The Flower Lady & Her Pest.


Chapter 1 – Queens

Summary: Queens. A place not known for much other than a few nifty facts. It was a city named after the Queen herself, it was where the Ramones got their first big break, and apparently – it was a place known for having a secret. A friendly little helper, always a bit too quick for anyone to catch – the Spiderman. What happens when a chronically tired florist is the first to be thrown into the young hero's path? Spiderman X OC. Slightly AU-ish.


I breathed in a lungful of the busy city smog, tucking the box of flowers a touch more securely into the crooks of my arms.

Queens was a place in constant motion, always, for as long as I'd known it.

It was odd too, different from any other I'd ever read about.

You'd never see the same person twice here, not unless they were like the guy that ran the local hot-dog stall – any of the vendors, clerks, or stores-men really. And once they knew you, they wouldn't be soon to forget. I swear, the Jim and Lisa that ran the corner-store deli had known me since before I was seven, running around in tutu's and dollar-store superhero tights.

Still, despite its flaws, I thought I was lucky to live in a place like this.

If I had to sum up, in a few words what Queens's like, I'd say it's just about the most diverse place in the world. People came from all corners of the planet, some rich, some poor – speaking their languages, eating their own kinds of foods, and living in their own customs and lifestyles, in close proximity to one another. No one minded the other. There wouldn't even be much fighting, other than the petty bouts of squabbling that picked up every now and then – like the 'fight' between which diner could make the spiciest plate of food, the large Mexican family that lived down the block, or the fancy Indian 'connoisseur' that had plans on opening his own restaurant downtown. They'd make a big deal out of who truly was the apex chef – sometimes calling over the whole neighbourhood, to see who'd score the most votes. It was always a tie, so everyone ended up happy – including the tens of families that scored a free dinner.

The luckiest part of it all however, was that I just happened to be a green little spot, smack-dab in the centre of all the busy moving colors.

'Bella's Botanical Emporium', as far from cheesy as we could get it to go when naming it, was my mother's pride and joy. The older woman had, all her life, loved the buzz, the air of life you could feel the second a plant was in the room – and now, Kudos to her, she got to spend every day in a room full of them. Yes indeed, Miss Isabella Prieto was the hardest working woman I knew. She'd come home bone-dead tired most nights, but always with the loveliest smile.

Being a florist's daughter could be a rough ride at times. Sometimes it felt like it had all the perks, I wouldn't even bother trying to be condescendingly humble about them. I loved the sweetness that came with it – loved the scents that stuck in the air no matter where I went off to. I particularly loved snagging pieces of lavender or rosemary to stick in my pockets every now and again, using the petals to make tea – only, of course, when I mastered the grace of a ninja in not letting mom catch me. The chores that came with the job didn't seem too bad in hindsight either, at least judging by all the other summer jobs kids got put up to over the holidays.

Even if I had to stand there for hours, snipping the thorns off roses, it always seemed worth it – because even a week's worth of time could go past, and I'd catch a wisp of what I came to smell as home. The only downside though, was that I never could get rid of the bags under my eyes, or the ache in my back from spending so many hours into the day hunched over a desk of assorted bouquets.

I figured it was worth it.

Who was I? The cryptid, out of its natural habitat? That one with her headphones in, her ears completely rapt to the dulcet tones of some a-n-g-s-t-y rock band. That girl with torn bits of rose petals in her hair from the express round of Valentine's Day orders that had kept her up till she could watch dawn break? The young one that couldn't have been any older than fifteen, her hair like the dangly bits of fluff that grew on corn cobs for whatever reason.

Well, I was just another face, wasn't I? Nothing all that special.

I could watch the people, millions of nameless faces going places, pass by for hours and never see the same one again. I was the very same in the eyes of all those strangers – one of the masses.

Nothing about me stood out, nothing made me one-in-a-million. It was something I knew, but always fought with myself about.

Everyone had a purpose, I tried reminding myself, even if it belonged in this forever bustling city. I just needed to find mine.

Amalia Prieto. My name was Amalia Prieto – but to all these strangers I wasn't anything other than a face that held eyes the very same shade of green as the stems I held in my arms. Eyes that had stayed longing, I imagined, despite shit circumstances.

They had since the day I watched, awe-struck, as the city had come crashing in around us - but was then saved by these heroes - real, living superheroes. It had been when I was just a tiny tot, back when news of 'The Avengers' just got people confused and thoughts of a green elf with Reindeer horns attacking the city seemed like a funny made-up story. The city was burning – people were falling over, left and right, but still – the red-haired agent had chosen to protect us.

It'd been the most exciting thing to ever happen to me, but even then, I knew it had been enough. I was a softie on the inside whether I liked it or not – a fact I made evident to most being that I indeed, did not enjoy it. Often, I wished I could do more – be more – but I knew what I was. An ordinary little girl that liked flowers and sleeping, but could never get enough of either.

I must've been a cat in a past life.

I was walking along to familiar steps, down a crowded road – reoccurring, I'd taken them a billion times before.

This routine was game, set, and match. I'd reach up to 30 houses a day with these deliveries, around 15 if it was particularly slow. My last order for the day was for a batch of dozen cream-colored Petunias, surprisingly, for a lovely little old woman named Petunia Bradford.

The thought was adorable, I smiled at my musings. Like she was having a cute little dinner for herself and thought of a clever way to make her day happier.

I looked onto the road in disdain after that thought. Thank cheese I didn't take the shop's delivery truck – it was an act of pure self-inflicted masochism, for anyone who even tried to get a car onto those streets. Hell, it would've taken me half a millennia to even get down the block on evenings like these.

Besides, it was nicer like this, I thought. The sky was a slight lavender, and I had a bunch of pretty-smelling flowers in my arms that I needed to hold gentle. That and the fact that I was almost ready for the best part of my day.

I was so distracted in fact, both with the emo music in my ears and the feelings of excitement over the future in my heart, that I didn't notice the sudden accumulation of a large crowd on the narrow little pavement. Men and women in penguin suits – these speed-walking, intimidating looking blue-collar workers had filled up the little route. I shuffled my shoulders, a little uneasy.

I had this sense sometimes – call it what you want, whether it be the 'weird-hippie-aura reading' stereotype people liked to give to sensitive people or whatever – but it was detectable sometimes, when everything just ever so slightly began to feel wrong.

Still, I tried not to let it show. I picked up her pace to match the strangers, a little frenzied from the nervous kick that had gathered in each step. All I knew was that I had to maintain each fast-paced step, even if my legs were aching by the end of it.

I stopped only when I was in front of a red light, a silent thankful prayer to the soul of Bob Ross - The gold standard of human kindness and all things good – as the mob came to a standstill behind me, all consecutively waiting for the glowing green that would get us going after that.

I was a moron, I decided easily, placing a free hand on my thumping heart. I needed to put a tap on the way I felt.

I often wondered why I was as painfully anti-social as I was now, noting back to when I was a kid and had a voice large enough to counter a stadium of screaming lunatics. I had been the loudest extrovert of my generation once, but it was easy to see how things change.

I felt like a sociopath because of it sometimes. The absolute vehement state my mind would go through when I had to interact with certain people, certain things. Crowds, teenagers – nothing was more stressful than walking past a group of kids my own age. My mind would just 'turn off' like some really wimpy C3P0. I didn't hate people but that's just how my stupid defense mechanisms worked. I knew, even now, I wouldn't have been able to help it. If someone were to come up to me, to just strike up normal chit-chat, talk about the weather or my flowers, I'd turn them down and away so quickly that I'm sure I could've earned a chorus of 'boo's' from the crowd around me.

Like a robot being controlled by a soft mushy thing.

But why would it matter? I was fine where I was, right? Sure there'd be the odd moment where I'd look into a crowd – see couples holding hands, siblings playing tag, friends guffawing over inside joke – times where I'd wish, just a tiny bit. But I didn't talk to many people – we'd both just end up hurt and annoyed with the other. I instead found comfort in the back room the shop, where I could work in peace. It was either there or with the many older folks and pets I got to hang around with on these deliveries – it was nicer, less vicious with them.

I stifled a groan. School would be starting soon and suddenly I'd have to become involved with the very thing that caused me mass panic. I would be back to being stuck – wanting to do so much, but just not feeling like I had what it took.

I'd have to grow up sooner or later, I thought, mind numbing down.

Despite my attempts to push aside worry, a keen confusion was starting to pick up once again. Something in the air was rubbing me the wrong way.

I was safe, I was good. Mrs. Bradford's house was literally right across the road, I tried reminding myself – knowing that even though I didn't let my emotions get out of check very often, I'd often be predisposed to unprecedented bouts of worry.

I tried to focus on the little red door across the way, the door to her client's house, but couldn't.

Why wouldn't that bad feeling go away?

Something was wrong.

I flinched then, already on edge, at the start of an oddly out-of-place, violent sound. My heart dropped at the feel of a large rough hand on my back after that. It happened so fast, too fast.

A guttural insult was spouted, a guy's voice, and then the feeling of losing my footing.

My shoes were slipping, knees striking and tearing against harsh gravel when I realized.

I'd been pushed.

Holy shit, I'd been pushed.

I tried to scramble, to move. A second, just a second had passed. I could still get up!

I couldn't even tell how far into the road I'd been pushed when I heard it, felt the wind pick up.

The deafening honking of a car already going too fast.

Everything in me felt like it died before the car had even made impact. I felt a scream tear through my dry throat, though it sounded far-off and foreign to my ears. My eyes clamped shut. It was just a second, but I felt powerless.

Oh god, please let me live, this is such a lame-ass way to die.

A second past where I wondered whether or not I was dead.

My senses had completely blacked out, but I knew I was still conscious. It took an ache, a pause, before I felt my shaky hands fall away from over my head – an instinctual attempt to protect myself.

There had been a sound still. Something had crashed. I was just grateful it hadn't been into me.

"Oh my god, a-are you okay?" A voice, a kid's voice, rang past my ears, piercing my brain almost. I turned sharply, still stuck to the floor when I caught sight of it – of him? A masked figure, with a hand positioned to the front of the red Neesan that almost killed me.

He was dressed in these weirdly put together pieces of clothing, red and blue articles from what you'd see at your everyday 'Target'. A red hoodie over a blue sleeved shirt – he was obviously going for a theme. Superman, maybe? Still, even through the smoke, I couldn't see his face – realizing as it cleared that it was due to the sock-like red mask he wore, a pair of swimming goggles blocking out his eyes.

What stuck out as particularly odd was the hand. It looked like it was the point of impact, but that would've been crazy, right? To think he stopped it would've been insane – that truck would have flung the likes of this scrawny looking twig all the way to Coney Island.

I registered feeling sick and confused, like an old sputtering PC that was hanging on for bare life as it tried to turn back on. That and I briefly wondered if I were hallucinating – wondering, had he gotten closer or was I going crazy?

"Hey miss, here," the masked man- boy was suddenly right in my face.

He grabbed me by the crook of my elbow, so apprehensively in fact that I wondered if he'd suddenly forgotten how to function. Still, with surprising strength, he managed to drag me up to standing level. "On a scale of one to ten – one being 'Every bone in my body's broken and I'm in agony!' to ten being 'I feel like I could run an ultra-marathon right now' – are you at?"

I felt my eyebrows hit my hairline as I watched him for a long second. His voice was so light and squeaky I wondered if I'd accidently knee-d him in the process of getting up. No way, I'd been coherent enough to remember that – I guessed it was just him, then.

Still I observed him with unrepressed curiosity, my eyebrow quirking as he ducked his head at that response, insecurely almost. Was that him actually being shy? Then, straightening so my legs didn't feel like jelly and so that my brain reformed from its mushy state, I tried finding my voice through a sore throat.

"Zero." I answered him finally, in a scratchy voice, dead-pan. Then, surprising the both of us, I used his hand to prop myself up – a calculated move, as I was able to indeed feel skin through the red fingerless gloves he adorned. That was enough to tell me that he was indeed human.

I didn't know why I was trying to impress this guy, my head was throbbing, my knees were a second away from failing – curiosity was just a strong instigator, I suppose. Well, that and almost dying.

"Okay great! No, that's not that great," He backtracked, clearly not expecting me to answer that way. He gave me a look of confusion, something I barely made out through the mask. "No offense lady, but how are you so calm right now? You were literally almost roadkill."

"I don't know," I brushed off my jeans, wincing at the red seeping through cut fabric. I shrugged the sight off, knowing I'd look like a wimp if I made a big deal out've it. "I saw my life flash before my eyes and half-way through I was just bored."

Despite the mask and my total inability to judge what kind of a person this guy was from all the pre-conceived notions that came with reading a face, I knew I'd hit the nail right on its head when I heard him snort.

Despite the fact I felt god-awful from this recent brush with death, making such a unique stranger amused was definitely enough to fill my with some pride.

"Also, thank you," I said hurriedly, not wanting to but remembering my mom raised me to be a gentle-woman. Also partially because I watched as people begun piling in around the site.

Somehow though, and creepily enough, all the men and women in suits that set me on edge before were nowhere to be seen. The street was as empty as it had been, save for a couple of youths.

It hadn't even been a minute of us talking, but faces that held the same intrigue as mine had already begun to crowd around. Still, I didn't let them deter me from thanking the superhuman that saved my life. I looked back at the boy who, amusingly, looked caught under my gaze. "You know, for not letting that car squash me?"

He flinched slightly, like his own thoughts were on a completely other plane of existence. He recovered by quickly waving his arms as though dismissing it. "It's cool, totally cool. Wouldn't have happened in the first place if I hadn't let that guy g0 – OH SNAP." His voice actually jumped several octaves; limbs panicking as he suddenly looked to have remembered something of great importance.

I gave him a look, realising with some gratitude that he'd been after the guy that almost killed me by pushing me in the first place. "Catching bad guys? You do this for fun?"

"Nah, this is just my day job!" He continued flailing for a second, looking ready to dart off. "Look, I'm real sorry about you're flowers miss, but I need ta–"

"My flowers?" I asked, confused. Looking at my feet however, was enough to know exactly what he meant. Dozens and dozens of beautiful, broken peonies in varying shades of cream yellow decorated the road – an hour of work decorating the bouquets lost as they unraveled with each fastly passing car running them over. "My fucking flowers!"

I was filled with a rage that could have paralleled a thousand suns. I sighed deeply, so deep in fact that the boy probably had to do a double-take to see how much air I could possibly fill my lungs with.

"Well go get him spandex." I said evenly, a lilt of encouragement in my tone. Then, allowing it, I let an absolutely terrifying smile break out onto my face as I followed the thought. "I wanna make sure the jerk pays for these. A lifetime in jail will do nicely."

The masked boy gulped, like a soldier that'd just been issued a command from a controlling officer. Still, he moved like he'd felt a sudden rush of excitement – An emotion I was quite privy to, in that moment. It was odd, so foreign and odd, but it felt like this stranger and I were on the same wavelength. A thought I couldn't place ever having felt before with someone I barely knew.

"Sure thing," He said, rushed, beginning to trot backwards – his goggled eyes still on me. "Stay safe and don't go falling into any more roads again, please?"

I made a sound in between a scoff and a sigh - the nerve of this boy, blaming me for my trip. "Oh shove it, you onesie-wearing–" I scrounged for a sarcastic comeback that still conveyed my gratitude, to depart the hero with some final words. That's when I watched, absolutely shocked, as the guy propelled himself into the air – like he'd just begun to fly. I was watching intently as he swung away, a pit in my stomach as I realized.

Did I seriously just meet who I thought I had? The guy they were calling 'The Spider-man'.

People were lucky to get him on video, the guy was that fast. He was known for swinging around on strings – and while it sounded a lot less unassuming and a lot cooler in theory, like some kind of superhuman acrobat, I decided it was a real fucking trip being one of the many 'damsel in distress' types he just happened to defend in the process.

I must've stood there for a whole minute longer before my eyes flittered back to the present. Thank god no one had gotten hurt, I sighed in relief – taking note of a man getting out the truck that almost ran me over. He was shouting a whole string of curses behind the hero that'd just left, looking mostly unscathed apart from his anger over the shattered hood of his car. A whole bunch of strangers had crowded around in the road, watching after the swinging speck of red in the distance – but I knew better than to stick around. I had crossed the road long before anyone got any ideas to interview the 'pretty young thing swooning over mysterious masked man', or so the newspaper articles would say. Always with the shitty clichés.

Well, I most definitely wasn't in the mood to be labeled a 'Lois Lane' – I wanted none of that attention. Hell, I didn't know the guy – but media sources wouldn't care much as long as they got a buck out've it – I'd seen them do the same to Tony Stark and that secretary of his, long before they ever broke the news of them dating.

Breathe.

It was a Friday night, the sun was getting real low, and I had an old woman I needed to apologize to for not getting her flowers to her.

Breathe.

I eyed the red door of Ms. Bradford's house in apprehension.

Breathe.

My gaze flittered to below the staircase leading up to her apartment, catching sight of an open space under the brick stairs. Stealing away into the crack, I felt my back hit the wall hard – a brief reprieve from wandering eyes.

I can't breathe. Oh my god, that was so fucking scary.

I crumpled to the floor, my hands trembling from how real it had been. The car was centimeters away from my face; I felt the wind of it in my hair – the dust and grime it kicked up, in my eyes. How did he even fit in between me and the thing?

That boy. I didn't know who he was, and frankly, I couldn't care less. But he saved me, and he saved my mom from the heart-shattering news of having to come home and hear her baby was gone. No mom ever had to listen to that.

He didn't even realize, I choked on a sob that threatened its way out onto the sidewalk. He sounded just like a kid that didn't even realize how much I owed him for what he'd done.

Maybe I'd bake him a pie or a stack of muffins if I ever ran into him again. Leave a dozen flowers for him too – blue bellflowers and red camellias, the same color of his get-up, but also cause they represented 'thanks' – a totally useless tidbit of information in modern day America, that I'd picked up from years on the job.

I swallowed in the air around me, the signature sooty, smoky taste of it. I shook with relief but I think it was the good kind. The kind that made you realize how grateful you were to be alive.

I'd leave eventually, but for now, I'd happily sit on this dirty gravel floor – grateful.


By the time I got home, night had fallen and enveloped the city in a blanket of darkness. I scurried down the path towards my house, the high-rise building chattering and singing with the voices and sounds of all the tenants living within. A quick stolen glance to the fifth floor revealed my own floor's windows, the lights on.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, not good. I internalised my panic, my shoes slapping against the stone steps that led me to front door. The porch light was on, and the familiar yellow from behind frosted glass made the house feel warm and inviting – but I knew none of that was meant for me (me, aka, the little shit that had probably given the houses only other living human resident a heart attack because of how late it was).

A brand new flower pot to the right of the door was filled with pink and yellow chrysanthemums, but I had no time to stop and smell the roses. The metal of the doorknob was cool against my palm and I twisted it with ease, entering a well-lit living room.

Today was supposed to be a special night that I wasn't going to let anyone mess up, but I suppose it was too late for that now. The sun had already set, sinking into the dead of night, taking my heart and my interest with it.

I sighed. I didn't have time to think about mysterious gliding men in tights, or of lost afternoons. The whole way home, a single thought destroyed me – What the hell would I tell her?

The Beldam, the crone.

The kindest woman you'd ever meet, who just so happened to turn into a cruel, malicious, old duenna anytime you double-crossed her. She was Persephone incarnate in times where I skimped out on house rules – everyone always blamed Hades, but she'd be the one orchestrating all the punishments that made people scared of hell.

Should I just break out with the whole 'Hey mom, I almost died' sitch – earn a bit of sympathy points there – or did I play it off like I totally meant to be home absurdly late, symbolizing the fact that I was coming in to my own as a young, rebellious teen, ready to live a life away from the nest, and all that crap?

The very first step I took into the wooden-floored apartment just so happened to lead to the most ear-numbing creak known to man – somehow, already deciding my future for me.

"Mija?"

I heard the voice come from the other room in a saccharinely sweet tone, giving me a minor heart attack.

Ah, 'Hey mom, I almost died' route it is then.

I gave up my quiet approach and set the backpack I'd been carrying down next to the floor with a loud thump. Our apartment was what the standard person would call worse for wear. The pastel pink of the walls was beginning to peel, and the floorboards had lost their luster and would creak louder the joints of one of our regular customers. Still, there couldn't have been a place I would've felt more at home in – not if you paved every wall out of marble or gold, and most definitely not if you filled each mattress or pillow with goose feathers.

I savored that nice little thought until I was in the kitchen, face to face with the beautiful middle-aged woman I knew so well – sitting leisurely on one of the table chairs, who just happened to have been smiling, wide, but not warm in the slightest. I suppose it wasn't too much a mystery where I got it from.

Isabella Prieto was a tall woman with caramel-coffee colored skin, a single shade deeper than mine – her form taller and lither. Her hair, a jaggedly cut bob of black feathers, had adorned the same twists in them day in and day out – different colored strings and flowers embroidered into them each week. Her eyes, the same shade and shape as my own, could have easily slain an army of men with the sharp gaze she held in them – reminding me to brace for impact.

This was her when she was mad. My favorite game to navigate around.

"Mi cielito," She began cordially, the act not budging an inch. "Would you be so kind as to let me know why you're half an hour over your curfew?"

I imitated her perfect features, deciding to gain the upper hand and trick her up with a plot-twist.

"Why, mother dearest. I'll have you know – that pretty boy James, the one that lives down the block, why he came in today and set my heart a-flutter. He said he wanted to show me the world – who was I to refuse him'?" I ended, the 'southern-bell drawl' working well to prove my point – which would've sounded disastrous on her thicker Spanish accent. I flashed her a nervous smile then, watching with mounting fear as she narrowed her eyes.

"Ah? That's a cheery piece of news. Finally have a reason to start going out then." Like a sniper, she took aim – the curve of her red lips lifting as she roasted me. I could tell she was switching tactics when she adopted the look of a cheetah on the prowl. "This James then? What's his name, his family name, eh?"

I shuffled in the kitchen, pulling out a plate to get to the easy-baked pasta already waiting for me on the stove. I smiled like a ditz, looking at her loftily. "Oh you know... Dean?"

"Dean? James Dean?" She crossed her arms, the few beauty marks and moles on them prominent due to the hot humidity of the air outside.

"Yep," I nodded enthusiastically. "Side-note, this was all an allegory for a weird dream I had during a nap."

I always felt like myself in these little bouts of ours – a rejuvenation to having to go hours out in public where I didn't have to speak. If there was one person in this world I could fully be myself around – no guard, no need for cheap tricks, no nothing – it was my Mom.

How did this game of ours start? Why, my mum always was a bit too clever for anyone she'd ever lived with – I assumed it was natural that I'd follow in her footsteps. Sure, we treasured soft things – flowers, nice weather, warm tea – but where we were vulnerable, we had to be twice as ruthless in other facets. Still, none of that ever could break the ferocity in which we both valued family.

She laughed charmingly, her act finally breaking. She brought her legs to cross over themselves, breaking every ounce of formality. "Mija, I know you love the old movies that you watch. Ya lo sé. But I didn't know you were letting the men of your actual dreams affect you so dearly."

I rolled my eyes, a smile of my own lighting my lips. "Ok fine, you've caught me redhanded," I held up bear palms. "It was Ms. Bradford, ma. After I um- got the flowers to her, she pulled me in to have a cup of tea. Oh, you should have seen her mama, it was her birthday and all she wanted was someone to sit and talk to."

I winced internally. I hated lying to her, absolutely hated it – not that it was a complete lie. It actually had been Petunia's birthday, and yeah, she was really sad about the flowers I couldn't get her. But being an old English woman living by herself, I suppose she didn't mind too much and actually did want the company instead – it was the least I could do, seeing her upset. She'd helped me out with my knees too, sympathetic that I got hurt trying to get to her – though I did fib and say I was clumsy in dropping the flowers. Nothing about running men or spiders.

So I sat and sipped too-hot-tea, with a copper Charles Spaniel yawning every five seconds in my lap, listening to the wisened words of a woman in her seventies. It wasn't my worst use of a Friday night, to be honest – not in the slightest.

I didn't know who I was fooling with that though. I might've been a competent liar, despite the age – but my mother was a tough cookie, that saw through me better than anyone. Her eyes took on a sad approach, a warm shade of sap. "Baby, you know you can tell me whatever, right?"

I sighed. I didn't care if the game was still on and she'd just taken on the tactic of peppering me with sympathy and affection – it was working regardless.

It'd be so fricking easy to give up and tell her how scared I'd been, how scared I was still. A weight off my shoulders I suppose. But I also didn't want to put that on her – hell, I could just imagine how drop-dead tired she was now, she'd been the one at the shop all day, while I'd just been traipsing around the city.

Lies weren't as bad as people gave them credit for. They did something honesty couldn't always do – they ever so rarely saved us from heart-break.

I gave her sad eyes. "I know mama, I'm sorry. For being late and for not calling."

She returned the look, not quite believing – but accepting.

"Todo está perdonado." All is forgiven. She leaned forward, lightly grasping onto the side of my face as her lips pressed against my forehead. "You missed it by the way. What's the meaning of a 'ritual' if it's not done everyday, anyway?"

I groaned loudly, a queen of the dramatic arts as I buried my face into folded arms, abandoning my dinner. I looked back at her, pain-staken. "I know! I was so upset. And after the rain last night, can you imagine what it would've looked like?"

"What 'what' would've looked like?"

My spine seized up at the sound of a third voice.

A man's voice.

It was so abrupt in fact, that I actually thought the T.V, or the radio had somehow switched itself on. It even took a second where my brain registered how direly wrong I was. It was a second of pure gut feeling – fight or flight as I grabbed the closest thing to me – one of the sharp forks I'd been chopping bits of macaroni down with seconds ago.

I turned and aimed at the sound of where the voice came from, throwing before I even knew what.

Three things registered in tow. One, A figure was stood in the arched doorway behind me, clad in the most expensive suit I'd ever seen in these parts. Two, the fork I'd thrown moved evenly through the air – weird in a way where I somehow understood it couldn't and shouldn't have been moving like that – straight at the man's veiled face. Three, a flash of blue.

A flash of blue and the whirring of machinery – like what you'd think as a canon coming to life.

A gloved metal hand had jumped into power, promptly thwacking away the quick projectile – swinging the opposite way and into the wall, bits of plaster falling off. I couldn't even fully understand the situation – what to do – until the man stepped out of the shadowed corridor.

"Arg-Easy kid, jeez!" He exclaimed, accent preppy-ish and overly too 'expensive' for what you'd normally hear around this part of town. He paused, but it looked more like 'for effect' than if he needed it to think. Grabbing a cheek, hand over extremely primped facial hair, he looked at me, stunned. "Wow. Pepper wouldn't have been all that happy with you for messing with this mug."

I gazed at him, wide-eyed and guilt-ridden. I'd almost broken the face of a multi-billionaire. "You're Tony S-"

"Stark, yeah I know," He ended for me, apparently impatient and a touch annoyed. "And you're a lot more hostile than it said on your report."

I frowned at that. 'Report'? – and he was the one being impatient? I had every right to know why the third richest man in the world was currently in our little beat down place. I moved to speak, but stood wide-eyed as he actually 'shushed' me.

Taking off his sunglasses, I took note of the face up in person. It was a hell of a difference seeing one of your heroes in person, rather than on your pajamas, after all. He was a handsome dude, but the age was evident in his face – having grown wearier compared to the 'genius playboy philanthropist' he was known as in his younger years – the kind that I'd see in pictures and cut out of magazines, hoping I'd get to meet one day. The circles under his eyes made him look tired too, but with the gravitas of which he held himself, you'd never be able to tell.

Folding the shades into his suits low collar, he observed me with a veiled expression – more interested than he was scrutinizing. "So, tell me. What would've been so amazing after the rain last night?"

I tried not to gape, I really did – but a seconds worth of it gave me time to collect the broken remnants of my thoughts from off the floor.

Surprisingly honest for me when it came to strangers, I answered easily – like it was the simplest thing in the world.

"The Sunset. Queens's got the most beautiful one in the world, at least I think," I said, dazed.

He watched me a second, before letting a corner lip quirk up in apparent amusement.

"You said you'd be here at eight," My mother stood up, having stayed watchful from her position at the table. Her eyes were sharp as knives, held up to the throat of the rich man.

I double-took a few looks between her and the genius, watching in shock as I connected the dots – she was speaking to him like they knew each other well, even if he looked far happier to see her than she did him.

"Well, what can I say Bella, I was eager to see who it was Nick's been talking to me about," Stark drawled charmingly, watching my mom with his full interest piqued. "I can't lie when I say I'm impressed. Big fan."

Impressed? I couldn't believe my ears. In fact, this all felt way too surreal to be happening – to me of all people. "Mom?" I asked, confused beyond belief. "Some answers would be really helpful in me not having a brain aneurysm right now."

The older woman gaze softened when her eyes hit mine, some wrinkles around her otherwise young face, smoothing out.

"Sorry baby, I didn't know he'd be here so early, I wanted to break it to you easily. Awfully rude of him to just let himself in, don't you think?" She answered, voice silken and accusatory as she went to eye Stark warily. It was such a trip, watching her act stand-offish to someone else – considering my mom was the opposite of me when it came to strangers. Everyone always thought she was a rose, equal parts sweet and beautiful – always her best self even when she hardly knew the person. A strength needed when it came to running a business, I suppose.

Stark winced at her words, his expression remorseful. "Right. Sorry about that." He shuffled – a cough caught in his throat. "Should've known better. Not a great plan on my part, sneaking up on two potentially dangerous women, fueled by emotion."

"Are you always this vague, sir?" I asked dryly, confused – moving back to my mother's side, "No offense, but I don't think you're spending your time all that wisely here, if you are." The man didn't move, his hands in his trouser pockets, his eyebrows quirked in intrigue. I gulped, a tad intimated – after all, I was just a 15 year old kid stood in front of one of the world's most powerful men. I tried again. "What do you want from us?"

"I'm here for you, kid. I'm hoping you're someone who's about to make my life incredibly interesting," he replied eventually, breaking the silence but filling the void with even more reason for me to be concerned. Slowly then, like a thousand eyes were on him and he was the host of a morning talk-show, he strolled ahead – making himself at home with a seat at our table, his hands folded in front of him.

"So, Amalia. When was the first time you realized you were weird?"

I felt the tension in my back drop in disappointment. "Am I supposed to be offended by that?"

He snorted, the dry amusement looking easy on his face. "Weird in a good way. In a very lovable Willy Wonka type'a way – Wilder not Depp, because obviously." Then, for the first time since I'd almost impaled him with a kitchen utensil, Tony Stark's face gave way to a shred of what looked like genuine concern. "This is… hard. Look, I'll admit that up front. A bit hard to break it to you kid, considering you don't seem to understand a damn of what I'm talking about?" He faltered, but with a look that was confident in his reasoning. His eyes slid over to the older woman by my side. "Isn't that right, mom?"

In response, my mother glared him down. She didn't take her eyes of him, even as she spoke. "You might want to sit down, mija."

I felt something in me give way at that. The tension in the room was pliable, so real – it felt like being tied to a railroad, having your eyes veiled but being able to hear everything. The chugging of a train, coming closer and closer, but you being handicapped – powerless to do anything.

I felt myself shake, feeling my age for what it was. "Mom you're scaring me."

She immediately crossed the space between us, taking my hands in hers as I felt my legs give way to sit on one of the dining table chairs."Don't be scared." She looked back at Stark who stood awkwardly. "You want to give us a second?"

The man looked perfectly happy with the suggestion. On his way out however, I watched out the corner of my eye as he faltered. "You'll be alright, Bells?"

Stone-faced, my mom sighed. "Yeah Tony."

Man, I really needed to make a list of all the things I needed to do some sleuthing to find out about – what the relationship was between Tony Stark and my mother, definitely being a hard priority on it.

"Baby?" The older woman garnered back my attention once Stark had left. She nestled down in front of me, her eyes glazed like she was about to delve into a story. "Remember how I've told you about where we're from?"

I nodded, as she continued – a shaky sigh telling me this hit her hard.

"My country. My town. It saw many wars. Ceuta, where I had to grow up – where kids couldn't play in the street without being afraid of getting shot," She shuddered. "It wasn't a god place, babe. Gang leaders, drug cartels – they all made a mess. It was scary, living- no surviving there. I didn't want that life for you."

She traced a pattern into my palms, her eyes full and passionate at the next thought. "We came here for you… So you could– so you could live."

I felt my own eyes well up. Course, it was hard, knowing the full extent some parents went to to support their kids – my mother in my case. I knew she was an immigrant, I knew she was a young mother, I knew she had to raise me on her own – I knew how much I loved her for it.

What I didn't know was how it tied into the mess I was living now. How it has anything to do with why I felt like I'd suddenly been thrown into the life of someone else.

"What does this have to do with what Stark was saying?" I asked.

"I'm getting there," She replied, taking a seat like she was about to tell a story over burning embers and firewood.

"When I found out I was pregnant – with you of course – I was heartbroken." She scrunched her face, "Heartbroken that you'd have to live in a place as beat down and broken, in a life like mine. I was scared for us."

"So I worked. For the promise of a better life, as they say. I took three jobs, I worked my ass off for the first five months." She narrated. Then leaning in, she spoke conspiratorially, "I hid it all, all the money I made, in an old tin of caldo de pollo cubes, no one'd think about looking there after all. Once I had enough, I planned on getting us tickets – for the two of us, anywhere in the world."

She looked excited and in a dream-state, like she was once again experiencing the feel of freedom she described. Her face fell as she continued. "But things… they didn't-" Her voice grew thick with emotion. "You were earlier than planned. Like god himself was dooming me, I went into labor a month too early."

"Then, when you were born – the hospital you were born in," Her eyes were hard with anger. "It was shit, to be quite frank."

"The employees got hopped up on their own drugs, the Doctors were untrained. But it was all we had. I'm sorry, I couldn't afford having you anywhere nicer."

A fat tear rolled down her tan cheeks, and then another. She looked so far from the powerful, sarcastic woman I came home everyday to. "You didn't make it baby. They got you out and you were so tiny. You weren't breathing. I held you in my arms for hours. Hours and hours."

I felt my heart skip at that, bemused beyond all coherent sense. I still held her hand, watching miserably as she wept – even if I couldn't so much as guess what it was she meant.

I sat patiently still, giving her the time she needed to continue.

"They didn't even notice when I'd left. I walked out of there, bloody and in my hospital gown, barefoot with you in my arms. I was so ruined, I wanted to-" She stopped herself that heart-wrenching thought, my eyes following the scene she played out. "They found me the next day. I'd fallen asleep honey, you in my arms. I don't even know how, but- somehow, as we slept, I had a dream. A dream where the grass we slept on, it came to wrap around you. Like it was rocking you. It breathed life into you, like you were a flower."

She breathed a single laugh, amazed at her own words. "You know, my own mama always raised me on legends. 'Never go into the forest alone Bella, sí, otherwise the Duende will get you.' Always some made up ghost story. But I couldn't have cared less then.'" She smiled at the thought, looking up. "The next morning, they found us alive. Me and you. I thought it was a miracle, I still do. It's just now; I realize the reasons behind them go farther than any god I might've prayed to at the time."

Her lips fell, relaxed, content as she watched me process.

"Lying. You're lying."

It was the only thing that left me. How stupid did she think I was?

She looked unperturbed, like she'd expected the response. "Why would I lie?"

"Because that's insane!" I cried, standing up and knocking the chair back, the outrage pouring out of me all at once. "Tony Stark, the Iron Man! Him and his friends! They're super-powered – but they're human! What you're talking about, it sounds too unreal – like you're saying it's magic. There is no magic in this world."

And it most certainly has nothing to do with ordinary me.

Almost like she was reading my thoughts, my mother smiled kindly. "Come now, Ama. Haven't you noticed yet? How the sunlight plays with your hair. How grass always seems reluctant to let you go when you touch it. How flower buds flourish at your hands. What about the rain?"

I looked at her like she was deluded. Still, I couldn't find it in me to not indulge her. "What about the rain?"

"When you get sad it always seems to rain."

"Lots of people get sad when it rains!" I exclaimed.

Her eyes were deep wells of ivy as she shook her head.

"It rains because you're sad baby."

Words left me.

Instead, I just stared – dumbfounded as if she'd just produced a rhinoceros from her pocket. Open mouthed, my brain formulated no thoughts other than to register that I was shocked. I internally felt sparks in my brain, desperately trying to connect the dots and instead just causing a short circuit. I bet I looked like a pop-eyed toy from one of those claw machines at the fun fair.

I stopped to draw a sharp breath.

"You alright there, flower-child?" A familiar voice was cautious as it made its way back into my line of hearing. "You aren't going to try and murder me with any more silverware, are you?"

"No." I said vaguely, like on auto-pilot. I struggled with myself, only for a second before my head found comfort in burying itself in my hands. "This is nuts. This is like if you watched all of 'The Force Awakens' without knowing anything about the original series – or if you suddenly turned into someone that actually drinks milk for fun? I know the world is ending when that day comes."

A stressful, humorless smile worked its way past my features. I looked up fully at Stark - who, of course, was at least trying to suppress a laugh. "What the hell could you want with me?" I wrung my hands at my sides. "What do you think I can even do?"

He sauntered into the room, pensive. "An associate of mine thinks it's linked to something deeper than what 'Iron-man and his friends' have. A.k.a, a lot of money and issues. And that yours goes farther than anything engineered by men. Kinda gives you the rights to tell Capsicle to suck it, when you meet him of course."

I shook my head slightly, understanding some, but missing on whatever the references he kept making were. He waved it off. "Let's just say it makes us invested in your future."

I eyed him suspiciously. "You keep saying 'us' or 'we' – who's we?"

"I'm investigating prospects; you can put it like that." He revealed, looking awfully like he didn't have any intentions on explaining the big picture here. "A team to go against some people I'm not too jazzed about right now. In fact, I've got someone else I'm looking into right now too. Another someone I'm intrigued in – haven't found him yet, still got my sources looking. I'm headed to MIT in a week actually. Getting them some funding – of which I'm hoping, will draw the kid out."

"Yeah? Oh well that's swell," I started, a picture of perfection. I dropped the tone dryly. "But in case the face doesn't give it away, I'm not all that interested. I know what you used to be Stark. That you engineered weapons that went towards helping the bad guys. I don't want anything to do with it!"

I heaved a heavy breath, calming when he held up his hand – the one cladded in red and gold metal, a minute after only watching my tirade with a guarded veil. Though the sheen in his eyes might have been the leaking of guilt, still a bit too raw.

"Tell me what d'ya see?" He nodded at the arm.

I quirked a brow in confusion. "Um, it's your arm. The robot one."

"And how does it make you feel?" He talked slowly, a smidge too patronizing – like he was imitating his therapist.

"I don't know?" I breathed eventually. The words were true. Most kids would've 'ooh'-ed and 'ah'-ed, all over the high-tec machinery. I just looked at it, imagining all the people he might've shot down with it. How literally nothing could've stopped him from holding it up and aiming at either me or mom if we said something he didn't like. I knew he wouldn't have, but he could have.

I knew he was a good man, but he had made something I often wished human beings would just see caused nothing but violence.

The glove was something that represented death to me, no matter how I looked at it. Even if it was for a good cause.

"I never see myself in it, if that's what you're asking. I don't care who's side I'm fighting on, or for what war. I'd never kill." I looked at him, as honestly as I could – choking down a hiccup at the thought. It made me go soft and guilt-stricken, just imagining myself in that position.

The billionaire smiled widely.

"Then that's your MO. You've got heart kid, at least if you're anything like your mom. Just a whole lotta bark with no bite – You're not going to be anything like me," He said, reassuringly.

"No bite, eh?" My mom, who'd taken to a corner of the room to watch the scene unfold – suddenly said. I swear I could almost imagine her threatening him with a shoe in one hand and a broom in another – shocked when I looked over to find her playfully teasing him.

Oh, I just had to ask.

"Um, how do you two know each other again?" I piped up, despite the turmoil of the state I was already in – knowing I'd never forgive myself if I didn't ask.

"Tony was one of the first people I met when I brought you to the states, mija. Him and his boss, Nick Fury. After they heard of you – what your story was – they helped me set a life here. It was their job, I know, but I had to take the chance." My mom explained to me, a bit ticked off at the thought. "Despite them being annoyances now, I suppose I don't regret making it."

Then, like a flip had switched, her demeanor turned serious. She walked forward and gave Stark a hard look. "I don't want you hurting my daughter Tony. I heard what happened in Sokovia. It was all over the news. That boy that died on your watch – he couldn't have been much older than my Ama."

He gulped once, before straightening out.

You could tell, that under his appearance of always seeming in control - this was something he wasn't joking about.

"Bella, I swear to you. Your family is my responsibility." He placed two hands on her shoulders. "I'd never do this unless I wasn't willing to risk my life for your kid."

She nodded once, surprisingly compliant – and that's when I sort of realized. They were close, but not in a suspicious way – it was more like watching two cousins that had grown up together interact. The man then backed up a bit, looking back to me.

"I'll keep in touch. I just hope, in the next few months that is – that you figure out where you lie on this line, squirt. You're one of us, it just matters whether or not you wanna be in the big leagues or not."

He walked back from the way he came, not looking like he expected any goodbyes. Once I heard the front door click behind him, I looked back to my mother – a small part of me dreading recent developments.

If meeting two renowned superheroes in the span of a few hours, and finding out I might have more in common with them than I ever could've thought, was any indication of what the future would turn out to look like – I honestly didn't know how where I stood in it.

Despite everything, all I wanted was a nap. After all, you know what they say – 'Never underestimate the power of inactivity in a crisis. Your problems will still be around when you wake up.'

Or maybe I was just making it up. Meh. Sounded reasonable enough.


A/N. Hi ya'll, welcome to the second/third(sorta?) idea for a fic I've put up on this site. This story will follow some of the other themes seen in my stories, mainly that it follows around an OC – tying her seemingly inconspicuous life into that of the main character in question. If you're coming in hot from another one of my stories (I've got a 'Doctor Who' one I'm very invested in) then I hope you trust my writing abilities enough to take this story on. If you're new and just rlly like Peter Parker, then welcome and I hope you enjoy the first chapter.

Just a note, I absolutely do not think Peter Parker needs a lovey-dovey relationship within the marvel universe – which is why this lil' story is simply only inspired by my undying love for Tom Holland and his portrayal of the character.

I just wanted to create a series of events that show what could've happen if he crossed ties with a nerd on the opposite end of the spectrum (since he's sciency – meeting a creative). This isn't to say I don't adore Lis, but that part of the story will be reduced (esp. cause it doesn't go anywhere). Clarification: NOT the parts where he has to choose between a normal life and being an avenger – because I feel that's crucial to his character. In fact, I want to expand further on that and get a create a harder premise for him to balance – it'll all be very fluffy and angsty, don't you worry.

Some of the story will be taking from the progression of events within the movies (Mainly Civil War and Home-Coming) – whereas other events will be originally written (like in this chapter), to explore Peter's character (you can only watch the movies so many times).

I really hope you guys enjoy the premise, as I'm mainly just writing this for fun (disclaimer: I have no ownership of the characters themselves, other than the original characters you might see).

I might or might not write more on this story, depending on the feedback from you swanky readers. PLS DO REVIEW, as it helps me know what the people enjoy, thank u vry much.

NOTE: This story begins by being set before Civil War (before Tony ever gives Peter his suit and he's just an enigma that no one knows much about). Hopefully, and unfortunately, I plan on having it progress up into Infinity War.

Ok so some notes on the OC.

I took special care in trying to make her contrast Peter in a way that might make an interesting series of events in the future. If you hadn't noticed, Amalia isn't perfect, at least definitely not to the extent that Lis sort of is – she's not even a very good person at times. She has the best intentions – she never wants people hurt – but lying is fine in her books. I thought this was a fun turnaround from Peter's 100% loyal, 1000% honest personality. Who knows? Maybe he'll be a good influence on her when the time comes.

In another unconventional route that I hope didn't come across as too confusing and angsty, is that she's apparently anti-social – mostly with kids her age and people she doesn't know all that well. Course, none of that came out in this, as she only speaks to her mom who she's close with and out of shock to 'the Spiderman' (By the way, how was that first meeting? - - a bit cliché, I know, save the girl from a car yada yada. I'm planning parts of their relationship to half-ways embrace the cliché, and the other half to break them – so it makes for unpredictability and fun-ness I hope).

Also, I get that the powers are a tad confusing right now – but that just puts you in the same position Amalia is, where she's still figuring it out. Although, I can tell you that they are plant-centric. Like Poison Ivy, but if she wasn't a villain – just a teenage girl who just wants to live simply. - I figured that including the back-story with Tony, Nick Fury, and her mom Isabella, would be a good turn of events – since she doesn't know her powers yet and can't catch herself on YouTube like Spidey did. - You'll also find that future events revolving around how our main characters meet and develop a relationship – has a lot more to do than random meetings that are totally based on coincidence.

If you're from my 'Doctor Who' story, I totally hope the OC's aren't all that similar, especially due to the mother/daughter relationship, and my focus on multicultural diversity, both with the characters and in the lovely city of Queens. I hope I'm getting a view of the place alright too, as I'm Australian and have never ventured to the states. If any of you guys are from there, pls do review and let me know (it's just a real cool thing, seeing how stories connect people, regardless of where they live).

ALSO, they are a Latino family from Spain, so I really hope none of the uses of Spanish is too inconvenient to read. The code-switching seemed realistic too, as Ama has lived most of her life in Queens, where her mother has lived in Spain for long.

P.S. I hope you don't mind the line from MIB 2 (The, 'it rains because you're sad bit). For some reason, I suddenly remembered it – writing Ama and the reasons for her supposed 'weirdness'. Very random I know, lol.

Ok that's enough rambling for now. Don't forget to review, as it's crucial to me to know how the readers like a story, and if there's anything you want me to change and/or improve on.

See you in the next chapter! (Whenever that is)!