jack nodded once, then carefully positioned himself: one hand supporting your arm, the other bracing at your shoulder. His movements were slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust, to prepare, to—

“On three,” he said. 

You sucked in a breath. “Jack, that never works—” 

“One.” 

“Wait—” 

“Two.” 

“Jack, come on—” 

“I like you.” 

“Excuse me—”

He moved before you finished. 

Fast. Precise. 

A sharp, sickening shift, and then a solid, unmistakable pop as the joint slid back into place. Pain exploded through you, burning and overwhelming, ripping a broken cry out of your throat as your body jerked instinctively against it. 

The relief flooded in right after. 

The wrongness was finally righted. 

You sagged forward, breath coming in short, shaky bursts, your entire body trembling in the aftermath of it as black dots speckled across your vision. Yet, through it all, your wide eyes were trained on his. 

“Easy,” he cooed, his grip steadying you again. “Easy. It’s back in.” 

“Yeah.” You managed to give him an almost-there smile. “I—yeah, I felt that—Jack, what the hell?” 

He had the audacity to give you his best confused, puppy eyes. 

“What?” 

Your eyes narrowed. “You can’t just clinically tell someone you like them while popping their shoulder back into place.” 

Again, he had the audacity to shrug. “You told me to tell you something you didn’t know.” A beat. “So I did.” 

As you scanned his face for any evidence that this was either some big joke or you were hallucinating all of this after hitting your head, the room faded away. 

The pain. The adrenaline. The questions hanging between you. 

All of it faded away, leaving only you to wade in the waters of his confession.  

Your breath hitched once, twice—and then you leaned forward without thinking, closing the space between you in a way that had nothing to do with injury and everything to do with Jack Abbot holding you close enough you could feel his warmth through his scrubs. 

Nothing about the kiss was careful as you pushed into him, freshly connected shoulder be damned. His hand came up instinctively, warm and rough in a steady hold, equally pulling you into his orbit. 

You only pulled back because air was something vital to the human body even if you’d gladly suffocate to keep kissing Jack in room three of the Pitt, hidden away behind the curtain and closed door that kept everyone privy to what was happening. 

While you caught your breath, you just looked at him, taking in his smile lines and tired, bashful smile. 

“After this,” you whispered, lips almost touching his, “we’re . . . we’re having a much longer conversation.” 

Jack huffed, teeth peeking through his lips. “Yeah. We will.” 

You nodded, the motion slow and careful to not upset the buzz of your head. Your tongue ran across your bottom lip as you tried to come up with the confidence to ask you next question. 

“. . . can I stay? At least for a couple of hours while I heal.” 

Jack cocked his head, silver curls shifting with the motion. “You’re going to need more than just a few hours, Pokey.” 

You flashed him an overconfident smile. “Speed healing is a part of the charm.” 

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then shook his head in disbelief. 

“That would have been useful back in the day.” 

“Welcome to the future, old man.” 

“Hey,” he tried to bite, failing the moment he spoke. “This old man just popped Pittsburg’s hero’s arm back into place. Give me some respect.” He looked back down at the bed. “But yes; please stay. I’ll make sure no one comes in. Rest—sleep if you need to.” 

Your shoulders, almost like they just knew you could finally let your guard down, dropped slightly at that. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, a yawn following right after. 

Jack hid his grin as he pushed you down slowly, other hand reaching for a blanket to drape it over you with careful precision. 

You let your eyes flutter closed, but not without gripping his hand with yours, fingers curling around his. 

“You’re safe,” he whispered as sleep licked at the edges of your mind, your thoughts slowing with every breath. 

And for the first time since the fight—

You believe it. 

_______________________

By the time the shift began to turn over, sun rays dancing between the blinds, the ER had settled into that strange, in-between rhythm where exhaustion and routine blurred together into something almost manageable, something Jack’s nightcrawlers could keep up with between sips of coffee and well-timed blinks. 

Monitors chimed, carts rattled past, and voices carried in low steady currents, but the sharp intensity from earlier had dulled. The chaos thinned just enough that people could breathe again, could lean against counters and stretch sore shoulders and trade updates without urgency snapping at their heels. 

Jack stood near the nurses’ station with a chart in hand, half-listening as his night shift walked the day shift through cases still on the board. His posture looked the same as always: composed, steady, attention split in a way that made it seem like he had everything under control. 

But his focus drifted. 

Room three sat down the hall, door closed, and inside silent. 

You hadn’t come out, and Jack hoped you were still resting. Sleeping was ideal, letting your body catch up to everything it had been forced through. He’d checked on you not long ago, made sure your shoulder was stable, your pupils responsive, your breathing even. You’d been half-asleep already, stubborn even in that, mumbling something about staying away before immediately losing the fight against it. 

He'd left you there with the lights dimmed and strict instructions placed. 

No interruptions. No unnecessary check-ins. 

No one but him. 

For once, the ER had listened. 

“Okay, but—hold on, hold on,” a voice cut in, younger, sharper with curiosity than fatigue, belonging to one of Robby’s. “Are we just not going to talk about it?” 

Jack didn’t look up right away. 

He didn’t have to. 

“Talk about what?” Dana asked, though there was already a note of suspicion in her accent like she knew exactly what was coming next and was deciding whether to indulge it. 

“Don’t do that,” Robby shot. “You know what.” 

“I actually don’t,” Victior added, dry, though the slight lift of her brow betrayed her interest in getting the chief attending to join in on the gossip. “Enlighten us, Dr. Robby.” 

The tall man made a small, disbelieving sound, gesturing vaguely toward the ambulance bay like the answer should be obvious. 

“The Spider,” he said. “The—masked vigilante—whatever everyone’s calling them. The entire city is talking about it, there’s footage all over the news, and now they’re claiming that they came here . . . to the Pitt.” 

“Did they?” Trinity leaned forward slightly, eyes bright despite the early hour. “Seriously? Are we sure that wasn’t just a rumor?” 

Dennis huffed under his breath, head shaking from side to side. “You’re all acting like this is a comic book convention.” 

“It kinda is if they actually showed up here,” Trinity shot back. 

Dana crossed her arms, glancing toward Jack now, eyes measuring. “Did they?” she asked, question directly pointed at him. 

Jack let the silence stretch just long enough to make them wait. Then he closed the chart in his hand and looked up. 

“Yes.” 

The reaction was immediate. 

“What?” Robby straightened so fast he nearly knocked into the counter behind him. “No way—” 

“You’re kidding,” Victoria said, though she didn’t sound like she thought he was. 

“They were actually here?” Trinity pressed, already halfway between disbelief and excitement. “Like—in this ER?” 

Jack nodded once, unbothered by the sudden surge of attention. 

“They were.”

A chorus of overlapping reactions followed: questions stacked on top of each other, disbelief giving way to something brighter and louder. 

“Did you treat them?” 

“Where they hurt?” 

“What did they look like?” 

“Did they say anything?” 

Jack held up a hand, just enough to silence whatever else they were going to throw their way. 

“They were a patient,” he said. “Which means most of that isn’t something I’m discussing.”

“That’s not a no,” Victoria pointed out immediately. 

“That’s not a yes, either.” 

“By they were here,” Trinity insisted, like that was the only part that mattered. “And we missed it?” 

Dana shook her head, a small, amused exhale slipping out. “Of course you did. The night shift is for the weird and unexpected.” 

“That’s so unfair,” Victoria groaned. “We all work in the same building, but they always come right after handoffs. I’m like this close to transferring.” 

Dennis rolled his eyes. “I doubt they’d stop for an autograph if they’re in the middle of bringing injured people in.” 

“I just want a glimpse of them that’s not through my phone camera.” 

Robby tilted his head slightly; eyes trained on his friend. “Where are they now?” 

Jack’s gaze shifted, almost unconsciously, down the hall. “Room there.” 

Victoria didn’t even hesitate. “We should—” 

“No,” Jack cut in, voice firm and nonnegotiable. “You shouldn’t.” 

A collective groan rose up quickly. 

“Come on—”

“Just a quick look—” 

“We won’t even say anything—” 

“They’re resting,” Jack shot it all down, tone leaving no room for arguing this time. “And they’re not a spectacle.” 

That did it. 

Reluctantly, the energy dipped—not gone, but tempered, redirected into quieter murmurs and exchanged looks. 

“Still,” Trinity muttered under her breath, “that’s insane.” 

Jack didn’t respond, choosing to instead push himself off the counter, body already turning toward the hallway. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, more to Dana and Robby than the other three. 

The two nodded, understanding the spoken part of that without needing it explained. 

Jack moved down the hall at an unhurried pace, his focus narrowing again as the noise of the station faded behind him. The door to room three stood exactly how he’d left it: closed and undisturbed. 

Good. 

He reached for the handle, pushing it open quietly. 

“Hey,” he started before stopping, body freezing in the doorway. 

The bed was empty. 

For a second, he just stood there, gaze sweeping the room like you might still be there, like you might have just shifted out of sight somehow. 

But no. 

The blanket had been pushed back. The room was still, the kind of still that came after someone was long gone. Jack exhaled slowly, something unreadable flickering across his expression. 

Of course.

Of course you had left silently. 

His gaze dropped and caught on something small on the tray near the bed. 

A folded piece of yellow paper. 

He stepped closer, picked it up, and unfolded it with careful fingers. 

Thanks for the assist, doc – Your Friendly Neighborhood Resident :) 

That was it. 

No explanation. 

Just a few words, written quickly like you hadn’t trusted yourself to stay long enough to write more, and signed with something he’d understand without explaining. He stared at it for a second longer than necessary, then let out a quiet breath that almost passed for a laugh. Before he turned, he shoved the note down far into his pocket, careful that it wouldn’t jump out with a stride. 

He knew the others were waiting for him to step back out into the hall, each one badly pretending to not be. He held a blank expression as he journeyed back over. 

“Well?” Victoria asked. “Are they still—” 

“They’re gone.” 

The disappointment was instant. 

“What? Already?

“You’re kidding—” 

“We missed them again?” 

“That’s tragic,” Trinity groaned. 

Dana just shook her head, unsurprised. “Figures.” 

Robby studied him for a second, something more preceptive in his expression. “They left on their own?” 

Jack nodded once, patting his pocket for Robby to pick up on the hints. “They did.” 

“That’s it?” Victoria whined. “No dramatic exit? No—like—web swinging out the window or something?” 

Dennis snorted. “It’s a hospital, not a movie.” 

Still, the mood dipped, the earlier excitement deflating into mild frustration and a lot of “we almost saw them” energy.

Jack didn’t add anything else. He didn’t need to. Because beneath the disappointment around him, something quieter settled in its place.

You were okay, walking out under your own power.

That was enough.

A loud crash echoed from down the hall cut through the fog of the group’s disappointment. Metal clattered against the tile, sharp and sudden enough to snap every head around at once. 

“What was that?” Trinity asked, body twisting toward the sound. 

Jack was already moving. 

As a group, they rounded the corner together and stopped at the sight. 

Half-hidden near the supply carts, one of the metal trays was tipped sideways on the floor, gauze and instruments scattered where someone had clearly knocked into it a little too hard. 

You stood in the middle of it, your posture somewhere between freezing and trying to pretend like nothing had happened. Your arm—your injured arm—hung a little too stiffly beneath your pullover at your side, like it hadn’t quiet caught up with the fact that it was supposed to work again. 

For a second, no one said anything.

Then Robby blinked. “You’re already here?” 

“And early?” Dana asked, voice tilting upward in suspicion. 

You winced slightly, glancing down at the mess before looking back up before your eyes found Jack. For a moment, everything else faded. Across your face, embarrassment threaded with stubbornness flashed across your face. But underneath it, Jack noticed the relief. Your good hand lifted in a small, almost sheepish gesture. 

“In my defense,” you said, voice a little rough with stains of sleep still evident in the tone. “I’m not used to being here before you all. I think I’m still halfway asleep.”

Across the way, Jack didn’t move, didn’t say anything about you being suspiciously early. He had a thought—mind briefly wondering if your suit was stuffed in your locker—before a small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. His eyes grazed your body, taking in the fact that you were upright, alert, and feeling okay enough to still come to work. 

“You finally figured out how to work your alarm, Pokey?” he teased, eyes crinkling with mischief. 

“Finally figured out how to work your iPhone, Dr. Abbot?” you shot back, the teasing equal to his. 

The others were still there: watching, confused, and curious as to why their day shift resident and night shift attending has suddenly gotten comfortable enough with each other to tease. But it really didn’t matter because the grins on your faces matched. 

Small. Tired. Knowing something only shared between you two. 

🕷️ AN: Thank you so so much for reading! You all mean the world to me! Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! My dms and inbox are always open if you want to chat!

You’re both laid down in the dark as usual, except the “peace” is interrupted by your sudden movement

“Oh my god.” And you’re sitting upright

“What?” He knows nothing is wrong (at least he hopes so, though his “boyfriend tingles” haven’t gone off, which are pretty accurate) (“boyfriend tingles”, a term coined by you to describe his own version of a spidey-tingle).

A phone is thrusted in his face, he has to blink a couple times to adjust to the bright screen.

“What am I looking at?” It looks to be the Tumblr app you spend most of your time on (doing who knows what). There’s a bunch of icons and usernames and words that have no meaning to him

He looks a little like a confused grandpa trying to decipher a meme, and you love it.

“They’re shipping us!”

Yeah that’s one of the words he didn’t understand. Where the hell are you two going to be shipped to?! And why were you so excited about it? Is it a once in a lifetime vacation that isn’t the beach outside Mount Justice??

You squeal and quickly clear your throat—

“I’m so chalant about this actually. Okay big guy. Listen—shipping is when people think two people would look cute together in a relationship! As in…romantic,” you make it sound so scandalous. And it kind of is, why are people so nosey about relationships in that way? And he can only think of one thing

“What if they ship you and Robin? Or Wally—oh no. Artemis? Kaldur—“

“Bro, really?”

“What did I say about calling me bro.”

“THEN LISTEN! That’s not the point—they think we are cute. And well, because we are. But apparently the general public has seen our interactions and—it’s like they know!!! We’re just soooo in love that they can feel it through their screens.” You point to a particular word

“Hashtag SuperSpider! They’ve came up with so many cool ship names but that’s gotta be my favorite one. There’s SuperWeb but that’s eh. And then they said-“

Well, he guesses he doesn’t mind too much

“‘He looks sooo in love with our Spider-Hero, I can’t blame him! I am too!’ someone else said, ‘I’m obsessed, I always love a good hidden relationship story’ and ‘he’s literally obsessed with the spider, right?? or am I crazy?? guys back me up here’ ‘they have our superboy on a LEASH’ I do, thanks. Oh! and my personal favorite, ‘who do you think tops—‘“

“Oh my god.”

He’s a little embarrassed how much he must wear his heart on his sleeve, not that loving you is embarrassing. Never, it’s quite the opposite. But he likes to be…what does Robin say? Chalant? He likes to be chalant about these things, at least until you two are alone. He can never help but rub his face into your neck like a foolish puppy, or kiss you stupid across your face. But don’t let the team catch him, lest he bury himself alive.

His heart eyes unfortunately never let up, but when he has someone like you, why would he ever want them to?

You do have your poor Super-Boy on a leash, and he’s not one to complain. Ever.

He’s just glad people aren’t getting a vibe between you and any other of your teammates, god forbid anyone believes someone like Wally was into you.

He’d clobber the absolute shit out of—

Your spider senses only worsened to the point where sleeping was becoming harder to do and at some point you stopped trying altogether. Night after night you’d stare aimlessly at the ceiling above you, just, waiting for the prickling sensation to eat at your flesh until you couldn’t handle the needles seeping through your skin. The lack of sleep and the cruel anticipation were eating at you, and you were starting to grow desperate.

Over dinner you complained about it to Steve one Friday night when all the Avengers took time off for some one-on-one time (despite not being an official member you graciously accepted the invitation), he noticed your sluggish behavior and recommended you avoid living near the danger until you could learn to control your powers better. His reasoning being; “If you’re not near a crime scene, your senses won’t have anything to wake you for, that way you’ll receive the proper rest you require”.

The strangest part out of all of it was; his advice worked. At the compound, you slept like a baby, in your apartment in New York? Not so much. You were very appreciative of the man, and he was even kind enough to offer you a room which you accepted immediately. 

One person who had been initially excited about your move-in was Wanda. You were lucky enough to consider Wanda one of your closest friends aside from Peter. She was absolutely brilliant and you both got along well. Similar to an unfinished puzzle piece she was the last puzzle you didn’t even know you were missing. She needed company, and you were glad to provide it. 

You didn’t visit often, but with this newfound arrangement, you would be. Wanda didn’t know if the idea of spending more time with you or potentially sleeping one room away from you excited her more. Either way, the thought of you being a door down had her cheeks flushing and Natasha’s lips curling into a knowing smirk.

So yes, Wanda was excited about your temporary stay. 

That was until she realized how annoying of a sleeper you could be. No, you didn’t snore, nor drool in your sleep. 

Your problem wasn’t any of those. And honestly, Wanda wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for a late-night last-minute grocery run. Earlier that morning she had promised the team she’d cook her famous paprikash for tomorrow and had miscalculated exactly how many ingredients were in stock. 

As Wanda stepped out of the elevator, she shifted her weight to better handle the bags, struggling only slightly before releasing them onto the counter with a sigh of relief. With a flick of her wrist, the lights turned on, and to her surprise; you were there too. Not in the kitchen but sprawled out on the couch where soft snores were leaving your lips. 

‘Huh’

Wanda bit the inside of her cheek, chuckling to herself. You looked like a starfish and your attire was… well, certainly something. You were completely knocked out beneath your Spider-Man suit and–– were those sweatpants? She guessed you must have been swinging through the city on patrol again. As for how sweatpants ended up on you, a mystery. 

You still had your mask on, and before Wanda could give it much thought she was already walking in your direction, step by step, until she was kneeling beside the couch. Carefully, her fingers reached out, slowly lifting the edges of your mask. Just as she was about to peel it out, you stirred beneath her touch, causing her to still.

“Wanda?” You whispered hoarsely, elbows lifting to get a better look at your surroundings but Wanda was quick to push you back down.

“Relax, you fell asleep in your suit again.” Wanda shushed you, and you hummed, not really fighting it, settling back into the couch to give her more control. She gently pried off the rest of the mask before placing it on the coffee table. 

Leaning down she ran her hand towards your hair, pushing away strands from your eye and you grumbled sleepily. 

The witch chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead before straightening herself up again. “There, you can sleep now.” 

“You’re the best.” You mumbled as she walked away, taking a deep breath, and burying your face back into the cushions. 

From the kitchen Wanda smiled fondly, a blush tinting her cheeks as she unpacked the groceries; moving quietly to not wake you. You’re all she thinks about as she organizes things, glancing in your direction every so often. 

And you find yourself doing the same, seeing her in your dreams, and sleeping with an even bigger smile than before. 

—

2. Tony’s desk 

The compound is surprisingly quiet the next day, considering Tony was paying a visit Wanda would’ve assumed exactly the opposite in his company. But there were no out-of-the-ordinary noises, just the occasional banging of his hammer and welding machine. 

Overall it was pretty peaceful and the weather was just beautiful, a perfect blend of sunny but not insufferably so, a sight that would go well with some lunch. Naturally, you’re the first person that comes to mind that Wanda thinks to ask. 

Yet, a problem arises when Wanda can’t seem to find you anywhere. You’re not in your usual spots, including the bean bag chair in the movie room, or the outside bench next to the pond. 

Noticing Wanda’s dejected demeanor, Natasha has enough of it after all the aimless pacing. The assassin suggests that you might be downstairs in Tony’s lab, and Wanda’s eyes light up the next second. A brilliant suggestion indeed, after all, he was your mentor. 

Unsurprisingly, Wanda finds you exactly where Nat said you’d be. Hunched over, asleep on one of Tony’s desks, snoring ever so softly. Next to you were your web shooters—or pieces of them. 

The sight would’ve normally made Wanda smile if it weren’t for your uncomfortable position. Any more time spent like that and you’d surely be retired before 40 with chronic back pain. Previously, you had told Wanda not to worry about it, mumbling on about how you spiders could sleep anywhere.

Wanda didn’t believe it for one second, knowing you immediately had to pop a few pills to relieve the pain in your spine. As much as you were a superhero, you weren’t immortal, humanity never left you—something Wanda had to remind you of whenever you pushed yourself to a certain extent. 

Feeling a weird sense of déjà vu, Wanda removed the gears from underneath your arms, carefully placing them aside, mindful not to ruin the process you had sorted out. 

Placing the items aside, you sigh on the table, stirring softly, but you remain blissfully unaware. A gentle smile curls on Wanda’s lips as she watches you, her soft palm coming to stroke your back. 

That was enough to jolt you awake, snapping up with wide eyes, and grabbing the nearest screwdriver to threaten whoever was there. Your posture was contrary to intimidating, and Wanda couldn’t help but laugh, lifting her hands in mock surrender. 

“Please have mercy.” She teased with a playful grin, using her finger to push back the ‘weapon’. 

You blinked confusingly, glancing down at the item in your hand before chuckling. “Consider yourself lucky it wasn’t Thor’s hammer I picked up.” You quipped, placing the tool down and stretching your arms above your head. 

And Wanda sighed, watching you struggle to get that knot out. Standing up from her chair she came to your aid, massaging at your shoulders and back. You sighed in relief, leaning back into her touch as she worked her magic.

She really did have magical fingers. 

“You really have to stop resting in places that’ll give you backaches.” Wanda chides, hands sliding underneath your shirt for better access, sending a shiver down both of you.

“If I stop then how will I get more of those delightful massages from you?” You murmured with closed eyes, completely drunk off the feeling of Wanda’s warm hands on you. “It’s what I love most about you.” 

Wanda tensed, flattening her palms on your back, before continuing with trembling fingers to not raise suspicion. “Is that all?” She retorted, voice low. 

You posed a thoughtful expression, letting out a hum as you leaned back. “Also for the delectable cooking, so, two reasons.” You teased, holding up two fingers. Wanda scoffed, slapping the back of your head and removing herself the same second. You giggled mischievously, trying to get her to come back. 

Swiveling your chair around, you reached out for her and effectively trapped her between your legs, and Wanda rolled her eyes, ignoring how the position made her feel things. 

“So I’m just a housewife to you then?” She prodded, tilting her head in a way she knew would have you stumbling. 

You shook your head, gently uncrossing her arms and taking her hands between yours.

“You’re more than that to me Wanda…” Standing up you brushed the strands of hair away from her eyes, leaning in close enough to feel Wanda’s breath hitch and you smirked; whispering. 

“You're my housekeeper.” 

Approximately 0.5 seconds was what it took for Wanda to gasp and shove you back towards your desk, and you let out a hearty laugh. 

“See if I ever cook for you again.”

Her voice means to come out stern but you completely ignore it, thinking how adorable she looks with arms crossed and an almost annoyed pout on her face. It’s your arms that wrap around her that make her break, bringing her into a hug and making her cheeks flush again.

“I’m simply teasing witchy, you know I love you, all of you.” The words slide out easily from your lips as you lean down to press a tender kiss to her head and Wanda looks surprised, but then you quickly redirect your attention to the basket with a cheesy grin and Wanda stumbled. “Now how about we go enjoy that picnic then?” 

Your steps are quick as you grab the basket, ignoring her piercing gaze.

And with how unaffectedly you move, Wanda wonders if you could possibly love her differently in the first place.

—

3. In a tangle of webs + Peter

Some nights were harder than others for a mind reader. It wasn’t an uncommon fate for any Avenger either, everyone had their own issues and Wanda had just been so lucky to view all of them. If she had the choice she’d never choose to see them but if Wanda had learned something from all her years; nightmares were loud.

Loud enough to startle people from their subconscious, and loud enough to provoke detailed images of their clouded lives into replaying scenes in her mind. A horror Wanda didn’t yet have the strength to ignore. 

It didn’t help that most nights, they had them. 

Empty walls stared back at Wanda’s dimmed green eyes. Her hands firmly wrapped around her head—in a fashion of both comfort and control, trying to ease the pulsing, luring her into a state of ease just to slip into someone’s mind again. She wanted to stop the feeling and visions but couldn’t. 

After twenty more minutes of hopeless starring, the memories grew weaker. 

Still, her mind remained trapped in what she had managed to see. Deciding that sleep wasn’t going to help Wanda groggily stood forward, trudging down the stairs to grab a glass of water in the common room, maybe some chamomile tea. 

Part of her heart sought company, and if given the courage she’d knock on your door and ask for it. But this time, for once the universe seemed to be on her side when her eyes landed on you.

—with Peter. Laying in a tangle of limbs, and webs. Not exactly the conscious company she was hoping for…

Despite your clustered position on the floor you both seemed at peace. You were both fast asleep and for just a second her heart clenched with envy before simmering into a soft sense of affection. How was it that you could be so cute without even trying? 

Slow droplets poured from the facet and into her cup as she took in the sight, forgetting why she was even there in the first place. But then her eyes wandered over to the calendar, right, Friday. 

She felt silly not noticing sooner. Had she really been so caught up in her head that she didn’t notice what day it was? 

The unfinished Lego Razor Crest propped on the table should have given it away. 

Fridays were ‘Fundays’. 

Wanda thought it was stupid, which was probably why she wasn’t invited to the events. Not that she minded, considering all you ever did was build legos with Peter and occasionally talk about girls—and why would Wanda want to hear that purposely? 

She knew she had no right to feel jealous, it wasn’t wrong for you to think about other girls. But did you have to be so damn obvious about it? Your mind was a fortress when it came to penetrating your thoughts, it so rarely happened, but when it did she caught glimpses of the girl who was (annoyingly) always on your mind.

The girl with green eyes. 

Too focused on figuring out who that girl was again, Wanda lost track of how much water she really needed when the cup began to overfill. 

“Shit.” Wanda hissed, turning off the tap before the water could spill further. “Gross…” she grumbled, scrunching her nose as she dabbled at the wet spot on her sweater.

That was enough water for the night.  

Briefly, before she leaves, Wanda considers waking you up again. Maybe coax you into a proper bed this time around, but before she can make up her mind Peter’s bursting awake, looking panicked. His widened eyes meet Wanda’s equally alarmed ones and he sucks in a breath. 

“Oh, sorry… I thought…burglar.” He stammers, scratching the back of his head, albeit confused. “What time is it?” 

Glancing towards the oven, Wanda squints. “Late, it’s 3 AM.” She replies and Peter grunts, mumbling about how it’s way past his bedtime. 

Amid his movements to stand up, your head slips from his grasp, colliding with the foot of the table with a heavy thud and he stumbles back. Wanda gasps, shooting Peter a glare, (who doesn’t really register it in his state of distortion) before she rushes to aid you. 

“What the fuck…” You mumble groggily, hissing at the stinging coming from the back of your head, slowly lifting yourself up to find a concerned Wanda helping you sit. “Wanda?” Now you were really confused but nevertheless allowed her to move you. 

The room was cold, chills rushing through your body in the absence of warmth, but the soft touch of warm hands felt incredible against your skin. Not being able to help yourself you leaned into her touch, noticing the way Wanda’s breath hitched.

God, she was so cute. 

Wanda swallows dryly and you think you might’ve said that out loud, judging by the way her fingers tremble and she’s turning away a blushing mess. But you don’t dwell on it as she continues to rub the back of your head to ease the pain.

“Are you okay dorogoy?” She coos and you nod wryly, her face contorting into one of mellows but neither of you says anything. Instead, you will your eyes to focus on her own, gazing into the depths of the forests that haunt your heart, and you have no clue why.

Sighing, she redirects her attention, eyes flickering between the both of you who are lost in thought. Part of her feels it’s from exhaustion but there’s something else written on your face that has her curiosity peaking. 

“Why aren’t you in bed? Both of you, it’s late.” She chides gently, and you flinch. 

“We got caught up with…” Peter starts to explain, motioning towards the Lego set and his demeanor avoidant. “that.” 

Wanda notices his shaken tone and frowns. It’s clear she doesn’t fully believe him and she opens her mouth to indulge him further but you squeeze her hand, pursing your lips to ask her to drop it. Her brows furrow in silent question, eyes glinting with whirlwinds of misunderstanding and hurt, but you’re too tired to answer any. 

Instead, you give her a reassuring smile. 

Peter had a rough time yesterday, that’s all, little witch, You whisper into her mind, seeing Wanda’s eyes turn a shade of red before returning back to you, accepting the response with a hesitant nod. 

“You really should get to bed Y/n…” Wanda tells you, rising to her feet and offering you her hand in the process. “You too Peter.” 

Peter nodded in agreement almost instantly, not wanting to stay any longer in his state of lethargy. Wanda makes a mental note to speak to Tony about decreasing his work hours. 

However, in contrast to Peter’s compliance, you deny her suggestion with a shake of your head. 

“S’too far.” You mutter under your breath, tugging webs to the corners of each room to create a hammock so naturally as if you had done it a thousand times. Which you probably have. 

For a moment Wanda looked amazed, marveling at your abilities to manipulate and create whatever you needed with just webbed fluids. But then you were snoring soundly on the makeshift bed—hammock—oblivious to the concerns you had stirred up and Wanda realized that wasn’t the point. 

When she turned to Peter for help, the younger boy scratched the back of his head nervously, shrugging his shoulders and giving an apologetic look. 

Seeing as there was nothing else she could do, nor did she wish to wake you again for the second time tonight, a sigh escaped Wanda’s lips. Red tendrils wrapped around a blanket, pulling it closer until it encompassed your body completely. She felt the urge to press a kiss to your forehead, but with Peter in the room, she held back to avoid any awkwardness 

Your lips curled into a soft smile, and Wanda returned it before turning on her heels to guide the other spider into bed. 

At least this one listens. The thought came bitterly, causing Wanda to grimace. 

“I honestly don’t understand why she keeps doing this when she has a perfectly good mattress.” Wanda sighs deeply, her voice laced with exhaustion as she walks up the steps. 

Peter blinks, giving another helpless shrug, gripping onto the rail for dear life. “I think it’s just a spider thing, sleep is anywhere you make it.” 

“But you sleep in your bed every night.” She points out, shivering at the sudden temperature. 

The air is turning colder and Wanda wonders if the singular blanket she gave you would be enough. She’s tugging at her sleeves when Peter interrupts her thoughts. 

“That is true…” A yawn cut through the younger boy's speech as he approached his door, looking dangerously close to passing out. “But I don't have problems with sleeping alone.” 

Wanda furrows her brows as the words register. Alone? You can’t sleep because you feel alone? But before she could pry further Peter was leaning against the wooden frame, fast asleep. And Wanda didn’t have it in her to ask anymore. 

Once she had successfully tucked in Peter, she closed the door gently, never once did you leave her mind. Leaning against the door, Wanda tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, her mind caught in thought but one remained a constant. 

Spiders really can sleep anywhere. 

—

4. Staircases 

Tired was an understatement, Wanda was spent. Completely and utterly exasperated by your behavior. There was an outstanding record for the amounts of migraines you’ve given her this month, knocking Pietro off the scoreboard by two. 

She was starting to feel annoyed and rightfully so as she stared at the crowd with a sour expression on her face. For the fourth time in a month, you were nowhere to be found and it was your party. 

Before Christmas, it was a tradition in the compound to throw a Gala in honor of the friendly neighborhood spiders who had worked overtime to keep New Yorkers safe for the holidays and throughout the year. 

More so an excuse for Tony to itch that insatiable party nerve of his before the big Christmas one. 

Of course, this gala was no exception to a roaring crowd. The dance floor was packed with sweaty people grinding on one another and Wanda swears she could see even Bruce getting into the groove of it. At the bar, only Natasha remained with a couple of straying men. So where were you?

A completely plastered Tony walked past the witch, stumbling as he did so and fiddling with his pants. Immediately Wanda grasped on his suit before he could get too far, enticing a yelp when she tugged the man to a secluded corner. 

“Tony, where's Y/n?” Wanda asked through gritted teeth. She didn’t know why—call it intuition—but for some reason, she felt your disappearance had something to do with him.

Tony scrunched his face, glancing over her shoulder with urgency and shouting back louder. “Where’s the restroom? That’s what I’m trying to figure out Maximoff, I’m pissing myself here!”

“Y/n, Tony, Y/n.” Wanda says exasperatedly.  

Tony's mouth forms an ‘oh’ as the realization dawns on him before he’s giggling like a schoolgirl which only heightens Wanda’s worries. 

“Ah, Y/n, funny story actually—”

It was not a funny story, and hearing the end of it had Wanda feeling even more upset and aggravated at the man. 

She didn’t know whether to be more angry at the fact you “consented” to that stupid dare in the first place or Tony coming up with the bright idea to launch you midair while intoxicated in his death trap tin suit. 

Which is how Wanda found you, through Tony’s utter stupidity and your sleepiness. Much to her relief, you weren’t dangling from a ledge or on top of the Empire State Building; instead, cozied up on the staircase with a beer bottle in hand threatening to fall off at any given moment. Tony’s red helmet sat snuggly on your head, leaning against the wall. 

Wanda huffed in annoyance, rolling her eyes and approaching swiftly to wake you. Her hand collided with the back of your neck, sparing you absolutely no mercy as you sputtered awake. 

“Ouch,” You groaned, blinking dazedly beneath the helmet as all your senses came back to you, along with a searing headache. 

You grimaced at the sight of the bottle in your hand, setting it aside as if it could burn you with one single touch. 

That explains the headache.

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty.” Came that voice you knew all too well. You swore you could feel the hairs on your body standing as you slowly turned to see, shivering at the goosebumps, and being met with the sight of a very displeased Wanda. 

Her arms folded against her chest, head tilted at just the right angle to make you scared shitless. Still, the slight furrow to her brows and teary glimmer in her eyes had you thinking she wasn’t entirely angry, just, upset—sad. 

And maybe if your mind wasn’t so foggy, you would’ve taken it into account, and taken her into your arms. 

“Wanda…?” You murmured, attempting to feign innocence as if she wasn’t glaring daggers into your skull. “Oh! Wanda!” You exclaimed, mustering a very nervous chuckle. 

As if the helmet could sense your distress it decided that opening would be the best option and smiled sheepishly. Wanda raised an unimpressed brow, green darkened eyes digging into your soul and you sighed in defeat. Not exactly the happy welcome you expected.

Worth a shot.

“Don’t ‘Oh Wanda’ me! Seriously? Sleeping at a Gala!?” She hissed, and you stiffened, feeling the need to back up. “And on the stairs of all places, do you know how much of a hazard that is?”

You scoffed disbelievingly, feeling the need to defend yourself.  “Come on Wanda, we both know Tony’s parties—“ You cut off your speech, putting your fingers up in quotation marks to quote her.  “Sorry, ‘Galas’ are anything but formal.”

Then you’re pointing at the rousing crowd above you who you can hear yelling through muffled walls ‘Chug! Chug! Chug!’ and give Wanda a pointed look, who then rolls her eyes again.

“That’s not the point Y/n. It’s your party.” 

It’s Wanda’s diminished expression that has you sobering up instantly. Her tightened eyes stared back at your own, and you hated the guilt tugging at your chest. In the worst of states, you wouldn’t want her looking at you like that, not when you’ve seen her look at you better. It was selfish, but was it? To wish to see her smile again? You didn’t know, but it was worth more than whatever goddamn party—gala they threw at you. 

With a new mindset in mind, believing you’d have more fun with Wanda than without, you dusted yourself off, properly taking the helmet off this time. You carried it under one arm and offered the other. Wanda looked at you quizzically at the sudden change but you didn’t let that faze you, taking the initiative to wrap your arm around her own. 

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe you just wanted to, so you did, leaning over to plant a short kiss on her cheek and Wanda lost all train of thought then and there. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry–I don’t know what’s the matter with me lately.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair and Wanda gives you a look of sympathy.

She squeezes your arm with her other hand, shaking her head. Her tone is soft as she rubs a comforting hand. “There’s nothing wrong with you Y/n…we all have our rough patches. Just, let me be there for you. You don’t have to hide away.”

 You suck your teeth, the urge to disagree coming in strongly but you resign, feeling embarrassed under her gaze and your confidence ends short-lived. 

Pursing your lips, your eyes drift downwards to your arms, not really sure what to do next. Noticing your struggle, Wanda takes pity on you and decides to drop the subject for another day, softly tugging on your forearm as she speaks. 

“Let’s dance?”

“Yes please.” You groan, barely finishing your sentence before Wanda leads you up the stairs and you almost stumble. Grumbling to yourself as you straighten up, you level Wanda a look in caution. “Just be warned, I can’t really tell the difference between my left and right foot right now.”

“It’s okay, you were never much of a good dancer anyway.” She hums teasingly, failing miserably at hiding her smirk.

You let out a gasp, feigning mock offense as you raise a hand to your heart, wounded. “Geez Maximoff, you know, typically you’re supposed to woo your dancing partner, not crush their hopes and spirits.”

The witch scoffs, rolling her eyes. Once you’re off the stairs and stable enough, she makes no point in waiting for you or giving you any answer as she walks through the bustling crowd and you quickly rush to catch up with her.

“Wow! And now you’re ignoring me!” You yell over the noise, a pout adorned on your lips. “And leaving me?! Wanda I must say, I’m not quite enjoying these new colors on you. What happened to manners–?”

You’re cut off abruptly by a sudden tug to your arm by Wanda, who’s pulling you to the side and you grin. She has two cups of what you assume is tropical punch in her hand and hands one to you. Lowering your nose, you smell the drink to check if it’s spiked. Wanda gives you an unimpressed look, and you think she looks hot when she’s annoyed with you.

Suddenly she’s slapping your shoulder with a burning pink tint on her cheeks, completely exasperated as she replies “My god, do you have an off switch?”

You shine a toothy smile, leaning against the wall for support as you bring the cup to your lips, a familiar mischievous glint in your eyes that has Wanda regretting saying anything. 

You cautiously lean into the space, whispering for only her to hear, “No, but I do have a couple of ideas on how to keep me quiet.”

To say it comes out more suggestive than you intended was an understatement. But Wanda doesn’t let that deter her, doubling down.

“Oh really?” Her head tilts, quirking an amused brow and you clear your throat to regain yourself.

The air becomes a little thicker than before and no amount of alcohol can save you from the blood pounding in your ears. The space between you has become thinner to the point where you can feel her breath on your lips and you pretend the close proximity holds no effect on you but your trembling fingers say otherwise. 

“Mhm, two words,” You murmur affectedly, and Wanda swallows. Your mind is clouded by all that is her so you speak slowly, feeling your throat dry. “Duck Tape.”

“One of these days, I’m gonna throw you out of the building.” Wanda huffs as you snicker, crossing her arms as she tries to fix her hair. 

Unable to help it, you tentatively reach your hand out, waiting for Wanda to pull away. When she makes no move, you carefully brush the strands away from her face, the warmth of your touch sending a shiver down her spine. 

Pulling away, you meet her hazy gaze and you swallow wryly, trembling. Giving her a lopsided grin as you stumble back, equally as affected. You really have to stop doing that. 

“Jokes on you, I’ve already done that tonight.” Comes your attempt to clear the air, resulting in another cross expression from the witch and you smile sheepishly.

“Y/n.”

Sucking your lips into your mouth, you nod. You raise a finger as you take one last sip from your cup, placing it on the table as you grab her hand again. “Right, sorry, dancing.”

Dragging her towards the dance floor, you spared one last look. This time finding pure adoration shining through her features as she stared at you almost…lovingly before she rolled her eyes. A look you preferred to see instead. Even if it had your brain short-circuiting.

A look that thankfully carried on when she found you half crashed into the Christmas tree after Tony had asked you to put up decorations, almost fast asleep.

“You’re an idiot.” Wanda sighed with a slight curl to her lips and you took that as a silent victory. She shook her head as she carried you down the hallway with her magic. 

“Yeah, I know…” You mumbled, still grinning which was quickly wiped as she let go of the magic carrying you. “Hey!”

Wanda squeaks as you reach out to grab her, running away the next second and you quickly follow with the promise that you’ll catch her, laughter echoing through the corridors as you chase each other.

—

5. Pillow Forts

Construction wasn’t exactly your forte unless it involved miniature bricks with instruction manuals. Aside from that, it was very obvious that Peter was the more resourceful spider as Steve liked to put it. You knew the man meant well when he said it and your ego completely shattered but despite the mental bruise, you never made a move to practice. 

It wasn’t like stopping trains or stringing a boat back together required much engineering when you had webs stickier than epoxy. 

And now, veins popping, sunk to your knees, you deeply regretted that decision. You wanted to strangle Peter, you envied his master builder abilities. The jumble of pillows on the floor mocking you with a stare that you could only describe as insulting if pillows could…stare. 

It was pathetic really, no, extremely pathetic and sad. Who has trouble building a pillow fort?! What was supposed to be a simple project, was the newfound bane of your existence. No matter how you positioned them, they tumbled. Limiting yourself to building by web fluid was becoming a choice to regret too. It made sense, every superhero grows dependent on their powers, it’s only natural, but this time you were determined to build something without your abilities. 

Glancing over at the clock, it read a little past nine—bordering on lines of ten- you bit the inside of your cheek, figuring you probably had a couple of minutes before Wanda’s arrival. 

Huffing, you returned your attention to the pillows and took them in your arms once more. This time with determination in your eyes and the thought of who you were building this for, remnant in your head and heart. 

As you stood back to admire your finished work, you surprised yourself. It wasn’t perfect and some pillows were more crooked than others but it was comfortable. Just as you had envisioned—from Pinterest boards.

It almost looked just as good as the ones Wanda had built for you after long missions and you wished you had spent less time staring at her and more time focusing on how she was arranging the blankets.

But the fortress only became better when you clicked on the tiny remote, turning on the fairy lights that hugged the curves of the pillows, bringing it all together in a bright vibrant glow and you smiled to yourself as the lights glimmered, imagining how happy Wanda would be. 

Your eyes returned to the clock and immediately widened next. “Shit!” You gasped, rushing upstairs to pick out the main attraction, silently scolding yourself for forgetting in the first place; Sitcoms. 

You grumbled to yourself as you dug through the drawer at the multitudes of never-ending options. Wanda had always preferred to watch sitcoms on a VHS tape, although the compound had access to all streaming services she claimed it didn’t feel the same. Truth be told, you didn’t understand why they were in your room in the first place but you assumed it had to do with the fact that Wanda always left them, tucked neatly in her nightstand before she curled underneath the covers with you.

You paused. 

Her nightstand? 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked across the room, realizing that there were a lot of things she left behind. Ranging from articles of clothing to a spare toothbrush in your bedroom and since when did you get decorative pillows? And why were there so many?  

You shrugged the thought off, assuming she was just really forgetful, besides it wasn’t like you were usually sleeping here anyway. You continued to dig through the classics until your eyes landed on the familiar I Love Lucy cover. 

Bingo

Smiling to yourself, you walked downstairs with the tape pocketed. Now you just had to be patient and wait a few until Wanda arrived from the hanger—

“Y/n?” Your heart startles and you're clutching your chest, turning to scold whoever scared you before the words die in your throat as you take in her appearance.

You suck in a deep breath because you feel as if all the air in your lungs has been taken.

She was breathtaking without even trying. Wet strands of hair clung to her face as she stared at you incredulously, eyes flickering between you and the fortress. Clad in nothing but a loose graphic t-shirt (that you briefly recognized as your own), and shorts that were making you dizzy. 

You cursed yourself mentally, shaking yourself out of any inappropriate thoughts. She’s your best friend for God's sake!

“Surprise?” That is what you say with a weak smile and a much higher pitch than intended. Keep it subtle. Things weren’t going entirely as planned, however, you could improvise. 

Wanda stares back amused, an unfamiliar glint in her eyes pooling, taking a step closer until her hand is dragging against your forearm. “Dorogoy, what’s all this?”

“I built it for us, I figured maybe you’d like to unwind…I know you had it pretty hard today and you’ve looked stressed all week.” You mumbled meekly, shifting against her touch. Pull it together man.

“Really?” She picked up her head, looking at you adoringly–that you missed from the bundle of nerves wracking at your mind, mistaking the look for one of contempt. 

But you pushed forward, believing it was a nice gesture. And even though all the logical parts of your brain tell you not to, you slowly untangle yourself from the witch anyway, missing the hurt that crosses her expression. 

You didn’t know why you were so nervous today. 

“Yeah, I picked out your favorite too.” You say half breathlessly, reaching for the tape in your pocket to show her. “Snacks and sitcoms, and more if you need anything. I’ve just gotta set up the TV before this and all since you came back a little earlier than I expected.” 

During your rant, you walked towards the television to find the player. Fiddling with it to distract yourself from the rising goosebumps picking at your body, but Wanda didn’t need to know that. With your back turned you failed to notice the scene unfolding behind you. Her eyes were slightly watered and she lingered by your side. Part of her, hesitant to reach out so instead she let them fall to her side, fiddling with her sleeves in a manner of comfort. 

Rummaging through the cabinets you exclaimed as you found it, turning forward with the device held to your chest, completely oblivious of the inner turmoil you’ve caused inside the other girl.

“Maybe even grab some popcorn unless you’d prefer chips? Seriously Wanda, whatever you want, I just want you to feel better—”

“Y/n?” She cuts in.

“Yeah?”

“Hug me, please?” She whispers, her voice cracking with desperation, her eyes unable to meet yours, ashamed of the vulnerability, and waves of regret crawl over you for letting go of her in the first place. “I’m sorry, I just really missed you and things went pretty badly- I just–” 

It’s you who cuts her off next, pulling her into your embrace, feeling her tremble against you. Wanda chokes back a sob, and tears blur your vision as you hold her tightly. 

You whisper words of comfort, murmuring, ‘I know, it’s okay, I know.’, while cradling her head against your chest. Despite being only slightly taller than her, you fit together perfectly, and you rest your head atop her chin. She exhales softly, her breath hitching with each shudder as she inhales your scent. Her arms move from your chest to return the embrace, burrowing herself into your chest and clinging to you as if you’d vanish again.

After a few moments, Wanda’s breathing begins to even, but she shows no signs of releasing you anytime soon. You gently squeeze her waist, hoping to draw her attention. Pressing a kiss to her hair, murmuring softly as you ask:

“Is…Is there anything else you need?”

Sighing, Wanda shakes her head, nuzzling further into you. “Just you, I don’t need anything else.”

“Okay.” You mumble into her hair, your fingers tracing gentle patterns across her back. For a moment, you stand there, bodies swaying softly as you hold each other. Selfishly allowing yourself to soak in the feeling of having her so close to you. “But if you even dare to grab my Cool Ranch Doritos just know I told you—”

Wanda groans, and you stifle your laughter when her hand playfully smacks your shoulder. You can almost feel her eyes rolling.

“Shut up, I don’t even like those.”

“Yeah right! I can still see the crumbs on your chin from last time!” You laugh in disbelief and Wanda pulls back gaping, completely affronted.

“That was one time!”

“One time too many! It was a party-sized bag—that I was planning on saving by the way, and you finished it!”

“Oh my god, just get in the fort before I change my mind and leave.”

It doesn’t take a lot of convincing to get you in the fort when soft hands lace into your own, dragging you inside. You’re more than willing to follow her anywhere.

She’s quick to push you into the pile of pillows, laughing when you squeal from the sudden impact. Shuffling underneath your arm and making herself comfortable against you, she turns to look up at you with a smile and you quickly turn into a flustered mess. With how she’s looking at you, you can’t help but feel that she’s doing it on purpose. 

Using her magic Wanda’s able to connect the TV from your position, not once disconnecting your bodies. She smiles in success when it works, sinking further into the comforting atmosphere as the show plays softly in the background. 

As the lights glimmer between your bodies, Wanda finds herself more captivated by you than the show itself. How could she not? After you’ve devoted so much of your time just to make her smile. A pang of gratitude hits Wanda’s heart, mingling with a feeling she knows all too well—a feeling she had tried to pass off as something smaller than love. But the more she spent with you, the more she realized it was pointless to deny.

Part of her hoped you’d choose to stay, to stay with her, because she isn’t sure how she’d be without you. 

Wanda knew she was letting it get into her head—but then you look at her, tenderly, as if she was the only girl in the world and fantasies resurfaced along with uncontrollable feelings that felt stronger than herself. Fantasies of one day being together, like this forever. Not just one singular moment but for the rest of your lives. 

The feeling of your body vibrating with laughter quickly snaps her out of her senses and she turns to look at the screen where a joke plays out. And god is that feeling one of her favorites. What drives her crazy is how you don’t seem to even notice how affected you make her. The way your hands would gradually grow bolder, slowly slipping past the hem of her shirt and grazing the skin underneath, leaving a trail of goosebumps in your wake. And how, whether consciously or not, you’d tighten your grip around her, pulling her in closer in a possessively deliberate way that had her biting her lip. 

Was it really selfish to want more? 

The thought swirled in Wanda’s mind heavily, but unbeknownst to her, it was in yours too. 

Wanda yearned for more than fleeting touches that led to nowhere. She craved more than unspoken vows you carried in silence, being too afraid to say anything, mortified by the thought of ruining what you had—unknowingly missing how you could have better.

Wanda Maximoff wanted to be yours.

The thought awoke her with a slight jolt and it had taken her a second to comprehend that she was asleep, the TV long since turned off then. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she recalled her vivid imaginations, realizing what had been originally just a second of resting her eyes had resulted in a 3-hour nap. 

But with the thoughts still fresh in her mind, Wanda couldn’t bring herself to care. She was on a mission.

“Y/n?” Her voice calls out slightly hoarse, breaking the silence. But the silence remains unbroken and Wanda frowns, removing her head from your shoulder to look at you. 

You’re sound asleep next to her, a faint trail of drool lining your lips. Bags are evident below your eyelids, and Wanda lets out a small ‘oh’. You had fallen asleep too.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Wanda shook her head softly, an amused smile playing on her lips as she admired you. Deciding that confessions could wait for another time, she leaned back and tugged a blanket forward, encasing you both again into that warm atmosphere. 

Recalling words you had said before: “A little back pain is worth the sleep”. She couldn’t help but agree more when it was next to you.

—

Together

There were two things you loved more than being Spider-Man in the world. 

Lightsabers, and maybe potentially Wanda. 

The latter being much more intimate than the first but you get the jist. The point was, that you liked Wanda. You were sure of it, with everything in your mind, body, and soul. 

So, why were you avoiding her? 

Cowardice.

Weeks had passed since that night. You still vividly remember the feeling of waking up to Wanda’s sleeping form, resting comfortably on top of you. After all, it was the best sleep you’ve had in a while.

The sight had initially startled you, but what scared you most was the normalcy of it all. The domesticity, how bright Wanda’s eyes shone in the daylight, looking at you as if you were a treasure from the depths of Atlantis. How eager she was to make you breakfast and how her touch never left yours throughout the process. 

Miles away in New York, you could still feel her. 

“Chocolate or blueberry?” Wanda asked, tilting her head to the side to look at you. 

The familiar scent of pancakes wafted through the air and you knew it was only a matter of seconds before the team came to steal them all.

Your hold remained firm on her waist as you hugged her from behind, swaying softly to the tunes of nothing. Not wanting the moment to end just yet, you remained silent, allowing yourself to bask in the peace. But Wanda had other plans, quickly squeezing at your arm to grab your attention and you rolled your eyes, amused by her impatience. 

Posing a thoughtful expression, you eyed the batter before turning to the basket of blueberries. They looked fresh, not too ripe to be sour, and not too soft to be soggy. 

“Hmmm, how good are the blueberries?” 

Wanda shrugged absentmindedly, whisking at the batter as she leaned back into you, stealing whatever warmth she could. “Pretty good, I grew them myself.” 

The mental image of Wanda in her gardening gear made you smile a little more than expected, and you hid into her shoulder, inhaling her scent. Absolutely hooked. 

“Did you?” You reply, watching as Wanda nods her head shyly and you chuckle. Unintentionally dragging your lips across her cheek as you press delicate kisses to her skin, murmuring softly in her ear, “What a talented little witch.” 

Wanda laughs, blushing as she attempts to shrug you away, not really understanding why you’re being so touchy but not opposed to it either. “Stop it.” 

Your lips tug into a lazy grin as you laugh with her, avoiding her attacks and keeping your grip firm. “It’s true Wands…you’re great at everything really. Never once have you failed to amaze me—“

“Here, try this.” That is all she says before shoving multiple berries into your mouth, distracting you before you can pay too much attention to her flustered state. 

You gasp at the sudden impact but graciously accept the blueberries into your mouth, playfully glaring at her as you chew. Her nose scrunches adorably, turning in your arms to watch you eat them, her face lighting up and offering you some more. 

Though, when you lift your hand to take them, she swats it away. Cupping your cheeks in her hands, softly stroking at your face with her thumbs, you rolled your eyes. Complying with rosy cheeks as she fed them to you.

As you held her, the world outside seemed to disappear. It was just the two of you, wrapped in a safe haven you’ve created. This moment was everything—a fragile glimpse into a future you desperately wanted but were too afraid to reach for.

Although neither of you seemed too keen on parting, Wanda’s hands were preoccupied with the feel of your skin underneath her own, repeating senseless patterns. That is until the oven goes off with a loud bang and you both break away bashfully. 

Before you can make a move, Wanda lets out a deep breath. Hands gently smoothing over your shirt, her touch lingering with tender care. She pats your chest softly, her eyes sparkling with warmth and affection.

“Blueberries it is.” 

You run a hand over your face as the memory washes over you, letting out a shaky breath. It shouldn’t affect you this much, and you didn’t want to read into it because that would require acceptance. 

The risk of ruining something you held so dearly hurts you more than the silence you keep. Heroes aren’t supposed to be afraid, and yet it’s all you felt in your heart at the thought of losing her. But your heart ached for more, just even the slightest glimpse into what could be. And when you closed your eyes, you could almost see it. An alluring figure stringing you along, captivating you with their lush green eyes, promising you that they’d be yours forever.

But those were dreams, not real life.

A real-life you wanted with Wanda.

You slowly sink into your thoughts, your mind both your stronghold and a labyrinth of sorrow. As you wipe the tears that blur your vision, you gaze down at the streets of New York. Despite the hour, the city remained wide awake. Citizens walked with pure radiance of confidence, towering buildings seeming so distant and away from where you sat. Did they know? Did anyone know that one of their beloved Spider-mans was capable of turning a mess so easily?

The weight of it all feels suffocating and no amount of air can prevent the tightness that clogs at your throat, heavy breaths leaving your body as you recount your errors. You were raised to believe that love was this grand, amazing thing. But now you want to scoff at everyone who fed into your hopelessness, fed into those lies. If love was so wonderful, then how come it hurt so much? 

But then, without warning your senses are ringing, and your eyes widen as a figure lands in your space with a slight stumble. The clouds of smoke that surround them make it hard for you to tell who it is and you raise your hand, ready to attack. 

And then, recognition dawns on you as the smoke settles. Your body easily relaxes and loosens the grip on your strayed mask next to you. With a trembling exhale, you lower your hand to take a moment to breathe, drawing in a deep calming breath and your lungs silently thank you.

“Hey, kid.” Tony greets, exiting his suit with a lopsided smile. One that doesn’t quite meet his eyes but you know better than to pry.

“Tony?” You furrow your brows, wanting to ask why he’s here but the bag in his hands tells you all you need to know. “Another late-night donut run?”

“Pepper thinks I should lay off the suits for a while.” He explains with a sigh, grunting as he sits down next to you, rattling the bag in his hands for emphasis. “And donuts are the only thing that both keep me busy and fulfilled. Win-win don’t you think?”

“Depends on what type of donuts you picked.” You mused with a hum. 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Long John.” He retorts with a smirk, reaching into his bag to place a donut in your hands. Patting your shoulder as he did so. “Here, for your troubles.” 

You cocked your head curiously, examining the sweet with a soft smile. “A maple bar, sweet.” 

Thanking him, you took slow soft bites, savoring the sweet taste in your mouth as you looked towards the city in thought. You felt Tony’s stare and tried your best to ignore it, not wanting pity. 

“In my entire years of living, not once have I ever seen someone looking so sad while holding a donut.” He commented, taking a bite of his own donut and you release a sigh. “It’s really depressing to look at.” 

He spoke between bites, causing you to grimace. Backing away, you studied your mentor incredulously, analyzing his facial features in the hope it’d give you a clue as to why exactly he was here. Finding nothing, but an unusual softness to his features, you raised a wary brow.

“Did you come all this way just to patronize me, Stark?” You sneered with a glare. Feeling like the donut was really just bait to lure you into a conversation. 

Which you had admittedly been postponing from both Steve and him, using the city as an excuse to step away from your problems. It was only a matter of time before they caught up with you again. 

And here he was, the tightness behind his eyes diminishing as he stared at you, carefully, with laces of soft affection instead. You weren’t sure if you liked this look.

“A little birdie—or should I say spider, told me about your troubles with our resident Maximoff and I figured it’s time you got advice from the love doctor.” His hand came to his chest, motioning to himself and you scoffed in disbelief before turning into one of disgust. “And listen, I love Pietro, but I really don’t think—“

“Pietro?! Ew, god, no.” You say hurriedly, eager to dispel those rumors. Your distaste quickly turns into irritation as you realize with an offended gasp. “Is Peter seriously going around and spreading this?! Tony what the fuck.”

“Right, witchy then.” He sucks his teeth, waving a finger your way and you shove at his shoulders with embarrassment. Not letting that deter him, he scratches his chin, posing a thoughtful expression as he begins, “Love is scary, isn’t it? You’re scared. Scared of messing things up, scared of hurting her, losing her—“

“This is really inspiring Tony.”

“Pipe down Pipsqueak I’m not finished,” He huffed, clearing his throat before returning to his speech. “The point in all this is that you’re afraid. And that’s okay, so long as you don’t let those fears hold you back. Hell I’m still scared Pepper will leave me for someone more sensible, someone who won’t constantly be putting her in danger.”

His admission doesn’t come easy, and you notice the frown and crease in his eyebrows as he says so. Releasing another breath, you think about his words, and how fear could hold someone back. Reflecting on the past days, all you notice is clear examples of how it’s done this, stopping you from chasing what you really want. Still, you shake your head, voice cracking as you admit:

“I just don't want her to get hurt, or get hurt.“

Tony blinks, looking at you with an emotion you don’t know. But in his eyes, he sees himself, speaking gently, “You’ll never know if you don’t try, Y/n.”

“Think about it.” Comes the last thing he’s to say as he stands up with a grunt. Hands dusting himself off and bending over to grab his bag, pointing to you with a reassuring grin.

The words swirl around your head like a roundabout, leading to only one conclusion and you know what you have to do. Face those fears, even if the words get stuck in your throat. Before Tony can get too far, you stand up, stammering on your words as you thank him. 

Tony nods inside his suit, propelling himself as he speaks. “Anytime, stay in school, and help Peter with his history homework will you?”

You shake your head, chuckling softly and Tony ruffles your hair, flying off with a booming “Ciao!” Leaving you alone to collect yourself, bidding him goodbye. 

Placing the last bit of the donut in your mouth, you slip on your mask. Launching yourself through the city to reach your destination, flying past buildings and deep into the wooded suburbs where you’d find the compound. 

There wasn’t a world in which you could successfully avoid Wanda, not forever at least. It was torture for yourself too these past few days, and you’d be dammed if you did it again. 

As you reached the vicinity, fear washed over you again, your heart beating rapidly the closer you approached. Tony’s words rang in your mind and you huffed, ignoring whatever your senses were telling you and letting your emotions speak louder. 

Rest could wait until later, for now, you had a witch to confront—confess to. 

You decided to take the easier route, being her window as you had down many nights prior. As you swung towards the wall, you found yourself stuck. Hanging from the rooftop, hand frozen midair as you stared at your reflection, was this really a good idea? In the middle of the night? 

It was a tranquil, beautiful night, with fresh air flowing through the trees, and the only source of light being the soft glow of the moon. Your eyes softly traced through the beauty of nature, losing yourself in the picturesque landscape. Perfect conditions for an Avenger to catch some sleep in and you quickly found yourself double thinking by her window. Anxiety crawls through you—what if she was asleep already and didn’t wanna see you? Surely you shouldn’t interfere with Wanda’s beauty sleep. Or should you—?

“Did you really come all this way to see me just to hang outside of my window like a creep?” Your heart startled at the sudden voice and you didn’t even notice when Wanda had opened the window but there she was, a crooked smile on her lips with a curious tilt to her head.

The moonlight only enhanced Wanda's beauty further, and you knew you were staring. But you couldn’t tear your gaze away, mesmerized, counting every freckle you could spot; dreaming of one day kissing each speck you could find. 

You wondered if women like Wanda inspired philosophers to write the most beautiful sayings because you’re certain if you had the intelligence you’d do the same. It’s only when Wanda cleared her throat, a small blush tinting her cheeks, that you turned away. 

You sighed to try and collect yourself, letting your previous anxieties disappear. “Well, you know how much I love hanging out with you.” You joked, grinning at the groan Wanda let out as she shook her head disapprovingly.

“Dork.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged.

“Most definitely.” She says before moving closer, touching the ridges of your mask, and your heart races when she pulls it down just the slightest. You lean eagerly against her palm without a second thought, savoring her touch. It feels as if time freezes, and you realize how intensely you’ve missed Wanda these past days.

You think Wanda feels the same with how she looks at you, hand tracing the small scar etched into your chin with a frown. Her hand shutters a bright red and you lean into it like second nature, knowing what she seeks; to feel you. Something that came often after missions back home, a reminder that you were still here, but as you opened your eyes to stare back into her own, it felt different. Dangerously close to intimate and emotions build against your throat, constricting you because you can’t handle how close you are. How close you could be to changing things. Your defenses fly up again and you’re inching away despite not being able to get far with Wanda keeping you still–so you rack your brain, trying to find something to say to ease the tension—deflect, maybe a joke? 

But any witty retort you had is quickly forgotten as Wanda hesitantly leans closer, testing the waters, and freezing you on the spot. You’re sure Wanda can hear your heart racing, but she doesn’t seem to care. It’s only when you make no motion of moving that she brings your mouths together. And you think you’ve just taken a glimpse into heaven.

It's just as sweet as you imagined and more. Her lips are soft and sweet and welcoming, easily enveloping you in all that is her, something you fall into hopelessly yet again. You want to ask why she chose now to do this, but you don’t want to part. The position is less than ideal, and sure your neck is straining but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Wanda’s the first to pull away, equally taken by surprise by her actions, a deep flush taking her the next second with a small shy smile and you feel yourself swoon. 

You hesitate as you try to speak again, find the proper words to say but Wanda stops you, taking off your mask properly and lifting herself off the frame, walking back into her room. She throws your mask aimlessly away behind her desk but you’re not paying too much attention to it.

“Why don’t you come inside for once? Catch some real sleep, on a real bed.” She suggests invitingly, throwing you a playful look over her shoulder. You let out a breathless chuckle, flipping yourself over to enter her window, and closing it behind you in one smooth motion.

Wanda doesn’t say much else as you help her un-tuck the sheets, shooting you an appreciative glance and you pause, realizing it is her from your dreams. She’s the girl. The girl you can’t escape at night. It baffles you how you didn’t see her sooner. And suddenly you understand. 

You understand why you’re always thinking of her, why even in your sleep you don’t wish to leave. It’s not just some crush you’ve been harboring, no, it’s something more intimate. And you want to say it’s love, but you want to say it better. Not when you’re both so absorbed in the moment, so you wait, because for Wanda Maximoff you’d wait for any length.

“I do sleep.” You spoke softly, ignoring how nervous her stare was making you and the stare made you believe that she already knew. You sucked in a breath, knowing if you didn’t say it now you wouldn’t say it ever, “I’d just sleep better with you.”

Wanda’s eyes widened in surprise before softening in a way that made your resolve crumble and you looked away with a clumsy smile. It feels like a silly confession to make, but unbeknownst to you, it’s enough confirmation for Wanda.

Shuffling into the sheets, you turn to meet Wanda only for her to advance on you the next second into a much more tender kiss than before. It’s soft and a reassurance that she feels the same way, her lips tasting of strawberries and love. You melt into the kiss once again, placing your hand on her wrist that holds your face in place, deepening it to convey. 

“I’ll keep you to that,” Wanda murmurs between kisses, placing one last peck on your lips before curling in closer to your body, hiding in the crook of your neck. You chuckle and wrap your arms around her. 

Her presence enveloped you instantaneously, reducing every muscle in your body into mush; a wave of relief washed over you, almost in disbelief that this was real. It was almost overwhelming, how easily you found peace in her arms. Tears pooled at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill as you realized that this simple moment was all you had ever wanted–a night of rest with the girl you cared for most, free from all the world's problems and whatever else dared to ruin you. 

As if she could sense something was wrong, the witch shuffled closer, her lips tenderly grazing against the skin of your neck and you tensed as she pressed. Her lips lingered against your skin, repeating the process over and over until you relaxed as if to say I know, it’s okay. When her legs intertwined with yours, you didn’t resist, understanding that she needed you just as much as you needed her. Instead, you held her tighter as if she could slip away if you didn’t.