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When John had been saddled with Spider-Man by his boss, he had been furious. Unfortunately, his chief had insisted; they were to go to suspected apartment blocks door to door, to question the residents on the possible whereabouts of a local super-villain. Spider-Man, they had reasoned, was the only one equipped to handle a super-powered criminal, should they find him.
That may be true, but John still despised every moment spent with the vigilante. When they reached the second apartment block, he had ordered Spider-man to wait outside, and to call or come running if there was any sign of villainy. John had strode into the heated building, snow crunching underfoot, leaving Spider-Man waiting in the cool night air.
John had been reluctant to leave Spider-Man by himself. The Bugle's past warnings about the man were running through his head, and he was worried about what the vigilante might do when unattended. John could only hope Spidey wouldn't cause trouble while his temporary handler was out of sight.
John returned to the street later than he'd like, some half hour later. He paused, biting at his lip and peering suspiciously around the street for Spider-Man. The hero was nowhere in sight.
John's hand hovered over his comm, ready to report the vigilante's abandonment of his post, when a blot of colour against the dark bricks caught his eye.
It was a bright yellow sticky note, pasted to the bricks. In a messy scrawl, it read, Dear Mr. Police Man, I'm at the restaurant next door. Come find me. There was a hastily drawn spider symbol at the bottom of the note.
John ripped the sticky note off, and marched toward the Italian restaurant beside the apartment block.
As he entered the small building, the bells jingling above the door, John called out angrily, "Where are you, you lazy—?"
John pushed through the plastic curtains covering the entrance, and was hit by the warm aroma of cooked food and a heady mixture of spices. The restaurant was small, likely family run, half a dozen round tables and chairs collected around the cramped space.
There were only two other occupants in the room, one of them waving cheerfully when he saw him.
"Yo, John, buddy!" Spider-Man called from his place at the low table, a bowl full of warm spaghetti by his elbow. "How'd it go?"
"It went ok…" John said slowly, eyeing Spider-Man. A middle-aged woman stood by his side, an apron tied around her waist, eyebrows narrowed at him. "What are you doing? You should be—"
"—working," Spidey finished. "I know, but hey, in my defence, I was bullied into this!"
The woman by the hero's side scoffed. "'Bullied?' You were bullied into a warm meal by a generous restaurant owner?"
Spider-Man grinned up at her. His mask was hiked to his nose, hints of spaghetti sauce smearing his cheek. "Bullied," he told her seriously.
She smacked him lightly across the top of his masked head. Spider-Man laughed, belly deep and genuine, and pretended to flinch away from her, yelping, "See what I mean? Bullying! Help, officer! I'm being assaulted!"
John glanced from the woman, lipsticked smile wide and happy, to the menace sat at her table. The two were chatting, joking, playing with one another like friends.
"Be quiet and eat your pasta," ordered the woman, laughing at his antics. "You're far too skinny. How often do you eat?"
"Well," Spidey said vaguely as he began to twist pasta around his fork, "y'know. I eat. Occasionally. Being a hero is difficult! I don't have much free time! Or any free time at all, really…"
The woman looked ready to smack him again, or at least scold him, but John cleared his throat, interrupting them. They both looked up, and John stepped forward, shoulders straightened; this farce couldn't continue any longer.
"You're coming with me, Spider-Man," John ordered. The hero, out of place and obviously unwanted in such a homely, normal environment, ducked his shoulders, nodding a little.
When Spidey tried to rise, the woman pushed him back down with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Why?" she demanded. "He hasn't done anything wrong."
"We have work to do, Ma'am," he said. "Important work. I'm sorry he was bothering you. It won't happen again, I can assure you that." John glared at Spidey, and he flinched under the cold stare, not wanting to meet John's eyes.
"'Bothering me?'" The woman shook her head. "I invited him in. I found him shivering by himself in the cold street—it's snowing out there! No one should be there in this weather, especially not in such a tiny costume, so I told him to come. I basically dragged him in!"
John found himself blinking at the stranger. "Invited him in?"
"Yes," said the woman, vehement, "and I gave him a warm meal. I was about to offer you one, too."
"Oh," John said. Spider-Man's gaze was fixed on a point on the table, shoulders hunched a little. His costume was thin, John realised with a start, and it was snowing, slushing the footpaths outside.
Spider-Man stood without prompt. He sighed, the sound weighted and sad, and pulled down his mask. "You're right, we do have work. I'm sorry, let's go." To the woman, he said, "Thank you for inviting me, and for the meal. I'm sorry I don't have any money to repay you."
The woman bit her lip, considering the both of them. "Wait here," she said quickly, picking up Spidey's half finished bowl of spaghetti and striding toward the back kitchens. "Don't move; I'll be right back!"
When she returned several minutes later—minutes spent in silence—Spidey focused on the ground, fiddling with the hem of his gloves, and John casting strange, contemplative glances at the other man— she thrust the stack of containers she was carrying at Spider-Man, who took them, startled.
"You're too skinny," she declared. "I'm doing the city a personal favour by feeding our hero, lest you wither away into nothing!"
Spidey traced the top of the container, considering the warm food he could see stored below. "Thank you," he said, softly.
"Your police buddy can have some, too, so long as he stops being so harsh and commanding, and loosens up on you," she told Spidey, voice deliberately loud enough for John to hear clearly.
She glared at John as he left, but waved and said something low to Spidey as he followed the police officer out. Spidey nodded, and murmured something back, voice pitched equally low and soft. Whatever it was, it made the woman frown and purse her lips, worry evident in her furrowed brows.
Later, buckled in the police cruiser, John turned to Spider-Man, who had been allowed to sit in the passenger seat after John had relented, realising the subzero temperatures of this snowing, nighttime city.
"This is New York," John said after a pause. "This is New York. I don't understand; people don't just give away free food in this city. Not to strangers."
Spider-Man seemed to smile underneath the mask. "Sometimes they do," the hero admitted. "You underestimate them." He shrugged, seeming to grow shy, picking at the containers of pasta balanced in his lap. "You treat people right, maybe they'll treat you right back."
John considered that, surveying the hero before him, tucked against the door of the police cruiser. He seemed hesitant to be in the space, continuing to cast furtive glances at John, his shoulders tense, the soles of his boots half pressed against the seat, ready to bolt.
He considered Spider-Man's words, considered the words of the strange woman—her broad smile and warm meals, the way in which she watched over Spider-Man with something like worry—of the other police officers, of the Bugle's Jameson, each and every conflicting opinion, and tried to pin it on the man sat beside him.
He turned the keys in the ignition, and took off onto the icy streets of New York, and slowly considered that maybe, just maybe, he might have been wrong about the city's supposed menace.
The papers crinkled in Peter's strong grip. The police station sat beneath him—a tall, ominous building that made his stomach twist. His spider-sense was quiet, but he still wanted to run. He wanted to be anywhere but here.
Peter needed to go in there. The papers wrinkling under his tense fingers were a stack of evidence he'd lifted from a criminal, and needed to be turned over to the police. That's what this temporary ceasefire was for—they gave Peter the means to help more people and didn't shoot at him, and in return Peter gave them good publicity and helped solve cases they couldn't, using his powers and the sheer freedom of not being bound by the same laws the officers were.
Maybe Peter could sneak in through the air vents, like a spy in an action movie? Throw the folder onto someone's desk and then climb back out the way he came. No one would even know he was there.
Which meant no one would know where the evidence was from, or who it was connected to. Ugh. There was no getting around this.
With a deep, steadying breath, Peter fell to the street, web guiding him like rope. He let the web go and, flat footed, shoulders squared with determination, walked through the front doors of the police station. He ignored the gaping stares, the double glances, and stared straight ahead.
The inside of the station was a bustling hub of activity. Civilians were lined up at the front desk and people milled about. God, the station was crowded, full of more people than Peter had expected. There were crying civilians tucked into chairs, making Peter's stomach twist in sympathy. There were criminals thrashing in the guiding hands of officers; policemen and women in crisp, dark uniforms, badges shining under the office light, filtering in and out of the building. Some had jangling car keys or mugs of coffee in hand. Some had visible guns strapped to their belts.
Peter gulped. He felt like a lamb who'd been coaxed into the lion's den.
"Woaaaah." Peter glanced down; a little boy with big, awed eyes stared up at him. The kid was tugging at his distracted mother's pant leg, trying to get her attention. "It's—you're—"
"Hiya," Peter said, offering the boy a tiny wave. The boy smiled shyly and waved back.
The mother huffed in frustration and stepped away from the desk. "Sweetheart, I'm trying to—oh!"
"Hello," Peter said. "Um. Can I…?"
Robotically, the woman nodded. Peter stepped up to the desk and cleared his throat. The receptionist was listening to someone on the phone, picking at her nails. She didn't look up at him.
"I'm here to drop off some evidence?" Peter tried. He hoped he could just hand them off to the receptionist and run back out the front doors.
The receptionist didn't even glance at him, waving a bored hand. "Hold on, hon."
The solid reds and blues of his suit were beginning to catch everyone's attention. Peter shifted, uncomfortable. The eyes of officers and civilians and the awed little kid holding onto his mother burnt against his back. Even his mask didn't offer its usual veneer of protection. He felt exposed, his skin too tight, itchy.
"It's just—" Peter tried again, "just some files—and I have to—to—"
The receptionist waved dismissively again. Peter swallowed thickly and considered just leaving the files there, on the front desk—
"Spidey?" Peter spun on his heel. Marissa stood behind him, jacket on, handbag looped under her arm. He slumped against the desk in relief; he could've swept her up in a hug if he didn't think someone would reach for their gun if he went to touch her.
"Marissa! I have—" He waved the files in the air. "—evidence!"
"Well, follow me. We'll find somewhere to put them." She beckoned him forward with a nod of her head. She wound her way past the front desk and deeper into the office, and he scampered after her. "So. Bad guys?"
Peter nodded. "The worst. The kidnappers you guys have been trying to nab?"
Marissa made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. "Ugh, them! I'll sleep easier knowing they're off the streets."
As Peter tread further into the police station, he relaxed. Eyes still tracked him across the bullpen, and the officers that passed by openly gawked, but it was easy to ignore them with Marissa charging on ahead. He could focus on her dark, bobbing ponytail, the unfazed slump of her shoulders. She made his nerves settle, if only a little.
Peter was surprised by how ordinary the police station looked. There were water coolers spaced throughout the office, cork boards with promotional advertisements, the distant buzzing of phones and the shuffling of paper, the inane chattering of work colleagues. Bizarrely, the mundane office was almost reassuring.
"Annnnd this is my desk," Marissa declared. She dumped her handbag beneath her desk, stripping off her jacket and throwing it over her chair.
"It's nice?" Peter offered. It was homely, lived in. Framed photos of her husband and children lined the desktop beside stacked binders and a lanyard full of keys.
Marissa rolled her eyes. "Thanks, kid. Jack's desk is over there." She waved a hand to the empty desk several seats over. "He's out with the flu, but you can leave the folder there. He should be back tomorrow, and he knows where the evidence is supposed to go."
"He does?"
"'Course he does. He's your, well." She scrunched up her nose, thinking of the proper term for a moment. Finally, she continued, "He's your unofficial handler, I guess."
"What? When was that decided?" Peter asked. The thought of working with Jack didn't send fluttering nerves down his spine, unlike the reality of working with hostile officers. He'd already been working beside police officers for several weeks now, but it never stopped being frightening. Peter doubted it would ever stop making him feel light-headed and anxious.
Marissa riffled through her desk draws as she spoke, "Not as much decided... It's just something that's evolved. He gets along so well with you. Ah, found it!" She thrust a permanent marker and a pad of red paper at him. "Write all the details about your evidence on that. Where you found it, how you acquired it, how you were able to get onto the premises without a warrant—that one's important for the courts—and everything you know about the case."
Peter took the pad of sticky-notes. Choking on a laugh, he inspected the blue Spider-Man symbol photocopied onto it.
"Is this—is this me?"
Marissa sighed. "Yes. Yes, it is. It's a thing with Jack." She sounded exhausted, like this—her co-worker squirreling away superhero themed stationary around the office—was an everyday part of her life. "Now, go, will you? I have paperwork to do."
"Yes, ma'am," Peter said. He snapped off a salute with his left hand and went to find Jack's desk.
It was different to Marissa's. Smaller, with more clutter. There was an empty chip packet stuffed under a stack of paperwork, a small mountain of fountain pens, and a collection of knick-knacks. Peter flicked a Captain America bobble-head and grinned as it bounced.
Captain America? What, did they run out of Spider-Man ones? Peter scribbled on a sticky-note. He stuck it to the bobble-head's forehead.
And clean your desk! Peter wrote on a second note. He stuck that one on an empty coke can. He stared at it thoughtfully.
You have an amazing taste in stationary, Peter added. He stuck that on a second coke can. He drew a spider, a quick outline with his poor art skills, on a fourth sticky-note and put it on top of the paperwork.
Peter frowned at the desk. Looked at all of the empty, sticky-note free space. Looked at his marker, the huge bundle of sticky-notes, and grinned behind his mask.
Peter uncapped the marker for the fifth time, and took a seat at the desk, settling in.
Dorian stirred sugar into his coffee. It was the cheap, burnt stuff from the break room, but it was warm and full of caffeine. It was only late afternoon, but his shift ran through into the night, when he'd go out on patrol. He was going to need as many cups as he could get to keep himself awake.
Morgan was sat at the break room table, glowering at his sandwich, picking at the crusts. Dorian almost paused to ask what was wrong, but left his co-worker in silence, instead. He was still furious at the other man for almost shooting his kids a month back.
The office was a buzz of noise. Everyone was acting strangely, tittering into their hands or looking put-off, agitated, as though the office had a bad stink to it.
The source of the office's excitement was located on his way to his desk. Of course. The person who had fuelled most of the drama in the office since his first appearance almost two years ago.
Spider-Man's colourful suit stood out against the office desk. So too did the dozens upon dozens of sticky-notes pinned to Jack Stevenson's desk. The Spider-Man sticky-notes. It was strange to see the normally energetic hero in such an ordinary space. The sticky-notes with tiny drawings and messages that layered his co-worker's desk seemed commonplace next to him.
"Spider-Man?" Dorian asked. The hero's head snapped up, and he swiveled around. Dorian wasn't sure how someone in full body spandex could look guilty, but somehow, Spider-Man managed it.
"I'm leaving Jack a message," Spidey explained quickly. "For the—the evidence I'm leaving."
"You are leaving him several messages, actually," Dorian said.
"I seem to be, yes."
Dorian set his coffee mug down on a nearby desk. The occupant didn't protest, just leant back in his chair and observed, grinning, as Dorian stole the sticky-notes from the hero's hands. He plucked a pen from the messy desk, and wrote, Jack, don't get sick or rogue superheroes will leave you presents! Think of this as a life lesson. Love, everyone at the office.
With a flourish, he stuck it in the middle of Jack's monitor.
"There," Dorian said. Spidey was staring at him. "What? Bet you don't recognise me, do you?"
"You're from the bridge," Spidey said. His voice was quiet. Shy, almost. "Your dog's name is Blue."
Dorian beamed. He clapped Spider-Man on the shoulder—a comforting, friendly gesture—and ignored the way he flinched instinctively away. "You're on your way to really being a part of the squad, man. Pranking rookies is kind of police code."
"Sorry?"
"Don't be sorry; it's a good thing."
With that, he handed the sticky-notes back, collected his mug, and left the hero to his work. He shared a few secretive smiles with his colleagues cluttered around the desks, pretending not to be watching the hero work.
"You didn't spook him," Marissa said. Her nod was approving.
"Why should I?" Dorian wondered. He leant against her desk, and together, they watched the hero scribble on the sticky-notes, shoulders hunched in concentration. His feet swayed him around on the wheeled computer chair.
"Cute, isn't he?"
Dorian laughed into his coffee, startled. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but… He's weirdly adorable?"
"Jack's going to flip out when he comes back. There's a betting pool starting about whether or not the kid's going to be angry or excited his favourite hero decorated his desk."
Dorian didn't comment on the betting, even though he knew it was against office regulations. "My guess is he's going to be angry he missed it."
Later that evening, when the offices were quiet, many of New York's finest packing in for the night, a lone cleaner made her rounds of the desks. She dusted here, wiped there, picked up the odd stagnant cup of coffee with an upturned look, and made sure everything was neat and orderly.
Currently disinfecting the surface of yet another desk, she briefly looked up. Her forehead bunched as she frowned, catching sight of the next desk over, and the chaotic mess that seemed to cover its surface.
Sighing and shaking her head in distaste, she finished with the now squeaky clean surface of her current desk, and moved on to tackle the next one. When she reached her acquired target though, she stopped, frown growing deeper. Reaching forward a plastic glove covered hand, she lightly fiddled with a note, one amongst the many, many notes covering the desk. It was sat stuck to a pile of somewhat crinkled papers. The messy spider symbol was unmistakable.
Eyes widening slightly in curiosity, she looked over the other notes while reaching down and emptying the trash bin by the foot of the desk. Reading all the ridiculous messages written in slightly unkept handwriting, the language and humour expressed in them soon became unmistakable. She took her hand away, shocked and dumbfounded at what she was seeing.
Her curiosity spiked tenfold, and she smiled excitedly at her discovery.
The cleaner looked like she'd opened a gold-filled safe filled with juicy secrets and wonderful discoveries. She'd accidently stumbled upon the biggest secret currently occurring within the police force… At least, to a sneaky citizen it was a worthy secret—the current happenings between Spider-Man and the police force, which, according to these notes, was pretty interesting.
Still gazing over the scribbled notes, her progress stopped when she spotted something sticking out from slightly under some of the other sticky-notes. Slowly sliding it out, she lifted it up to her face. The string of numbers stared back at her for a moment, before suddenly they seemed to come together to make sense. It was a number—a mobile number—repeated over and over again as if someone had been trying to memorize it.
Biting her cheek in contemplation, she gazed back down at the desk, and started sifting through the piles of sticky-notes with the same number scrawled over and over again. Picking up her pace, she scrambled further until she reached the bottom of the pile. Brushing away the last note, she stared. A small, white piece of paper sat on the desk, and in black, printed ink, was typed an official message.
Her eyes skimmed the words. Something about an official live call line, new program, and the same number that was scrawled over all the notes was typed neatly on the paper, the words Spider-Man written nearby. Eager, opportunistic excitement bubbled up in the woman, as the weight of what she'd just found washed over her, and she stared at the one little superhero themed sticky-note clutched between her fingers like it was treasure.
She noted the name on the desk the attention seemed to be granted to, and carefully slipped her prize into her pocket. The nearest newspaper would love to hear of Spidey's apparent new friendliness occurring somewhere within the police department, and she was sure a few of her friends would be very eager to obtain the city's very own hero's personal number.
The few remaining workers in the vicinity were unawares as the inconspicuous cleaner continued on her late night rounds. No one had the slightest hint as to the phenomena about to occur from under their very noses, as the usual nighttime activities proceeded as usual. Not a hint of drama in sight.
Ooooooo... what have we here then? You'll have to wait till next chapter to find out :P Thanks so much for reading! Hope you have a nice day :D